Tender Savage (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Rosemary J. Anderson

  * * * *

  Listlessly brushing at her leg, Eleanor shifted restlessly in her sleep as the tickle continued. Sweeping a hand down again, she came fully awake. Looking at her thigh, she cried out in fright and, jumping up, began frantically swiping at her legs and shaking her short, flirty silk skirt. A spider as big as a fist dropped to the ground, and she hastily moved back a pace or two as it scurried away in the undergrowth. Shuddering in horror, she wrapped her arms around herself, and with her hands rubbing at her shaking shoulders, she held back the ready tears. She’d been stupid falling asleep like that, but the panic, shock, and the intense crying jag she’d undergone earlier had taken its toll.

  Standing uncertainly and wobbling in her spiky, high-heeled sandals that showed her slender, long legs off to perfection, she gazed helplessly around. The plane had come down at speed, destroying small trees, plants, and bushes in its wake, forcing a small clearing among the density of the trees. Debris from the aircraft and from the broken vegetation was scattered around, and the cabin of the aircraft had gauged out a deep crevice in the ground. She bit her lip, drawing blood. She should do something—but what? She was probably going to be stuck in this jungle for the night, so perhaps she should make some kind of preparation. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her courage such as it was and delicately tiptoed her way over to what was left of the plane. Not knowing for sure what to expect increased her fear at what she might see, but realising there could be other passengers that had survived and needed help, she drew back her shoulders and, stooping low, entered the cabin.

  Not much was left of what had once been a new, majestic aircraft, the very epitome of class and comfort. Now it was just a battered, burnt-out shell, the sides exposed to the elements. She’d been lucky, she supposed. The fire could have taken a serious hold, caught light to the fuel tanks, and blown the plane up, and it was a puzzle to her as to why it hadn’t. She looked up at the sky as a deluge of rain poured down on her head and into the interior of the plane. Maybe this godawful rain had put paid to the fire? She shrugged her shoulders slightly, not really caring, or maybe there was some kind of sprinkler system installed, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything of that sort happening, and what did it matter now anyway? Peering along the walkway, she was shocked by the destruction, wadding and pipes dangled bare of any coating, wires were hanging loose, and the once soft, cream leather seats were ripped and singed. Scorched and torn interior dripping with water, ruined carpet, debris, broken glass, and china met her eyes. Some of the seats had been torn away and were she knew not where. The cockpit was nowhere to be seen. She surmised that it had either been ripped viciously away from the body of the craft and blown to smithereens or crashed somewhere nearby. She hesitated. So, what had happened to the pilot and copilot?

  Cautiously, she moved toward the place where she had sat. She’d been thrown about the plane as it hit the ground and was sure that it was only her seat belt that had saved her. Although upon reflection, she couldn’t remember releasing her belt and crawling out. Glancing across to the seat where the businessman had sat, she stopped just short and drew a trembling breath. He was obviously dead, his eyes wide and blank and his head hanging at an angle, which she suspected meant a broken neck. There was no sign of the stewardess, and where the couple had once been, there was only the man, and she breathed quickly, trying not to be sick. He had a piece of metal embedded in his chest. The blood that had poured out of the wound was now dry and covered in flies. She retched as an insect crawled out of his open mouth. Terrified, she turned quickly and scurried out of the wreckage, heaving wretchedly.

  Crying was her only solace now, and she cried bitter tears, the droplets falling down her grubby cheeks, burning the raw, red scratches that marred her once-perfect skin. Her head ached, and she wanted nothing more than to be in the comfort of her own home, protected from insects and rain. She looked up as another downpour drenched her. She wanted to be safe from wild animals, horrible insects, and—her breath caught—cannibals.

  In a sudden surge of panic, she searched around for a weapon and, picking up a piece of metal torn off the plane as it crashed, tested its weight, cutting her hand in the process. Shaking her hand as the stinging cut bled profusely, she snatched up a piece of cloth torn from someone’s clothing and wrapped it around her hand. At least now she had some means of defending herself, so if anyone tried to eat her, she’d make their life hell first. An ace at tennis, she had a mean backhand. Keeping the weapon close, she came to the unwilling conclusion that she was here for a few hours at least.

  Rescue was sure to arrive soon, but until they did, as she was sick of being wet, she would have to rig up some kind of shelter. Her short-sleeved silk blouse was plastered like a second skin to her generous curves, and tugging at it, she wondered whether she could pluck up the nerve to go back in the plane and find her bag.

  * * * *

  Three hours later, she had rigged a silver-backed blanket found in a box marked “survival packs” from two trees. Since she was afraid of heights, so obviously not a climber, the stature of the refuge was by necessity only big enough to crawl under, but it would for the time being keep her dry. Collecting some magazines and articles of clothing that were scattered around the clearing, she spread them on the ground to act as a kind of ground-sheet, and from the survival packs, she’d also purloined some dry trail mix and some crackers. Finding her hand luggage had been an added bonus, and she began to feel a little better after changing her top, cleansing her face, and retouching her makeup. Her fingers closing around a bottle of insect repellent gave her a sense of satisfaction, and she used it liberally on her exposed flesh and on the blanket, magazines, and surrounding area. So much for fat, hairy spiders, she thought a trifle maliciously. Her weapon was to hand, and she’d even found a flask of tepid coffee, so, crawling under the makeshift shelter, she tied a fresh piece of rag around the cut on her hand and then indulged herself in a small drink and a broken biscuit.

  Looking vacantly at the wreckage, she wondered about the other passengers. Who they were. Where they had come from. Whether they had children. And how the way their lives had ended would leave a void that their families would find difficult to contend with. How was it she had been saved? she wondered. What had she done to deserve it when others had lost their lives? She wasn’t a particularly good person, but she wasn’t bad either. Since she was single, she had no one to mourn her loss except her brother, who was up to his eyes in debt and now most of the time, due to a lifetime of drug abuse, away with the fairies. Her parents were she knew not where. Abandoned at the age of three with her younger brother, she had been brought up in succession of foster homes. Luckily enough to be beautiful, at the age of sixteen she’d had a break and been signed up by a modelling agency and had never looked back. Her brother, on the other hand, had rebelled at society and convention. He joined anything that had been the cause of the moment, and no matter what she’d done to try and prevent it, he’d eventually gone off the rails. The result had been prison, rehab, and now finally, an institution. Working hard, she had managed to stash away quite a bit of money and was hopeful that within the next couple of years she’d have enough to ensure her brother could be looked after in comfort for what was left of his life. Lowering her head onto her drawn-up knees, she sobbed for herself, the wasted life of her young sibling, the lost lives of the crew and passengers, and for all the small injustices life had brought.

  Chapter Three

  Abraham was moving with speed. It had been three hours since he had parachuted into the jungle, the sun was high in the sky, and the air was moist and humid. Sweat trickled down his back and beaded his brow. Stopping for a drink, he checked his compass, took a swig of tepid water, and then, adjusting the pack on his back, continued the uphill climb. Brushing past ferns as big as trees and hacking back climbers, the stems as thick as a man’s wrist, he moved deeper into the jungle. Appearing completely at ease with the environment, he blended in, becom
ing one with his surroundings. His solid leg muscles worked efficiently and effortlessly, propelling him forward, sparing no time to admire the beauty of the wilderness around him or to notice the vibrant flowers or the colourful striations of the insects. He was focused. Oblivious to the textures and the smells of the jungle or the purity of the sky above him peeking through the dense canopy, he single-mindedly powered on.

  His thoughts on the task ahead, Abe gave little consequence to the passengers. Compassion could not help them now and would not aid him with the task ahead. He’d learnt at an early age that giving into his emotions didn’t get the job done. Joining the military at sixteen after being kicked out of the house by a drunken stepfather on the day of his mother’s funeral, he’d never looked back. Working his way through the ranks, he’d proven his worth, and after a series of exams and with some help from a benefactor, he’d joined the SAS. He smiled wryly to himself. Hell-bent on proving his capabilities, he’d volunteered for every dangerous assignment which came his way and in time had earned him the rank of colonel. Years spent undercover on special missions had made him hard, he admitted that, but deep inside he wanted what other men had, a home, a wife, and a family.

  However, growing up in the way he had, he found it hard to trust, and the one time he’d given into his yearnings he been let down—big time. Now never for him, the loving arms of a wife and the comforts of home and hearth.

  He’d done well, he acknowledged without conceit. Leaving the military, he’d set up his own business. Surrounding himself with a team of elite operatives, he’d undertaken any task which he felt was worthy, at a price of course, although always above the law and never in opposition to the country of his birth. Now a rich man, he could afford to sit back on his laurels—but to what end? With no one to go home to, what was the point of retiring? Today’s mission was run-of-the-mill in terms of expertise, but one he was able to do alone, so he released his team to a few days of well-earned respite. The crashing of the aircraft was an evil deed, the lives of the crew and passengers obviously inconsequential, but the only way he could help them now was to first recover the discs and, second, bring the evil doers to justice. Resolute, his thoughts now returning to the mission at hand, he surged onward, the jungle closing around him.

  * * * *

  Checking his compass, Abraham confirmed he was nearing the coordinates. Aircraft fragments had been scattered for miles, and the nearer he got to ground zero, the more prolific were the remains. He seriously doubted, considering the scale of the debris, that there were any survivors, and it was questionable as to whether the discs he was commissioned to retrieve would be intact. Rubbing the back of his neck, he rotated his shoulders. He was beginning to feel fatigued. The pace he had set was testing even his stamina.

  Unscrewing the cap of his flask, Abe took a gulp of water, grimacing at its tepidness. Absently swatting a fly on his arm, he rescrewed the cap and, after placing it in a pocket on his belt, opened the map. Chewing on a piece of beef jerky, he collected a couple of moss-covered stones and weighed the map down on a fallen tree trunk. Poring over it, he checked and double-checked his compass against the coordinates. Another hour then he would rest for the night. He should reach the plane by ten tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Eleanor watched apprehensively as the dark began closing in. This was night two, so where was the rescue party? She’d woken as the sun was full in the sky, momentarily disoriented until it all came rushing back, filling her mind with horror and her eyes with tears. She hadn’t done much in the preceding hours. Certain that rescue was imminent, she’d just leafed through a magazine whilst nervously keeping a watchful eye on the undergrowth, afraid of marching army ants and leaping spiders. Biting her lip, she anxiously thought of what the coming night would bring. The previous evening, she’d been too tired and too traumatized to give the approaching darkness a thought and had just flaked out where she’d sat, but tonight, however, it was a different matter. The jungle would have wild animals, that was a certainty! She wondered half-fearfully what kind existed in the Amazon. Tigers? No, that was India. Lions, then? And insects. She shuddered. There were sure to be lots of insects, some which only came out at night, and snakes—oh God! Jumping up, she scanned the surrounding area, squinting into every leafy bush and keeping a keen eye out for even the smallest movement. Seeing nothing sinister, she tried to relax a little. Returning to the shelter, she lay back among the magazines to gaze blankly at the blanket above her head. The attempt to relax didn’t work, and moments later, still feeling worried and restless, she sat up again, knowing that she’d have to do something.

  Downing the last of the now-cold coffee, hoping the caffeine would give her courage, she tried to come up with a plan that would get her through the night. Needing water, she wished that she was more practical and that she had taken time to search the plane thoroughly the first time. But it was too late to lament her uselessness now, and she would have to either put up with being thirsty or find some backbone and go back in the plane, but she shuddered. She really was afraid. The dead men were still in there and covered in all manner of insects. Her stomach heaved again. Oh, why couldn’t she have been more courageous?

  Making a decision, and after a stern talking-to, she gathered her courage such as it was and scrambled out from under the shelter. Cautiously, each tiny step feeling like a marathon, she made her way over to the plane. Keeping her eyes averted from the bodies, she rummaged in the stewardess’s kitchen and found an intact bottle of water among the spilt and melted ones. Finding a packet of sandwiches and a blanket had her feeling cock-a-hoop. This survival stuff was a cinch!

  Busy fishing about in the cabinets, she was beginning to think she was on a roll when, elated, she recovered a first aid kit and a small torch. Carefully carrying her precious finds in her arms, she went back to the shelter where she busied herself spraying more insect repellent around and covering the surrounding area until the bottle was empty. After scrambling inelegantly under the makeshift canvas, she drank some of the water and, feeling ravenous, greedily ate both the sandwiches, only thinking afterward that she should have perhaps saved some for the next day. Shrugging, she dismissed the niggling concern. She was sure rescue would turn up by morning. Turning on the torch, she hauled a few more magazines around her and pulled the weapon to hand.

  * * * *

  Dawn came, and Abraham was up before sunlight, all traces of camp eradicated. Adjusting his pack, he rechecked his coordinates and route marched out of the clearing. Moving though the rain forest, silent and purposeful, he became one with the surroundings, his training in survival and stealth coming to the fore.

  * * * *

  The sun was at its zenith, and the heat was heavy, the humidly straining even Abraham’s resilience. The debris was more prevalent now, and he’d found the mangled, almost unrecognisable body of a young woman. The stewardess, Margaret Dennison, he presumed as she was wearing the uniform of the airline. His remit was that of obtaining the documents, not worrying about passengers. Burying the victims was not on his agenda, although in a moment of unexpected compassion, he’d removed her jewellery to give to her family and covered her body with stones. Finding a piece of distorted metal, he scratched her name and placed it at the head of the makeshift grave.

  Chapter Four

  Eleanor came slowly awake. She hadn’t slept during the night, the sounds of the jungle too frightening. Screeching sounds that echoed eerily in the darkness and the rustling of the undergrowth that had her jumping at every sound. Now something had alerted her sixth sense. She gazed around, unable to see anything but convinced she was being watched.

  Listening carefully, she tried to distinguish noises. There were all the usual sounds, the birds, the animals, and the soft swish of the trees as they whispered gently to each other, but nothing else.

  Settling back, she tried to keep awake, but her eyes ached and the lids felt heavy, and finally her lashes fluttered closed.

  * * * *

>   “Miss Vance, I presume?”

  Eleanor jumped, her eyes snapping open and a startled cry falling from her soft lips.

  Grabbing the weapon, she scrambled inelegantly to her feet.

  “Who are you? And what do you want?” she cried huskily, fear drying her mouth.

  Abraham gazed silently at the woman in front of him. Her stance was defensive, but in one swift move he could overpower her. She shook in fear, wobbling on ridiculous high heels, her bare legs long and shapely but grubby and scratched, and his all-seeing eyes detected a small insect bite on her thigh. She was slender, too slender, looking as if a slight breeze would knock her over, but she had surprisingly voluptuous breasts, he thought and grinned, enjoying the sight. Her small heart-shaped face was dirty and tear stained, her bottom lip was swollen, and she had a graze on her chin. Thick chestnut hair fell below her waist and, in better circumstances, would have had a healthy lustre, but at this moment it resembled a bird’s nest, a dirty tangle with leaves and twigs caught up in its waves.

  Eleanor’s hold tightened on the weapon when the man continued to stare silently at her.

  “I must warn you, I am an expert in martial arts, and if you dare to come near me, I’ll—well, I’ll knock your bloody block off.”

  Reaching out, the man pulled the metal from her. Caught by surprise, she released it, and the unexpectedness of the action caused her to pitch forward, and only a hard arm closing around her stopped her from a nasty fall. The seconds spent in his arms made Eleanor feel unexpectedly safe and comforted, and smelling the intoxicating masculine scent of him, an aroma of musk and sweat, she felt overwhelmed. Suddenly feeling faint, she grasped his shirt, burying her face against his throat.