Crossing the Line

by Candace Irvin

  The realization caused his heart to hammer painfully against his chest. And damned if the worry burning in her gaze didn’t sear off the remainder of his exhaustion.

  He reached out and tipped the curve of her sooty chin. “Relax. You told me yourself, that collective rod had to have been filed down in the privacy of the hangar. Same with the tampering on the fuel sensors. That pushes the time of sabotage back to the evening before the crash, maybe earlier. My briefing was a last-minute rescheduling—one that I suggested. Even I didn’t know I’d be on any chopper, much less yours, until that morning.”

  That cleared his platoon sergeant from the list, too.

  She searched his gaze for several moments, then nodded.

  He could feel the tension pouring out of her as he lowered his hand and leaned back against his tree. He reached down as she took a sip from her tin cup and snagged his MRE pouch. He rooted through the contents. Hungry as he was, even turkey loaf didn’t appeal to him. What he wouldn’t give for a twelve-ounce sirloin cut from a side of Nebraska corn-fed beef about now. Yeah, right. That was as likely as him figuring out this mess before he managed a four-hour stretch of sleep—at least.

  He sighed. “What about Carrie?”

  Eve stiffened.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  He jerked his head up. Panic? That was the last emotion he’d expected. He must have been mistaken. His brain was becoming fogged again. The infusion of caffeine couldn’t keep up. “The sabotage?”

  Yeah, he’d been mistaken.

  Her gaze was clear, steady. But worried.

  And stunned.

  “You think someone was trying to kill Carrie? That’s insane. Carrie was open and honest. Okay, so she liked men more than she should have. But she also truly loved all people and people loved her. She was one of the good folks.”

  “She’s also dead.”

  Eve flinched.

  Damn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. She is dead. But she wasn’t the intended target. She couldn’t have been. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He froze.

  “What is it?” She swung her head around and stared frantically into the jungle beyond. “Did you hear—”

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Say that again.”

  “What?” She shook her head. “Say what? That Carrie wasn’t the intended target?”

  “After that.”

  “She was in the wrong place at—”

  “The wrong time.”

  Bloody hell.

  He was so stupid. He’d spent the last several hours going over every single thing Sergeant Turner had ever told him about Carrie Evans. Trying to figure out why someone would want to kill her, only to wonder if he wasn’t tracking down the wrong trail. That maybe Eve’s crew chief had been the intended target all along.

  Neither of them were.

  “Ernesto.”

  “What?”

  He released her hand. “Not what, who. Remember that platoon of native San Sebastián soldiers you dropped off at the LZ right before you picked me up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ernesto Torres was leading them.”

  “The president’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  She slumped against her tree.

  He on the other hand, stood. Paced.

  Or rather, he tried to.

  He stared into the foliage, dismissing the adult boa constrictor that was looped around a thick, low-lying branch two trees away. He could only hope Eve hadn’t seen it, because he was too busy to mention it. The facts were falling into place too quickly. So quickly his exhausted brain was having trouble cataloguing them. But they all led to the same conclusion.

  His buddy was in danger.

  “Rick, you’re talking about an attempted assassination.”

  He swung around. “I am.”

  “But who would want to kill the man. Why?”

  “Why was Kennedy assassinated? Lincoln? Or more appropriately in this case—Martin Luther King?”

  “His views?”

  “Exactly. It’s no secret at the presidential palace that Ernesto was the driving force behind his father’s initial request to bring our Special Forces in to help train theirs. He and his older brother, Miguel, fought about the proposal for two years before their father finally agreed.”

  She gasped, then stood. “And now their father is sick.”

  “He’s more than sick, Eve. The man is dying.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her fingers closed over his arm. He stared at them. At her. “It’s obvious you respect the man.”

  He did. “I’ve known him a long time. We met through his son. Ernie and I survived Ranger school together. He was an exchange officer. His father’s a good man.” In a lot of ways, Guillermo Torres reminded Rick of his own father.

  “You think Miguel could be behind it?”

  “I don’t know. The night before the crash, I’d have said no. I’ve never trusted the man, but I also thought we were making progress. That given time, Miguel would have come around. I do know we’d managed to impress him lately. But there are others. Advisors to Miguel and his father who will never come around. And with Ernie out of the way?”

  “By U.S. Army hands, no less.”

  He nodded. “You have to admit, an assassination disguised as a training accident would have provided an airtight cover.”

  “More than you realize.”

  Something in her voice told him she’d made a connection. “What is it?”

  “The day before we went down, I noticed several locals hanging around the airstrip. I didn’t think much of it because they were in uniform and accompanied by our own mechanics.”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  Records had to have been kept. Names, ranks and unit designators logged. Clearances recorded.

  Tomorrow.

  They were supposed to check in with their Huey pilot this evening. He’d arrange for their extraction to take place in the morning. But tonight, after he’d bagged some serious sleep, they’d head to the crash site one more time and carve off a damning chunk of that collective rod. By dawn, they’d be on their way to San Sebastián, Ernesto, and those logs.

