Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back. He wasn’t going to be fine and they both knew it. Every time she thought about it, her chest ached. She had pleaded with Gavin to give her a year. He’d given her six months. Her father’s decline over the past few months indicated he had less than that. She was losing him and it tore her heart out.
“You have to take it easy, Dad, don’t overdo. Are you taking your pills?”
He smiled gently. “I’ve been out of them for a week, but don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere yet.”
“But--”
“No, Alana. I’ve made peace with it. You must also.”
She didn’t want to hear that. It sounded too much like giving up. “We could go back to Boston. They could treat you--”
“No.” Her father squeezed her hand. “This is our home. There is nothing there for us now. It’s God’s will, Alana. You must accept that.”
She pulled herself up tall. “No, Dad. I don’t accept it and neither should you.” Then she walked away, fighting tears and anger. There was another way, and she would find it.
* * * *
Slade opened his eyes to darkness and waited for them to adjust to the soft light that illuminated the small, one-room hut. A bed. Soft and narrow, with sheets and the spicy scent of a woman. His body hurt, his side on fire. He didn’t remember anything past taking a bullet.
A sound drew his attention and he stiffened, reached for his gun only to find he was naked beneath the sheets. Where were his guns? His knife?
He looked over and went still. Across the room a woman, turned slightly away from him, naked except for a pair of white panties and matching bra. They were by no means sexy, but contrasted nicely against silky smooth skin and a slender body. Long, fiery red hair flowed down her back and brushed a narrow waist he could span with both hands. In the lantern light it glowed like silken fire.
Slade watched, mesmerized, as she leaned over and scooped water with both hands from a bowl atop a high cabinet. She splashed it over her face and he imagined tiny water droplets sliding down her creamy skin to fall between her breasts. Her movements were sensual. Unhurried.
Why did she seem familiar to him? He reached, but couldn’t remember her. He remembered heat so hot he thought he’d burn up, but it wasn’t uncomfortably warm in here. He could hear the jungle around him, loud and aggressive. A reminder of how much he hated it. The deafening noise never rested. Not even his penthouse in the city was this noisy.
Awestruck, he watched her slowly wash her arms, chest, and navel. She lifted the sponge and squeezed it over her shoulder. Water sluiced down her back, dampening her skin, making him sweat. She was the most sensual creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Arousal replaced pain and he swallowed past a dry mouth as his eyes tracked her movements.
From this distance he could see bruises marring her perfect skin. One streaked across her lower back, two on her shoulders and on the backs of her legs. Who had done that to her? Anger pulsed through him and made him want to shoot the bastard.
When at last she picked up a towel and began to dry herself, Slade was in a full state of arousal. It had been so long since a woman had stirred his blood, he almost didn’t recognize the reaction.
He closed his eyes and watched through lowered lashes as she turned and reached for her clothes. He kept his breathing steady as she presented perfect, round breasts cupped by lace, a flat stomach and delicate face. Her high cheekbones and soft lips were as fine as the bone china filling his hutch in Chicago.
His eyes dropped to her slender neck and the ring of bruises.
Someone had tried to strangle her. That wasn’t the only thing they’d done. He followed her arms down to her hands and saw bruises circling her right wrist. What kind of bastard would do that to a woman?
With graceful movements, she pulled a long sleeved t-shirt over her head and stepped into a pair of drawstring sleep pants that rode low on her hips. She left her feet bare, which bothered him. It wasn’t safe to go without boots in the jungle. God knew what lurked in cracks and crevices.
She yawned and walked toward him with soft steps. Awareness zinged through him as she placed a palm on his forehead, then touched his cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin was like silk, and for the first time in ages he craved that touch. Not since Mariette had he wanted a woman’s hands on him.
“Fever’s down,” she murmured. “You should rest comfortably tonight. We both should.”
Then she tucked the covers around him, dropped the mosquito net and moved to the uncomfortable wooden chair next to the bed. She settled down and sat there watching him, making him damn uncomfortable, before she finally leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Ah, hell. He was in her bed. Naked and hurting.
He tried to sit up, the effort cost him, and he fell back against the pillows. He hated the weakness.
She immediately opened her eyes, leaned over, pushed the net aside and placed a hand on his shoulder, soft yet firm. “Whoa, there, soldier. You’re in no shape to go anywhere tonight.”
Soldier? How did she know that? He hadn’t been a soldier in over four years. Who was this woman?
His head spun as he lay back and cursed his condition. Was she keeping him sedated and weak? Hell, she could be keeping him here until Ross arrived. Son of a bitch. He should have figured it out sooner. Instead of being distracted by her soft skin and sensual curves. He never let anything distract him, especially on a job.
Beautiful and dangerous.
An image of a red-haired maiden gliding through the jungle flitted through his head. He pinned her with a hard stare. “You were in the jungle.”
She nodded and reached for something on the bedside table, a wooden storage crate. He stiffened, prepared to defend himself. Against a…washcloth? She tied the net aside and leaned over his chest. Her scent, natural and feminine, washed over him.
“Relax,” she murmured, laying the cloth across his forehead. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Rest is what you need now.”
