Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  Elena turned towards him, a smile on her face, and her words trailed away into silence.

  Blake was standing beside the car, changing his clothes. A pair of faded blue jeans hung low on his lean hips; beneath, she caught a glimpse of dark briefs. He was pulling on an equally faded blue T-shirt, drawing it down over his tanned torso. Her gaze moved over the dark mat of hair that crossed his chest, then tapered to a narrow line as it bisected his muscled abdomen. His eyes met hers as he tugged the shirt into place and he smiled.

  "Just give me a minute," he said, tucking the shirt into his jeans. "Let me pull on a pair of boots and I'll be ready for anything."

  She nodded.

  All she could think of was that she wished she could say the same.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elena ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head wildly.

  "Damn it," she muttered, "go on—get away from me!"

  Blake looked up and grinned. "Gnats," he said. "The terrors of the jungle." He leaned into the trunk of the car and dug into the sack of supplies she'd bought at Las Palmas. "Douse yourself with some of this," he said, tossing her a can of repellent.

  She depressed the button on the aerosol can and sprayed a bit on her hand.

  "Whew," she said, turning her face away from the pungent smell, "that's awful!"

  "Worse than awful," he said agreeably. "But it's all we've got. Go on, spray it on. Put some on your face, too."

  She shuddered but she did it. Then she tossed the can back to him.

  "OK," she said, "no bug in its right mind will come near me now."

  "Until you begin to sweat that stuff off," he said, ducking his head into the open trunk of the car again. "Here," he said as he straightened up, "catch."

  A pale blue shirt came sailing through the air. Elena caught it and looked at him.

  "What's this for?"

  He barely looked up. "Take off what you're wearing and put that on instead.

  She looked at the shirt again. It was his, obviously, long-sleeved and made of cotton. It would hang to her knees, she thought, and the sleeves would dangle inches beyond her fingertips. All that extra fabric would be hot and bulky. Her own shirt was short-sleeved and scoop-necked.

  "Thanks," she said with a smile, "but I'll stick with what I have on."

  "Change your shirt, Elena."

  Her smile wavered. Was there an edge to his voice? No, of course there wasn't. He'd told her she'd have to follow orders, but surely not about something as trivial as this.

  "Look, I'm sure you mean well, Blake, but..."

  His eyes met hers. "Do it."

  "But it's silly. I..."

  "I told you to do something, Elena. Now, do it!"

  Disbelief clouded her features. He had to be joking—but he wasn't. His voice was hard as steel, and the look on his face...

  "All right," she said stiffly. "Have it your way."

  She stepped behind the car and drew her shirt over her head. So, she thought, that's how it was going to be. Nothing would be trivial; Rogan was going to remind her of her vow to obey whenever he had the chance. A hot tide of anger raced through her. Her guard had slipped for a moment there and she'd almost thought he was human. But he wasn't; he was cold and heartless and a petty dictator...

  And she was stuck with him. She slipped his shirt on and began to button it. What a pleasure it would be to reach Miami and be free to tell Blake Rogan exactly what she thought of him. And she'd tell her father, too. Whatever he'd paid for Rogan's services, it had been too much.

  She grimaced as she looked down at herself. The shirt was even larger than she'd expected. It hung below her knees and the sleeves were a hand's length too long. And she was sweating already. She opened the first few buttons, rolled the cuffs until they were at her elbows, and stepped out into the road again.

  "Satisfied?" she asked coolly.

  Blake was looping a belt through the handles of the carryall. He glanced at her and then went back to what he was doing.

  "Roll the sleeves down."

  Her jaw clenched. "Aye aye, captain."

  He looked up again, his eyes narrowed. Her heart thudded, but then he sighed.

  "Look, it's going to be buggy as hell once we start walking. And it's going to be hot. You'll sweat..."

  His tone was mild, but she was too angry to notice. "I'm sweating already," she said. "This damned shirt is too warm. It cuts off what little breeze there is. And..."

