With a soft knock she entered the small home and smiled at the thin man sitting hunched over a journal, a lantern burning low at his side. He turned when she walked in, and put down his pen.
“Alana.” Her father’s voice came out weak and raspy. Not like the strong man who had taught her everything he knew. “The delivery went well?”
Alana rested a hand on his shoulder. “Just fine. A girl.”
Her father’s graying brows rose. “A girl? That is a surprise. Strong will, that one. How are you doing?”
She tucked her other hand into the pocket of her cargo pants. “I’m fine. Tired, but fine.”
Her father’s hand covered hers where it rested on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Alana. You’ve done your mother and me proud.”
Tears filled her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. If he knew her secrets, he wouldn’t be proud. The burden weighed heavy on her shoulders, as it had since the day they’d left Boston. She hated the lie, but truth would only cause her father more grief. She wouldn’t do that to him.
“You look tired. Go, get some rest.”
“I’ll help you into bed first.” She moved to help him out of his chair, but he waved her away.
“I have some more writing to do. I won’t be long. You go. I can manage.”
Leaving her father his pride and his privacy, Alana leaned over, kissed his cheek and left quietly. With a heavy heart she walked toward her hut, set slightly apart from the rest. Reserved for the medico.
Once inside, she stripped out of her clothes and by the light of a lantern, gave herself a sponge bath using the bowl and pitcher of water provided by the women of the tribe. They left it every night and she never failed to use it. A small offering in exchange for the services she provided them.
Within minutes she changed into pajamas, a long sleeved shirt and drawstring pants, let down the mosquito net and climbed into bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep. Thoughts raced through her head, tormenting her with things she couldn’t change and the cruel fate Gavin Ross had delivered her. Another secret she would never reveal to her father. Seeing disappointment in his eyes and knowing she’d put it there would level her. The best she could do was make the most of their time together.
And make it last a lifetime.
Sleep evaded her, so she got out of bed, put on her boots, grabbed a lantern and slipped into the night. Only one place would bring her solace.
Minutes later, Alana hung her clothes over a fallen tree, stepped to the edge of the pond and stared into the sparkling pool lit by her lantern. Natural rock surrounded crystal clear water and dense, green foliage interspersed with brilliant tropical flowers. Her favorite place. A waterfall poured softly over a rocky ledge high above, creating a place of beauty no man could ever duplicate.
Her refuge when she needed to clear her head. Most often at night. The jungle was a dangerous place and the men of the tribe forbade her to go out after dark, though it did no good. She didn’t abide by their rules, although she participated in many of the rituals, but still went her own way. The hand-carved knife she carried would protect her.
She dove into the pool, the cool water driving away her troubled thoughts. She didn’t surface until she neared the waterfall. Calmer now, she dragged in deep breaths of air and pushed the hair out of her face. Gradually, the stream soothed away her troubles.
The jungle noises didn’t scare her. They had for the first year, but now they comforted her.
She rolled onto her back and floated across the pool, eyes closed, drowning out the sounds. The jungle came alive at night. She’d been intrigued, and fearful, the first time she heard the monkeys and macaws. Now, she barely noticed.
Her mind and body began to relax until soon she felt tired enough to sleep. She swam languidly toward the shore and let the last of her unease drift away.
She stepped out of the water and reached for her clothes. An unfamiliar noise stopped her. Cautiously, she looked around while reaching into the pocket of her pants for her knife.
The sound didn’t come again, but the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Jaguars were night hunters and she’d run across a couple in her time here, but this was different.
No one from the tribe swam at night. The men hunted sometimes, but they didn’t come here, and none of them would invade her privacy. They would consider it a disrespect to watch her swim in the nude.
On occasion, people came to the island to explore, or lost travelers would stumble across it, but not often. Gavin Ross pretty much took care of anyone who wanted to visit his island.
Just the thought of Gavin Ross made her go cold. He was a lot of things, but not the type to hide in the bushes and watch her. He’d made it known where he stood when it came to her. So who, or what, was out there?
“I know you’re there.” She spoke clearly into the night. “You may as well show yourself.”
The bush rustled some distance away and she tightened her hand around the handle of the knife. Something moved, followed by a grunt, then a loud thump.
Without letting go of the knife, she dressed quickly while keeping her eyes on the jungle where she’d heard the sound. One of Ross’s guards maybe? She wouldn’t put it past them to spy on her. They were as despicable as their boss. On the flip side, her experience with Gavin showed him to be the type of man who demanded obedience and control. If one of his guards had snuck off, he would know about it. Given his interest in her, he never would allow one of them to spy on her. Especially while skinny-dipping.
Well, she wasn’t hanging around to find out. That was a too-stupid-to-live moment in a horror film. She picked up the lantern and booked it for home.
A few steps later, she gasped and dropped her lantern.
Chapter 2
Slade heard her crashing through the jungle before he saw her.
His hands were the only weapon he had and they shook too damn much to do him any good. He’d lost the AK-47 somewhere in the jungle. He didn’t remember putting it down, but the weapon was gone. The bullet he’d taken must have done more damage than he’d thought. Felt like the damn thing was still lodged. He couldn’t afford an infection in this environment.
Crouched low, he waited, hands poised to defend against whoever came toward him. The lantern, a beacon in the night, wavered, then fell.
In his narrowing vision he saw her and blinked, certain he hallucinated. The woman stopped a few feet away, her fiery red hair, aflame in the light, clinging to her shoulders in wet strands. Slender and lithe, her startled gaze trapped him.
He must be imagining things. Lost too much blood. This was a remote island in the Caribbean Sea. Only one man lived here. The one he was supposed to kill. And would still eliminate as soon as he felt better.
Maybe he hadn’t made it off Ross’s estate after all. Must be dying in the bastard’s basement and she was a figment of his imagination.
He’d always liked redheads.
This could be a ploy. Ross may have sent this redheaded beauty to kill him. For most men, women were a weakness, but not Slade. He’d put a wall around his heart long ago. He could go long periods without sex. He’d gone this long, he’d go longer. Ross would be disappointed when Slade sent this one back.
He wasn’t going to wait for her to take him out first. Gathering his waning strength, he attacked.
* * * *
The man leapt at her, his hands poised for her throat, but he stumbled, swayed, and did a face-plant at her feet. Alana set her lantern upright and knelt down beside him, knife gripped in her hand in case this was a ruse.
But when she nudged his shoulder, he didn’t move. She tucked the knife into her pocket and carefully rolled him onto his back. It took effort. He was over six foot and solid muscle.
She gasped. For a second she could only stare at the sharp angles of his battered face, a mass of bruises and scrapes, some open and bleeding, others red and angry. Someone had broken his nose and split his lip open. Yet, she couldn’t look away.
> He’d been worked over good.
She could think of only one person capable of such brutality on the island. Gavin Ross. The guard’s uniform confirmed it. What had this man done to warrant such a beating?
Not the time to worry about it. Quickly doing an on-the-spot assessment, she discovered bruises and bumps on the rest of his body and a gunshot wound in his side. Nothing broken. Fractured ribs. She had to get him back to the church before the wound became infected.
How to get him there? He was too heavy for her to carry and it would take too long to go back to camp and get help. He needed treatment now. The tribesmen wouldn’t be happy about having one of Gavin’s guards in the village. They would have to deal. It didn’t matter this man was on Gavin’s payroll. As a doctor, she helped people. She would treat him no matter what and she wouldn’t ask why his employer had brutalized and shot him. Probably better if she didn’t know.
She gave him a good shake and leaned over to speak directly to him. “Open your eyes.”
He groaned and tried to push her hands away, but she didn’t let go. She had no idea how much blood he’d lost. The bullet needed to be removed.
Another shake and a light slap to his cheek brought him around with an angry grunt. One eye was swollen shut; the other gazed at her with an unsteady stare.
“Don’t talk,” she said when he began to speak. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help, but I need you to help me first. You have to walk back to my camp. I can’t get you there alone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Hell, yes, I understand you. I don’t need help.” He started to sit up and hissed out a breath.
She pushed him back down, hands on his muscular chest. He glared. She ignored it.
“I have to wrap your ribs first, or you won’t get far. Just lay there and be still.”
He did as told, but she didn’t think it was by choice. He looked ready to pass out again.
“Bastard got off a lucky shot,” he muttered, eyes rolling in his head as she lifted his shirt and prodded the gunshot wound. Blood seeped from the edges.
“If he was trying to kill you, I’d say he wasn’t so lucky.” She tore a strip off the bottom of her shirt and wrapped it around his narrow waist to cover the wound, stop the bleeding and support the injured ribs at the same time. His muscles were defined, contoured, indicating hard training. As she brought the fabric around, he drew in a sharp breath and turned deathly white. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and she paused to let him catch his breath. “You have fractured ribs on this side, along with a gunshot wound. It’s going to make a difficult trip.”
In response, he rose to a sitting position with a grunt of pain, and with strength she had to admire, pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, sidestepped, and she levered herself under his arm.
She grabbed the lantern and wrapped an arm around his hips to avoid pressure to his wound and ribs. “Easy, there.”
His weight bore down on her. Though he put up a good fight, he leaned on her more and more as they made their way slowly toward the church. Once, he stumbled and fell to his knees and brought her down with him.
Her knee scraped an exposed root and the lantern slipped from her grasp. She set it upright and maneuvered around so she still supported him. His eyes were closed, lips drawn into a thin line. His skin had taken on a gray pallor.
“How much farther?” he asked, his voice low and tight.
“Not far. Can you make it?”
In answer, he rose to his feet and pulled her with him. His strength surprised her once again.
“Where…are you taking me?” He sounded disoriented, wary. She could understand his caution--for all he knew, she could be working for Gavin, and the next to put a bullet in him. With Gavin, one never knew.
“Somewhere I can patch you up. I’m a medical doctor. I can help.”
He stiffened and came to a stop. “Don’t like doctors,” he grumbled, his eyes squeezed shut as he swayed. Blood seeped through her shirt where she pressed against his side.
“Too bad.” She used her doctor-knows-best tone. “Because you’ve got one. Now get moving. And considering where you are, you should deem yourself lucky.”
“Never been lucky.”
He started to walk with slow, deliberate steps as if focused on putting one foot in front of the other. How he did it, she wasn’t sure, but her respect for him grew. Most would be unconscious by now. Or dead.
“No…needles,” he said, low and gruff.
A good head taller than her, he leaned more heavily on her and her legs burned with strain.
“You can stop ordering me around.” She tightened her grip with a wince when it strained her back. “You have serious injuries that need tending to and I’m going to do whatever necessary to put you back together.”
He muttered unintelligibly and she didn’t ask him to repeat it. As they neared the church, she could see the dim light glowing in the window. A beacon.
“Almost there.” Her legs burned beneath his weight. He leaned more on her now than before. She wouldn’t be able to carry him if he weakened any more. Hard enough to move her feet now.
“Not…feeling so good.”
“Don’t give up on me yet, soldier,” she ordered.
“Not a soldier anymore.” His words slurred. Against her, his body burned hot and grew hotter by the minute.
Because Gavin had caught him doing something he shouldn’t? Had Gavin banished him after his beating? Didn’t make sense. Obviously the guy wasn’t supposed to survive. She pushed her curiosity aside and breathed a sigh of relief as they cleared the jungle and entered the camp.
“Five more steps.”
The door to her father’s hut opened. “Alana? What’s going on?” His ragged voice floated through the darkness.
“I’ve got it, Dad, go back to bed. Everything’s fine.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Someone who needs help. Go back to bed. I can handle this.” She hoped her father did as she asked. He didn’t need to worry about the stranger she’d found in the jungle and why he had a gunshot wound.
“He’s not one of us.”
Damn. She hadn’t wanted her father involved. “Please, Dad, let me handle this. You need your rest. I’ll come over as soon as I’m finished.”
“You’ll need an assistant.”
“I’ll get Leya. That’s why we trained her.”
“Alana?”
They had reached the church. “Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“I will, Dad.” Her father trusted her--the most valuable gift anyone could give her, although undeserved.
She managed to get the wounded man inside the church and into the small room off the back. He fell onto the table, out cold. Alana shimmied out from beneath him, pushed her hair off her face and fell back a step.
Using the generator to power the overhead light, she got to work. First, she would remove the bullet. Then she’d patch up his other wounds and treat the infection. Her anesthetics were limited, so she prayed he stayed out long enough for her to finish.
Quickly, she laid out a sterile field and prepared her tools. Then she took a pair of scissors and cut his ill-fitting shirt off him. His pants were also snug, and the hem barely touched his boots.
No time to wonder about it now. She twisted her hair into a sloppy bun, put on a pair of latex gloves, and drew in a deep breath.
Prepared to start an IV, she picked up a needle. She had it in position when his other arm shot out and he clamped her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Startled, she met his panicked gaze.
“I said no needles.”
Her heart banged against her ribcage as she let the needle slip out of her hand. It hit the floor with a small ting. Alana opened her hands in surrender, her patient’s fingers digging into her flesh. For a man half-dead, he had amazing strength.
“Okay,” she said to placate him. “Relax, I don’t have it anymore. It’s your choice, but I recommend you let me st
art an IV for meds.”
“No. Just fix me.”
Alana pinned him with a no nonsense stare. “I’m not impressed with Superman heroics.”
Face pale and drawn, he said gruffly, “I’m not Superman. Learned not to trust people with needles.”
Her fingers were going numb. “If I remove the bullet without pain medication or anesthetic, you’re going to be sorry.”
He studied her. “You’re really a doctor?”
Alana bristled. “Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
She didn’t have time to explain herself with the amount of blood seeping from his gunshot wound. “I went to med school. You can let go of my arm now. I won’t use any needles.”
He looked down and immediately released his grip. She rubbed her wrist to soothe away the ache.
“Can I get to work now, or do you want to question me more about my credentials while you bleed to death? I don’t have a blood bank, so you’re screwed if you lose too much.”
Her blunt statement received a curt nod. She normally didn’t talk to her patients like that. Her patients didn’t normally countermand her either.
“Do it,” he said.
“Without anesthetics?”
“I don’t need them. Just get it over with.”
Stubborn, stupid, or both? Insane, yes, but there wasn’t time to argue with him.
“Okay. The offer stands if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
She doubted that, but didn’t comment. Instead, wiped her forehead with her forearm, and picked up gauze pads to clean the wound.
“Here goes,” she warned and dabbed his skin. Her patient didn’t move or even wince as she cleaned the angry wound. Either he had a will of steel or he’d passed out again. Hopefully, the latter.
Sweat rolled down her back as she finished cleansing the area around the bullet entry. Red flesh puckered with the first signs of infection. In this environment infection was guaranteed.
With a steady hand that would have made her father proud, she picked up her instruments and took a deep breath.
Hard Core (Onyx Group) Page 2