Not going to happen. He didn’t trust her. Images of her with a needle in hand flashed. She held him hostage with drugs. Goddamn, he hated needles. How the hell did she get close enough to him for an injection? He hadn’t let anyone stick him with a needle since he’d been a child. Then, he’d been too young and scared to fight.
He looked into her soft green eyes and he knew. She’d bewitched him. Somehow, while he’d faded in and out of consciousness, she had weaved her spell and he’d fallen hook, line and sinker. Jesus, he was losing it. Damn the bastard who’d shot him.
“Who are you?” he rasped, wishing he didn’t feel so weak. Vulnerable. Fuck.
Her brows drew down in a frown and something close to guilt flickered across her face. What would she have to feel guilty about? Shooting him up with drugs to keep him comatose? A hell of a good reason.
“You don’t remember anything?” She turned away slightly so that her hair shielded her face.
Unwilling to give her any information that could be used against him, he remained silent.
“I found you in the jungle. You were shot, so I brought you here. You’ve been delirious with fever from infection for the past two days. It’s no surprise you don’t remember anything.”
Fever? That explained the uncomfortable heat.
“Infection where?”
“At the gunshot wound site. In this environment, a wound like that will heal slowly and infection is almost inevitable. Many have died from a simple cut.”
Many? How many were here? He didn’t remember anything about other people inhabiting the island. Important information he should have been alerted to, but inconsequential at this point. And since the island belonged to Ross, that meant this red-haired vixen worked for Ross. Which left him at her mercy as long as he was laid up in bed.
That’s about to change.
He knew basic medic skills, enough to keep himself alive. He just had to get the hell out of here. As long as she was awake
he’d get nowhere, so he closed his eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep.
His Angel of Death pressed a cool cloth to his cheeks and forehead before she moved back to her perch.
Fool. He waited for her breathing to slow. Ross shouldn’t have left a woman on guard duty. Escaping would be a piece of cake.
* * * *
Slade was dressed and at the door when he heard a soft whimper. The sound stopped him midstride and forced him to turn back to where he’d left his Angel of Death asleep in her chair.
Tears ran down her cheeks, though her eyes were closed, her face contorted with sadness.
Damn. Had he tied the bootlaces too tight around her wrists and ankles? She hadn’t woken when he’d secured her to the chair. Hell, she hadn’t even moved. Either a deep sleeper or exhausted. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, he’d guess the latter.
Torn, he glared at her. How did a person cry in their sleep? But her tears continued to fall quietly into her lap.
He wanted to shake her awake, demand she stop crying because he couldn’t take it, and wrap her in his arms at the same time. Dammit. He refused to feel guilt for tying her up. Someone would find her in the morning and free her. She’d be fine. A little stiff, but unharmed.
Unlike him. He still felt the after-effects of the drug she’d given him. Penicillin, my ass. Whatever it was still coursed through his veins, making him groggy and thick-headed. Out of sorts.
He reached the door and started to leave, but a small, keening moan stopped him.
Jaw clenched, he stalked across the room, and knelt painfully at her side. He checked her bonds, satisfied they were tight enough to hold her, but not so tight they caused her pain. What the hell was she crying about?
He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He’d done that once, and would never do it again. The cost was simply too high.
He rose to his feet, fought dizziness, and headed toward the door again. This time he didn’t look back as he slipped into the darkness.
Chapter 6
Alana woke with a start and groaned at the stiffness in her arms and back. She’d slept in a chair again. When she tried to lift her hand, it wouldn’t budge. She looked down, then at her empty bed, and gasped in outrage.
Cristian had tied her to her chair and escaped. How far did he think he would get in his condition? He must be weak as a babe. No one bounced back quickly from what he’d been through. Not even Superman.
Why the ropes? She looked down. Shoelaces? He’d used her shoelaces to tie her up? Good Lord, she’d been outwitted by a wounded man barely over his fever.
It had been a long time since she’d underestimated someone and it rankled that he had pulled one over on her. But why had he felt the need to do it?
“Damn him.” Angry that he’d done this, she pulled against her restraints to no avail. The laces weren’t hurting her, but they held firm with the special knot he’d used. She let out a harsh breath and collapsed against the chair. Now what? Leya would soon check on her and find her like this, her patient gone.
She groaned in frustration. Nothing good would come of this. The tribal elders would order a manhunt for harming one of their women. It wouldn’t matter he hadn’t hurt her. Cristian tying her up didn’t follow the strict code of honor a man bestowed on a woman. They would be furious.
Great, this just got better and better. If he was one of Gavin’s soldiers, then he’d run right back to him. The men of the tribe would never back down from right and wrong. That would lead to bloodshed, the thing she’d sacrificed herself in order to prevent.
Gut clenched, she struggled against her bonds. Once again they held tight.
Alana glared at the empty bed and stiffened when she heard someone at the door. Not quite daylight, so it couldn’t be Leya. Her father, come to check on her? She couldn’t let him see her like this.
Her heart pounded as she struggled to free herself. The door opened behind her. Dammit, she would castrate Cristian when she got her hands on him.
The door closed and she cursed under her breath.