  What if it wasn’t soon enough?

  The hand on his arm pulled him back to the present.

  Eve’s hand.

  She cupped his jaw. He closed his eyes against the touch.

  Her touch.

  It didn’t help. He was too damned tired for his body not to respond to this woman. Bloody hell. Even with two solid days of exertion soaked into their T-shirts and trousers, he could still smell her unique scent hovering beneath.

  Soft, smooth.

  Welcoming.

  It was a scent that would haunt him into eternity.

  He opened his eyes—but he didn’t dare stare into hers.

  “Don’t worry, Rick. We’ll get to your friend in time. Whoever is behind this, they can’t risk striking again so soon. It would lead to questions.”

  He stared into that dark emerald gaze then—and hid his own private terror. The hell with questions.

  He wanted answers.

  Eve might not have been the initial intended target in the crash. But if whoever tampered with that chopper found out she’d been here and examined it, she would become one.

  Chapter 11

  T he jungle was much too dark.

  Rick shifted his legs and massaged the charley horse in his upper left thigh that had managed to rouse him from sleep—a chore Eve had failed to accomplish as she’d promised. Though they were three feet apart, she didn’t seem to notice he’d woken on his own. No doubt because she couldn’t actually see him. Hell, he could barely make out her blond curls in the shifting shadows, shadows that weren’t normally formed until the sun had traveled well past the afternoon and into the night.

  How far into night, he couldn’t be sure.

  He couldn’t see enough stars for t
he dense foliage and he didn’t dare light the dial on his watch.

  Because Eve was crying.

  Once he’d cleared the sleep-induced fog from his brain, he’d realized why he could make out so many of her curls despite the fact that her body was facing his. Her head was buried in her knees. And her shoulders were quaking.

  Silently.

  He thought about clearing his throat. Even saying something. But he didn’t. He shouldn’t. If Eve had wanted his comfort and his ear, surely she wouldn’t have held on to her grief until she knew he was unconscious to the world before giving in to it? Frankly, he could take a hint.

  His mind could anyway.

  Evidently, his heart couldn’t. “Need a shoulder?”

  She stiffened.

  Several seconds passed before her head came up. She wiped her hands across her eyes and cheeks as she pressed her head against the tree behind her. He knew, because he could see the pale flashes of her hands and her face in the dark. She’d cleaned the grease paint and grime from her face while he’d been sleeping. Her ragged sigh filled the tiny alcove.

  “I didn’t…realize you were awake.”

  Obviously. She hadn’t answered his question either.

  He swallowed the surge of disappointment.

  “Yes.”

  He blinked.

  “I mean, if you meant it. Then, yes, I really could use a shoulder. But if you didn’t, then it’s okay. Because— Oh, hell. I’m yammering again.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  His heart broke.

  He leaned forward without thinking and slid his hands beneath her arms, pulling her up and toward him in one smooth motion. She gasped softly as he settled against his tree and adjusted her on his lap and in his arms.

  She hiccuped. “I guess you—”

  “—meant it.” He nodded firmly.

  For some reason, that caused her tears to flow again. He guided her head to his chest as the sobs overtook her. This time, they weren’t silent. Still, he didn’t have the heart to interrupt her grief long enough to hush her. He just pressed her cheek deeper into the dampness spreading across his T-shirt and stroked his fingers through her curls over and over. He managed to catch himself a split second before his lips connected with the soft silk.

  That brand of comfort, he couldn’t afford.

  A week ago, perhaps.

  But not now. They’d come too far.

  He’d come too far.

  His arms trembled from the force of holding back, from fighting so bloody hard to hold his heart apart from hers. She must have felt the battle, because her sobs eased, then subsided altogether. She raised her head and stared into his eyes. This close, he could see the toll today had taken.

  Her reddened eyes and flushed forehead.

  Her tear-stained cheeks.

  He could even make out the narrow slash of grease paint she’d missed beside her swollen lips.

  For some reason, that green slash mesmerized him.

  So much so, he had to clench his fist to keep from reaching out to wipe it himself. He forced himself to exhale. Unfortunately, his air came out in a single, audible whoosh.

  She stiffened in his arms.

  He made out her sudden blush, but only because the tide evened out her coloring. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I swear I haven’t cried this much in years.” She drew a shaky breath. “But lately, I can’t seem to stop.”

  “Guilt.”

  For a second, he thought she was going to deny it. But then she nodded. “You’re right. It is guilt. I thought I’d feel better, you know? But I don’t. Especially after what we discovered. I just keep thinking, it didn’t need to be.”

  She drew another breath. This one was slower, deeper.

  Resigned.

  “You must think I’m so weak.”

  He succumbed to temptation and reached up. He smoothed his fingers along the smear of grease paint, gently erasing the slash from the curve of her silken skin. “I told you last night what I thought and I meant it. You are an amazing woman, Eve Paris. You’re also strong. Much stronger than I am.”