  His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "What it cuts off are the bugs, Elena. The spray's going to wear off once you start sweating, and then the bugs will start dropping in for dinner. You want to offer them as little exposed skin as possible, unless you like the idea of becoming a walking buffet for everything that has wings."

  She felt a prickle of contrition. It was a reasonable explanation, she thought, watching him stuff the carryall. Maybe she'd over-reacted. Maybe this hadn't simply been an exercise in command. But if it hadn't been, if he simply wanted to keep her from being plagued by insects, why had he made a simple situation so difficult?

  Elena's eyes narrowed. Because it wasn't simple, that was why. Because Rogan wanted to put her through her paces, because he couldn't resist the chance to remind her he was in charge, because he was the kind of man he was...

  "I can take care of myself," she snapped.

  He looked up and she drew in her breath. There was a measuring coldness in his eyes that made her wish she could call her words back. But it was too late for that, she thought, as the silence between them stretched on. Then, at last, he shrugged.

  "Yes," he said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it, "you sure as hell can."

  "Well, then, you..." A frown creased her forehead. "What are you doing?"

  It was a stupid question. She could see what he was doing—he was hoisting the improvised pack on his shoulder, sliding the machete into his belt, and marching off along the road, heading deeper into the jungle.

  "Rogan? Rogan, don't you just walk away from me..." Her voice rose. "Dammit, Rogan..." He was almost out of sight, swallowed by the heavy foliage. She took a step forward and then another. "Rogan?" she said in a disbelieving whisper. He couldn't just leave her here—could he? Elena ran forward a few steps. "Blake, please..."

  This time, he stopped at once, his back to her. There was a tension in the set of his head and shoulders that made her skin prickle.

  "What do you want, Elena?"

  "Where... where are you going?"

  There was a pause barely longer than a heartbeat. "North. To the mountains."

  "On this trail?"

  He turned towards her slowly and lowered the carryall to the ground. "Did you have a better idea?" he asked politely.

  Too politely. "Well, no," she said, "but..."

  Blake nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You have a decision to make. You can come with me, or you can stay here."

  Two spots of color splashed across her cheeks. "I just asked you a simple question, Blake. I thought..."

  His eyes turned the color of midnight. "Don't," he growled.

  "Don't?"

  "That's right—don't. Don't think. Don't question." His hands went to his hips. "That was the deal we made, remember?"

  "Yes, but you can't expect me to... to just follow you blindly, no matter what you do or say or..."

  His lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. "You're right," he said softly. "I can't."

  In one fluid motion, he hoisted the carryall again, turned his back to her, and started walking briskly along the path. Within seconds, the encroaching jungle had swallowed him up.

  Elena stared at the empty trail in disbelief. What kind of game was this? She took a hesitant step forward and then another. Come on, Rogan, she thought, get it over with. Step out of the jungle and bark an order at me...

  But he didn’t. And gradually, as the silence settled around her, the sounds of the jungle returned.

  A bird screamed somewhere in the dark gree
n canopy overhead.

  Elena glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the road they’d been on just a few minutes ago. A brisk twenty-minute walk would take her back to it. Sure it would—and then she could choose between going back to the fighting in the south or heading north to the roadblock.

  "Terrific," she murmured aloud, and then she sighed. There was a third choice, and it was the only one she could make. She'd have to catch up to Rogan and eat humble pie.

  She began walking along the narrow road. It stretched ahead like an arrow before curving to vanish in the encroaching tangle of trees. That was probably where Blake was waiting for her. Of course he'd wait for her, no matter what he threatened. After all, he'd had the chance to leave her behind before and he hadn't. Her footsteps slowed. Let him wait. Let him worry a little bit. It would do him good.

  But he wasn't waiting in the curve of the road. She came around the bend and the path stretched on again until it lost itself in the green of the forest. It wasn't actually a path anymore. It was a barely visible arrow of packed dirt, dark beneath an overhanging canopy of leaves.