Time to pay the piper for her misplaced trust.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
“Senorita, I’m sorry to wake you, but you must come. Your father needs you--oh, what has happened to you?” Leya gasped. “Where is your patient?”
Alana scowled. Yeah, that’s what she’d like to know. “Get my knife, Leya. Cut me loose.”
Wide eyed, Leya hurried over to where she kept her knife hidden and looked back at Alana with frightened eyes. “It’s gone.”
Fire burned through Alana’s gut. Not only had he tied her up, he’d stolen her knife. That knife had special meaning to her. It had been handcrafted by a tribesman after Alana had set his son’s leg after a bad fall. They’d thought he would to lose it, but she managed to save the limb.
She hoped Cristian died a slow, miserable death out there in the jungle.
“Run to the church and grab a scalpel.” She barely kept a lid on her temper.
Leya nodded and ran out the door. She returned a couple minutes later and knelt behind the chair to cut the laces at Alana’s feet. “He did this to you? The elders will be very angry for this disrespect.”
She’d saved Cristian’s life and this is how he repaid her? It didn’t bode well for him. At this point it didn’t matter if he was one of Ross’s men or not, he would be hunted and killed for what he’d done.
Alana shuddered. The tribe would have their honor in her name.
Oh, God. What had she done?
“Leya.” Alana rose from her chair and rubbed her shoulders. “No one can know about this. Promise me you won’t tell anyone what he did.” She grabbed Leya’s slim shoulders and gave her a stern look. “Promise me.”
“But…”
Alana shook her head. “No. I’m fine. The elders can’t know he tied me up and stole my knife. It will bring war with Senor Ross and we can’t have that.”
“But he is one of Senor Ross’s soldiers.”
“We don’t know that, Leya. We don’t have the facts. For now we have to--” A knock on the door stopped her mid-sentence.
“Alana? Open up. We seem to have found something you lost.” Her father’s voice drifted through the door.
“Not a word,” Alana warned Leya and went to open the door.
Three tribesmen carried her unconscious patient inside. His deathly pale face bobbed against his bare chest. They deposited him in her bed with more care than the last time.
Her father came in behind them, his gaze on her. “You should have asked for relief,” he chided. “He must have slipped out in the night while you slept.”
“Yes, he must have.” She glared at her patient, who now slept comfortably in her bed. “Where did you find him?”
“Near the edge of the camp. He passed out.”
“He’s nowhere near healed. I’m surprised he made it that far.”
Her father studied her closely. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Alana nodded and squeezed his arm. “I’m fine. I’ll keep a better watch over my patient from here on out.”
Her father shook his head. “No. We’ll work in shifts now. It isn’t safe for you to be alone with him. I don’t trust him.”
She rubbed her forehead. Cristian had already managed to get the drop on her. And for his sake, he better hope the tribesmen let her be the one to remove his pants, because her knife could be nowhere else. How he’d gotten into his pants in the first place she didn’t know. Then again, Cristian was anything but typical.
Exactly the reason she wouldn’t leave her father alone with him. What if he did to him what he’d done to her? Her father didn’t have the strength he once had. She could handle Cristian, but she wasn’t letting him hurt her father.
“I appreciate it, Dad, but his fever is down, and the antibiotics are working. It won’t be long now.”
“Then you’ll release him and get him out of our lives?”
“Yes. Let him go fight
his war with Gavin, or whatever it is they’re doing.”
“You don’t believe he works for Ross? That he did something wrong and got punished for it? Gavin Ross won’t let him live if he’s betrayed him.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said on a sigh. Lord, she was tired.
Her father kissed her forehead. “Trust your instincts, dear. You’ll do the right thing.” He walked to the door. “Looks like you’ve lost your shoelaces. Might want to fix that.” Then he left.
She glared at the man in her bed. He better hope he healed quickly or she just might take his advice and shoot him. Twice. She stalked over to where he lay and scowled down at him. Maybe she should let him fend for himself. If the infection didn’t kill him, Ross would. They’d all sleep better once he was gone. And she could easily send him packing right now. If it weren’t for that incredibly broad chest of his and those hard planes and muscles…
Alana huffed out a breath. Why did he continuously turn her thoughts in the wrong direction? Him patient, you doctor. She really had to remember that. Her thoughts crossed hundreds of moral lines. Lines she had never crossed and never planned on crossing again. She would not dishonor her father or her reputation.
Yet, she couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling over the dark shadow of his jaw and down the defined muscles of his shoulders. She knew from experience how strong he was. The unsatisfied part of her reared its stubborn head, tightened her insides and sent a current of pure desire through her veins.
Her body remembered how he’d touched her, knew her, and tingled in response.
“Traitor,” she muttered. She was a fool. A big, unprofessional fool.
Alana dropped to her knees beside him and searched his pockets for her knife. She found it strapped to his ankle. Angry that he dared steal such a personal thing, she tucked it into her waistband. Her gaze traveled over the heavy stubble on his jaw and dirt smeared across his chest.
“I should let you lie in your own filth,” she groused. Irritation coursed through her. “Would serve you right for stealing my knife and tying me to a chair with my own laces.”
Hard Core (Onyx Group) Page 6