The woman’s frown smoothed into a polite smile. “Not at all. In the bath you will find several towels and a robe, as well as a selection of soaps and shampoos.”
Use them. The woman might as well have issued the command aloud.
Eve fully intended to. “Thank you.”
Carlotta nodded and turned to the door. There she stopped to snap her fingers once. Rosa ceased gaping at the 9 mm on the floor and whirled around to follow her mistress out. Eve closed the door behind them and turned to face the room. It would have been sinfully easy to crawl into that bed, but somehow she didn’t think Señora Torres would approve. Besides, she really did want that bath. She caught her reflection in the freestanding mirror across the room and grimaced.
She needed it.
She headed for her ruck and retrieved the plastic bag of alcohol wipes from the front pouch, tucking the 9 mm in its place. She pulled out two wipes and started in with one hand on the grease paint she’d reapplied hours before, as she opened and closed doors with her other. The first revealed a walk-in closet. The second led to a small sitting room.
She hit pay dirt with the third.
The bathroom.
More importantly, a tub. A glorious claw-footed porcelain tub big enough to swim in—and she would. Eve dumped the grimy wipes into the trash and shut the bathroom door behind her before crossing the blue-and-white tiles to start the water. Stooping low, she grabbed the first bottle her fingers hit inside the basket of bath beads, powders and soaps and added some of its contents to the stream.
Two minutes later she was naked, her grimy fatigues dumped atop her jungle boots at the foot of the tub as she stepped over the side. Her groan filled the room as she slipped into the steaming bubbles, no longer offended at being left out of the discussion in Ernesto’s study. If the little woman was too delicate to join in, who was she to argue? She’d choose clean over insulted any day. She might even give in to the exhaustion dragging down her eyelids while she waited.
Why not?
The door was locked. Rick had announced to the entire world that he was her protector.
What could possibly happen?
“She will be fine, my friend. Mama will see to it.”
Rick turned away from Eve’s retreating form and faced his buddy’s all-too-knowing eyes. He could have sworn he’d hidden his thoughts better. That wry grin proved he hadn’t. Ernesto’s deep chuckle added insult to injury as the man threw his arm around his shoulders and guided him down the opposite end of the dimly lit corridor toward his own study.
“Come, let us drink to your safe return.”
Rick flashed a grin back at him. “Why not? It’s been a damned long couple of days.” There’d be time enough to change his mind—once they were firmly out of Miguel’s earshot.
He and Miguel had never seen eye-to-eye.
Dealing with the man professionally had only exacerbated his dislike. Watching the man ogle Eve just now, despite her obvious exhaustion, sure as heck hadn’t improved it. He could practically see the lothario plotting to get her alone. Bloody hell, Miguel wouldn’t even let her bathe first.
He never should have brought her here.
He wouldn’t have, except here was where Ernesto was.
Ernesto tightened his arm as they turned the corner and nudged at the side of his head with his knuckles as if they were kids. “You do have it bad, Ricardo. Very bad. Relax. Mama is wise to Miguel’s ways. She will place her as far from the family’s rooms as possible.”
That was what he was afraid of.
Unfortunately, it was too late to turn back now because they’d reached his buddy’s leather-bound study. Ernesto shoved the door wide with his free hand and guided Rick through with the other. The moment the door closed, Rick spun around and cut to the chase.
“Someone tried to kill you.”
Ernesto held onto the knob for a good five seconds, and then he threw back his head and laughed. And laughed.
And laughed.
By the time the worst of the great booming guffaws faded, tears were streaking from his friend’s eyes all the way down into his neatly trimmed mustache.
It must have been his delivery.
Ernesto was still chuckling as he crossed the study and sank into the leather chair behind his desk. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks as he pulled the handkerchief from his suit-jacket pocket and wiped his brow. He finally leaned back in his chair and sighed.
Rick just stood there.
Ernesto stared.
Then frowned.
And then, “You are serious.”
“Deadly.”
He straightened in his chair. “Ricardo, please tell me you did not come all this way to walk into my home and tell me this without some kind of proof. Even from you I must have—”
“Part of it’s back in Córdoba.”
“Córdoba? Jesucristo, surely you are not suggesting that I go—”
Rick retrieved one of the plastic vials from his cargo pocket and stepped up to the desk. He checked the annotation he’d inked onto the base of the container, then carefully set the vial on the edge of his buddy’s blotter.
“What is that?”
“Film.”
Ernesto frowned. “That, I can see.”
“Get it developed. You’ll be hard-pressed to miss the rest.”
“And what, my friend, is ