by Jill Barnett
She turned and walked, determination in each step, past the sandbag wall, through the gate in the barbed wire—she’d learned her lesson—and into the jungle perimeter. The growth made the area darker, even though in the cleared camp there was plenty of sunlight. She moved into the bushes, rattling them and looking all around for the cocks. She scoured the oleanders, the palm clumps, the fire bushes, moving deeper and deeper into the jungle. She entered a small clearing and looked up at a huge tree, wondering if a bird might be perched on one of the lower branches, even though she knew chickens never flew higher than a rooftop.
Something rustled in the bushes behind her. She turned, ever so slowly. Two tiny yellow beady eyes stared at her from beneath a thick hibiscus bush. She watched the rooster. It twitched its red-wattled head. She tossed a peanut nearby. It had been over a day since she’d turned the birds loose. They had to be hungry. They had to be. The cock stared at the nut. She tossed another, then another. Still nothing. The bird just looked from her to the peanut, over and over.
“I heard chickens weren’t very smart,” she mumbled, backing up until she was near the tree. She grabbed a handful of nuts and tossed them onto the ground. Then she slid down the tree to sit on the ground. All she needed was one bird, just one, and then she figured she could use it to locate the others. After all, the birds were trained to fight, and she’d use that training to capture them. She had a plan, a good one, that would right the wrong she’d done. She watched the bird. It watched her.
She looked up at the bright afternoon sky. She had hours before it got dark. She smiled, knowing she had something in her favor that the chicken didn’t. With pigheaded determination she sat there, doing one thing she’d done all her life, the one thing she was really good at. She waited.
Chapter 17
It was almost dark outside when Sam looked across the table at Jim. His face was swollen, his lips were cut, and his left eye was black-and-blue. “Does your jaw hurt as much as mine?”
“No, but I don’t dare touch this eye. Must be as black as your patch.”
Sam looked at his friend. “It is.”
Jim grunted, then grabbed a tooth and wiggled it. “This tooth is loose. God, you can throw a punch.”
Sam didn’t say anything, just stared at the dark bottle of whiskey between them.
After a long silence, Jim poured them another drink and set the bottle down on the table with a hard clunk. Sam looked up.
“Hands off.” Jim said. “From now on, I swear, I’ll keep my hands off of her.”
Sam acknowledged him with a nod, then lifted his glass and swilled down the whiskey. It hit his stomach with the heat of a fireball.
He’d lost control. Sam Forester, a man who prided himself on his wits, hadn’t used one bit of thought earlier. He’d just come back from San Fernando, a town where he’d gone to get supplies. He’d done the job himself because he wanted to get away from Lollie, but once on the road he’d made the trip much faster than normal, choosing not to stay in the town but to turn right around and come back.
He’d no sooner fallen down on his cot than that damn bird had flown over to him, squawking its usual nonsense. Damn thing nearly pecked all his hair out before it said something about saving Eulalie. He’d made it as far as her doorway, and then he’d seen red. After that, he didn’t remember much until he’d come to. Now what he did remember he didn’t like.
He and Jim had been together for years, saved each other’s butts time and again. Yet during all those years, fighting whatever war needed them, they’d never fought each other. And now, when it happened, it happened over a woman and, even worse, that woman.
A crunch sounded from outside. Sam glanced at the open window. A blond head flashed into view, then disappeared. He hoped he’d imagined it, that maybe his head was still woozy from the brawl.
The blond head had popped into view for only the length of time it took to blink, but it was enough for him to know she was there. The thud-crunch sounded again. What the hell was she doing now?
He kicked Jim under the table and gave a quick nod toward the window. Jim turned just as the head popped up and down again. Thud-crunch! Her muttering whispered through the window. Jim groaned under his breath. Sam rubbed his suddenly throbbing forehead. His life hadn’t been normal since that day in Tondo.
Her fingers crawled over the window ledge and he could hear her body bang against the wall. If his life ever depended on her silence, he’d better have his headstone ready.
She must be trying to see in. He thought about it for a moment, listening to her boots scraping for a foothold on the outside wall. He figured that he had two choices: he could go outside, scare the hell out of her, and drag her back to her room, or . . . he could have some fun. He rubbed his sore jaw thoughtfully, then smiled slowly.
Jim looked up. Sam cupped his ear and pointed at the window, indicating she was listening. Jim nodded, a small grin of anticipation hovering on his swollen, split lips.
That crunch sounded again, only now she was walking. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Sam picked up a deck of cards that sat forgotten on the table. He shuffled. “Well, Cassidy,” he said in a voice he knew would carry. “We have to settle who’s going to get the woman. No more fighting.”
A slow tentative crunch came through the window, then absolute silence.
Jim grinned, suppressed it, and cleared his throat. “You said you didn’t want her. I still think I should take her.”
“I don’t want her.” Sam tried to add as much scorn as possible to his voice. “She’s trouble. Remember the laundry? We both know she’s not exactly the most accurate gun on the target range.”
“Ah, that’s truth.” Jim nodded, picking up where he’d left off. “But then, I’ve never known brains and beauty to come in one package.”