  Sweat dripped off the tip of her nose. She felt the light brush of something leggy on her cheek and she flinched as she brushed it away.

  The bugs were impossible. Blake was right—they seemed to attack any unprotected inch of skin, and never mind the repellent. She grimaced and wiped her arm across her forehead. Sweat darkened her sleeve—Blake's sleeve—and she sighed. Maybe she owed him an apology about the shirt. Just maybe...

  Something crashed through the underbrush and her heart skipped erratically. Soldiers, she thought. Or rebels. It had to be; there was no animal in the jungle large enough to make so much noise. Jaguars were large, yes, but the big cats never hunted this time of day. And animals moved through the heavy shrubbery without making a sound...

  A troop of monkeys suddenly swung across the trail ahead. Monkeys! Of course she should have thought of that right away. Her father always said they were the noisiest creatures he knew.

  "It's the jaguars and the anacondas that move like ghosts," he'd told her when she was little and she curled up in his lap, demanding stories of the jungle.

  And her mother would laugh and chide him. "Don't frighten Elena," she'd say. "What does she know of jungles, Eduardo?"

  It was true, she knew nothing of them. There was always a classmate or a teacher in the States who'd ask her some wide-eyed question about jungle creatures, and then she'd have to explain that she lived in a modern ranch house just outside the capital city, and that she'd never been in a jungle in her life except for that one trip into the mountains.

  She'd never been in the midst of a revolution before, either. And now here she was, trapped in both. And she was alone. Alone—without Blake, without the man who'd kept her safe, who'd brought her all this distance. He could have abandoned her hours ago, but he hadn't. He'd stayed with her, protected her, held her in his arms...

  "Change your mind, Princess?"

  He was there, suddenly, standing before her as she came around a bend in the trail. She tried to stop in time but it was too late, and, as she stumbled forward, he caught her in his arms. She fell against him, leaning into his hard body, closing her eyes and savoring the feeling of relief that turned her legs to jelly. His heart beat smoothly and steadily beneath her ear.

  "I thought..." She drew a deep breath. "I thought you'd left me."

  His arms seemed to tighten around her. "Isn't that the way you want it, Elena?"

  There was a silence. "No," she said finally. Her face was pressed against his shirt. It was damp with his sweat, the taste of it salty on her parted lips. "No," she said again, and a tremor passed through her. She leaned back against his encircling arms and looked up at him. "I want to stay with you, Blake."

  She knew the words had come out strangely—her voice had a breathless quality to it, as if she were saying something else. Her heart thudded once and then seemed to stop, waiting. His eyes, she thought, staring into them, his eyes were that midnight-blue they'd been that night on the terrace, just before he'd kissed her.

  The world seemed to stand still, everything around them becoming exaggerated—the heat, the humidity, the intense scent of jungle wild flowers—all of it seemed larger than life. Something was going to happen, she thought wildly. Something...

  And then, suddenly, Blake's hands slid to her shoulders and he pushed her from him.

  "OK," he said. His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "OK. We'll give it another try."

  Elena nodded. She felt a strange kind of disappointment, as if something that had been just within her grasp had slipped away. But she smiled at him and, after a moment, he smiled back.

  "I get a second chance, then," she said.

  He nodded. "I know you think I'm being a hard-nosed bastard, but..."

  She took a deep breath. "Blake, were you waiting for me, or did you come back to look for me?"

  His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Does it matter?" She said nothing and finally he ran his tongue across his lips. "I came back for you. But next time..."

  His words sent a spiraling warmth through her body. "Thank you," she said softly.

  A quick smile flickered on his mouth. "You're welcome." The smile faded and his hands fell to his sides. "Look," he said briskly, "if we should run into real trouble, I can't afford to stand around and explain my decisions to you." His eyes sought hers. "Do you understand?"

  Elena nodded. "Yes."

  "Good. Because, as it is, we've lost time. There's not a lot of daylight left, and we've got to make the most of it." He opened the carryall and pulled out one of the bottles of beer she'd purchased in Las Palmas. "Thirsty?"