  The corner of her mouth bumped into his fingers as she smiled softly. “Nice try, Super Soldier.”

  He smiled back. But it was true.

  She was stronger than he.

  Braver, too.

  They’d both suffered painful losses in their lives. How she’d dealt with hers said so much more about the strength of her character than how he’d dealt with his. He’d run away. Not to the circus, but to the jungle. He was still running. He’d been running so damned long, he didn’t know how to stop.

  But Eve did.

  Eve had.

  She’d turned around and faced her demons. She’d stayed in life, fighting them every step of the way. She was still fighting. Hell, she’d risked what was left of her career, not to mention her life, to travel back to Córdoba and confront the ghosts in that chopper. Maybe it was time to learn from her. Maybe it was time to stop running for once and for all.

  God knew he wanted to.

  He just didn’t know how.

  He used to think he belonged in the jungle. That he needed the peace and the solitude that came at the end of each day as he’d wander off and hunker down to absorb the night. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Something had changed.

  He was beginning to think he’d changed.

  Why else did the mere thought of being in the jungle without Eve feel so damned empty?

  Lonely.

  Was this the feeling that had finally driven his brother to take a chance at married life? Or was it what had driven their father to end his?

  He didn’t know.

  All he knew was that this feeling was dangerous. He’d learned the lesson the previous night, as he’d held Eve in his arms the first time, comforting her as she slept. Pretending, fantasizing. Not about making love to her. Okay, partly about making love to her. But mostly about just loving her.

  Until he’d remembered it couldn’t be.

  “Rick?”

  Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he’d been staring so intently into her eyes. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Heat surged through him as the tip of her tongue slid across her bottom lip almost nervously, heat that had nothing to do with the humid night. He reached up without thinking and touched the center of the wet, tantalizing trail left behind. Fire exploded within his groin as her tongue slid out again, this time to lick the tip of his finger.

  He groaned.

  She smiled.

  And, God help him, he lowered his head.

  The darkened jungle faded away as he captured her lips with his and delved slowly, carefully, between. He was ready, prepared for the raw, greedy desire that ripped through him as her tongue met his. He wasn’t worried. Unlike their first kiss not far from this very spot, unlike their second out on that dance floor in Panama City, he could control this.

  For a full five seconds, he did.

  And then the hunger set in.

  Deep and reckless, it lashed at him as it had before. But this time, it cut deeper. Burned hotter. Until, suddenly, it was dangerously close to spiraling out of control.

  And so was he.

  He anchored his hands to her curls, turning her head in order to gain better access to her mouth. For a split second, he was afraid he’d been too rough—until she moaned. The low keening in her throat that followed stoked the fire in his groin to a raging inferno. Desperate to douse it, he tore his mouth from hers and razed his lips down her throat. He found the source of the sound and covered it, desperately trying to absorb the vibrations through her flesh.

  The keening deepened.

  His hunger swelled.

  He returned to her mouth and consumed another low, throaty moan. He was dimly aware of her hands at his waist, tugging at his T-shirt, sliding beneath, caressing his sweat-dampened flesh. He tried to pull away, to warn her.

  He was filthy.

  Saturated with more than two days of near non-stop exertion. B
ut she didn’t seem to care.

  Nor would she release him.

  If anything, she pulled him closer, kneading her fingers into the muscles of his chest, scraping her nails across his nipples. He groaned as his brain took the suggestion to heart.

  His hands immediately followed.

  One moment, her T-shirt lay between them and the next, it didn’t. He abandoned it, bunched up somewhere above her bra, and tugged his hands down and around her back to complete the mission. He located the clasp with his left and tugged it open, claiming the generous swells that spilled out with his right. This time, they moaned together. He’d fantasized about this moment for far too long. Despite the dark, he was driven to memorize as much as he could. He tore his mouth from hers and forced his night vision to its very limits as he focused on the creamy silk splayed out in his palms. He flicked his thumbs across her nipples and then covered them, groaning because she felt so damned good in his hands.

  His hands.

  He stared at them. His sweat-stained, filthy hands.

  And realized where he was.

  What he was doing.

  What he should not be doing. Not with Eve. She deserved a man who cared enough to shower first. A man who would make love to her for the first time in a soft bed on dry sheets and not on some hard jungle floor crawling with insects, beetles and lizards. A man who would pull her close and hold her afterwards. A man who would continue to hold her while she slept. A man who would be there when she woke.

  For the rest of her life.

  Much as he wanted to be that man, he wasn’t.

  He pulled her bra down and carefully latched the ends of the straps behind her. It took three tries on this end of the operation as opposed to one heated rip on the other, but she sat there calmly, patiently, her chest heaving with less and less force as the passion began to ebb. He tugged her shirt down next and smoothed it into the waist of her trousers.

  He did the same to his own.

  “Bad timing, huh?”

  The worst.

  He nodded anyway as he cleansed his own remaining passion from his lungs with a deep sigh. He reached up and tipped her chin. How did he say this?