“You think Lollie LaRue is beautiful?” Sam made sure his tone expressed surprise.
“She’s got great legs.”
“Really? Hmm, I thought her feet were a little too big. She kept tripping over them all the way here.”
“You know, now that you mention it, she’s knocked-kneed, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Sam watched the window. “She’s flat-chested, too. I like a little more . . . substance in my women.”
“I’m a firm believer that more than a mouthful is wasted.”
“I suppose . . .” Sam counted to a long five, then asked, “What about her nose?”
“It’s okay, if you like bulldogs.”
A sound like a stifled gasp came from outside. Sam barked with laughter. He couldn’t help it. It took him a minute to control his voice. “My taste has always gone toward dark-haired women.”
“That’s true. I’ve never known you to go for a blonde. Why’s that?”
“I think blondes are . . . dull.”
“I like blondes,” Jim said.
“You like everything.”
“That’s not true. Light blue eyes don’t do anything for me. Too cold, vacant.”
“Yeah, real vacant, sort of like there’s no one home.” Sam laughed. “And in her case there isn’t.”
“You know, now that we’ve talked about it, I don’t think I want her after all. You can have her,” Jim conceded.
“I don’t want her, either. I guess we’ll have to draw cards to see who gets stuck with her.” Sam shuffled the cards and slapped them on the table. “You go first.”
Jim picked a card and held it up to Sam. It was a king. “Oh, no. It’s only a three. I guess I’m stuck with her.”
“I’ll draw, but anyone can beat that. A three. Bad cards, Cassidy.” Sam picked up the ace of spades and showed it to Jim, who saluted him. He wished he could draw like this when the game was real. “My unlucky day. Two of hearts. You win and I’m stuck with her. Pour me another drink, will you. A stiff one.” Sam picked up the glass and then slammed it on the table, making a big to-do about pushing his chair out. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go check on her.”
Sam hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.
Jim shook his head, laughing. “You’re right. She is louder than an advancing platoon.”
Sam opened the door and stepped outside, still chuckling. “Yeah, it must be those big feet.” And he closed the door.
Her door was locked. “Lollie! Let me in!”
“Go away!”
Sam grabbed the knob and rattled the door. “Unlock the damn door.”
“I can’t. My feet are too big. I’ll probably trip on them and break my vacant head!”
He swore, stepped back, and kicked the door above the knob. It crashed opened, banging with enough force to rattle the walls. Her shoulders flinched, but she didn’t look up from the cot, where she lay with her head buried on her arms.
He crossed the room, the tap of his boots on the wooden floor being the only sound. He stood over her.
“Lollie, look at me.”
“No.”
“I said look at me.” He stared at the back of her blond head.
“I can’t, there’s no one home.”
“Aw, crap,” he mumbled, and looked at her for a long time before he finally sat down on the edge of the cot.
“Watch out for my knock-knees,” she said, her voice muffled into the pillow.
“Lollie, Lollie, Lollie,” he said, shaking his head. She didn’t budge, so he finally grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up. She stared at his chin instead of his eye.
“You’re crying.” He couldn’t believe the tears.
She wiped the back of a hand across her eyes and sniffed.
“Why the hell are you crying?” he barked, letting go of her as if she would explode any second.
“Men hate meeeeee!” She burst into sobs, fell back on the cot, and cried and cried. “The men in the camp hate me because of the cocks and because of that fight you had with Jim. None of you want me around. Men never do.
What’s wrong with me? I don’t understand,” she wailed, talking into the pillow. “I’m not a bad person. I try, I really do, but no one wants me around. No one needs me.”
He watched her sob and felt rotten inside. He could be an ass sometimes. Finally he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Stop crying.”
She didn’t.
“Hey, Lollipop.” He poked her in the shoulder. “Stop, please.”
She sobbed as if she didn’t have a friend in the world. He poked her again. “You’re not so bad.”
She sniffed and looked up at him with watery hopeful eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He watched her bite her lip thoughtfully. She didn’t look so great right now. Her hair was slicked back and tied at the back of her neck, which made her red-rimmed eyes look even bigger. They almost swallowed her small face, which was all blotchy from crying. It was red enough that she looked as if she’d been eating those berries again. Common sense and past experience stopped him from telling her so. He looked around the room instead.
“What do you mean ‘not so bad’?” she whispered.
“You’re just different, not what we’re used to around here. This is a war camp, not some girls’ school.” He turned back to her.
“I don’t try to make people mad,” she said, looking at him with the saddest and most sincere little face he’d ever seen. Something in his chest tightened, a feeling he hadn’t had in years.
“I never knew I was so ugly. No one ever told me.” Her voice cracked, and suddenly she was bawling all over again, each sob filled with hurt and loneliness and something that really got to him—shame. He’d never have thought it possible. Lollie LaRue, whom he’d pegged as a brainless snob, was ashamed because she wasn’t good enough.
He was an ass, a real ass.
“Damn,” he muttered and without thought pulled her against his chest and held her, letting her cry on his shoulder. “You’re not ugly,” he said, disgusted with himself for picking on her. He felt like hell.