  "Parched. My throat's like sandpaper."

  White foam spewed from the bottle as he opened it and handed it to her. "Drink up," he said. "Half for you, half for me."

  She closed her eyes with pleasure as the warm, bitter liquid spilled down her throat. After a few gulps, she handed the bottle to Blake, watching as he tilted it to his mouth and finished the beer. He grinned at her as he wiped his hand across his lips.

  "Better?"

  She nodded. "Much."

  "OK," he said, hoisting the makeshift pack on his shoulder again, "let's move out. What we both need is a hot meal, a bath, and a soft bed."

  She laughed as she fell in beside him. "Half a pint and the man's drunk." They walked in silence for few minutes and then she looked up at him. "Blake, why haven't we seen anybody else? I mean, is that good or bad?"

  "Good, I hope. I think it means we guessed right—that all the action's back there on the road."

  "Yes, that makes sense. I just wonder...I wonder how long it will take to reach the mountains." Elena glanced at the dark jungle on either side of the road. "I guess we'll still be here by nightfall," she said, trying to sound unconcerned.

  "Maybe. But this trail's got to lead somewhere. What I'm hoping is that there's a village ahead."

  "And if there isn't?"

  He shrugged again. "If there isn't, Princess, we'll just have to do the best we can."

  They walked on in silence. Talking took energy—more than she had, Elena thought. And it invited the ever-present gnats to try for a landing in her mouth. She glanced at her watch. It was getting later and later. She was soaked with sweat; the wet, wonderful taste of the beer was only a memory. It was beginning to look as if they would still be here by nightfall—although even that idea was beginning to sound good. At least she could take off her sneakers and close her eyes and...

  Blake grabbed her wrist. "Smell that?" he asked. "Do you know what it is?"

  "Yes," she said wearily. "It's me. Between the sweat and the bug spray, I..."

  Her words drifted into silence as a delighted smile spread across her face. What she smelled was wood smoke. And it carried with it the scent of something delicious, something that made her stomach growl.

  Blake laced his fingers through hers. "Remember the hot meal I promised
you, Princess?"

  "Don't forget the bath," she whispered as she followed him along a widening path. . "And the soft bed..."

  He grinned. "There it is," he said. "It's not Santa Rosa, but it sure as hell looks pretty good to me."

  "Paradise," Elena said, staring at the cluster of thatched huts that stood scattered in a clearing. She sniffed appreciatively. "I just hope they're in the mood for guests."

  Blake laughed softly. "How could anybody be less than thrilled with a couple as elegant as us? Come on, let's go. I made dinner reservations for seven and it's pushing towards that now."

  The village dogs discovered them before anyone else. Their excited barking brought the villagers from their huts, and soon they were surrounded by women in long, colorful skirts and men in pale cotton shirts and trousers. The Indians' smiles were polite but cautious, until Blake began to speak to them in the clicking Indio tongue. Shy smiles turned into grins of welcome and, within minutes, Elena and Blake had been invited to dinner and to stay the night.

  "Where did you learn to speak that?" Elena murmured.

  He shrugged modestly. "I've been south of the border before."

  Of course he had, she thought, as the village men surrounded him. Men like Rogan had been travelling in these jungles for centuries, caught up in a never-ending search for gold, for precious gems, for the exotic and the exciting. Was that what she was? Was she an adventure, a story Blake would trot out on a cold winter's night for amusement? Would he have to search his mind for the name of the woman he'd once taken as his wife?

  Blake's arm slid around her. "Hey," he whispered, "why the long face?"

  "I... I guess I'm just tired. And hungry." Elena managed a smile. "It's been a long day."

  His expression softened. "Yes," he said, "I know it has. You'll feel better after you've eaten."

  The sun was sinking behind the trees by the time they'd finished a simple meal of chicken and yams, wrapped and baked in palm leaves. And Elena, who always thought of herself as a night person, was yawning.