“I heard you all talking about me,” she told his shoulder, her arms slipping around him and holding on as if she needed to be held more than anything.
He looked down at her head wedged against his shoulder and moved his hand from her back, tilting her face up so he could look at her. “We knew you were out there. We said all those things on purpose.”
She stared at him for a moment, her eyes searching for the truth in his words. “Why? Did you do it to hurt me on purpose?” Her face said she expected him to say yes.
“Hell no.” He felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy. “We were just teasing you. You shouldn’t have been out there listening, so we thought it would be funny.”
“I was out there because I wanted to see if you were all right . . . after the fight and all. I didn’t think anyone would let me see you. The men blame me for the fight.”
That got him. She was concerned for him. Hell, nobody except Cassidy had ever given a rat’s ass what happened to him. As sure as if she’d rammed her small fist into his gut, guilt got him. It wasn’t a good feeling.
She reached up and touched the sore spot on his jaw. “You’re bruised.”
He watched her eyes, those innocent ice blue eyes, that a few minutes ago had held such hurt. They never left his. Warning bells went off in his head. He didn’t care.
In a quick heated instant, he became aware of the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest, her hand against his back. Each breath she took was like a ticking bomb, counting away the seconds until he’d give in to the urge he felt, an urge he knew would mean trouble.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his mouth. The only sound in the room was the slow, apprehensive sound of their breathing. Her eyes didn’t leave his until suddenly she flinched and looked at their hands. He followed her gaze to where his hand gripped hers. Her palm was bright red, the skin of her wrist white because he held her wrist so tight. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He let go fast, then stood, wanting to put distance between them just as fast. He turned to get the hell out of there.
“Sam.” She stood and placed a hand on his forearm, which tightened.
“What?”
“Were you gonna kiss me a minute ago?” Her hand was like a brand on his arm.
Get out of here, Sammy old boy. Get out fast.
“Were you?”
He stiffened. “No.”
“I just wondered.”
His mind flashed with the image of her words—his mouth on hers, his chest on hers, his hips on hers. Thought left him, sense left him, and he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her hard against his chest. At the same instant his mouth closed over hers, his arms slid around her, and one hand spanned the back of her head, holding her mouth where he wanted it. He tongued her mouth deep and hard, over and over, needing to absorb the taste of her.
A small moan of pleasure caught in her throat, and the sound of it burned a path of fire to his groin. He pulled her tighter against him, suddenly driven by the carnal need to press against her, low and hard.
His hand clasped her buttocks, lifting her up with him. He walked her back against the wall, gently pinning her against it with the pressure of his hips. He rubbed against her and almost groaned aloud from the feel of soft against hard. His hands now free, he raked his fingers from her temples to the back of her head, working her long hair from its tie, running his hands through it, holding her small head in his large hands while he took her mouth the way he wanted to take her body.
Then his thumbs grazed her skin. It was so soft, the softest thing he’d ever touched in his hard life. He pulled back and looked down at her dazed blue eyes, flushed skin, and wet mouth.
God, that mouth . . .
She opened it, and he was lost, tasting it again without gentleness, with intense need. She tasted like whiskey. Fine aged whiskey—sweet, biting, addictive.
His hips moved against hers, rotating slowly, pressin
g deeper when his body demanded it. Her hands moved over his chest in slow circles as if she were absorbing the feel of him. Her small palm paused, then moved to the neck of his shirt. She touched the bare skin there, toyed with the hair.
His hands left her head, grabbed her shirt, and tore it off her shoulders. He pulled back from her wet mouth, bent and licked a path down her neck. She moaned his name. At the sound of it he gently ran his teeth across her collarbone and felt her shiver. A stream of male power rushed through him. This was instinct, wild and untamed, male versus female. It was primitive power, an instinctive need to make a mate react.
Shoving her shirt down farther, almost to her waist, he used it to pin her arms. He slid the loose undershirt down and lifted her up the wall until her breast was on the same level as his mouth. He licked her nipple.
She gasped, clutching his head to pull him away moaning. “No . . .”
So he watched the pink tip of her breast, didn’t touch her with his mouth, just watched.
Her breath increased, and her fingers gripped his scalp. He waited.
She pulled his head back to her breast and groaned in surrender. He smiled just before his mouth closed over it, drawing on it, flicking it with his tongue, while his hand closed over her other soft breast. Then he pulled his mouth away. She cried out and gripped his head. He pushed his hips forward, pinning her completely, and he pulled her legs around his waist so he could press the hard heat of him against her. He rubbed upward. Her hands went from his head to his shoulders, gripping.
“Oh, my Gawd,” she whispered on a breath.
He smiled, rubbing his mouth, lips, then beard-roughened cheeks across the tender-soft tips of her breasts, all the while moving his hips in the same slow circle of sex, slow, hot long sex. Sex that took eternal hours. Sex where a man could lose himself in a woman so deeply that nothing else would exist.
He wanted to lose himself in her.
That realization stopped him faster than a spray of ice water. He stilled. His heart beat in his chest as if he’d been running. His mouth dried. Keeping his head bent, he placed a hand on either side of her, pressing his damp palms hard against the wall. He counted. One . . . two . . .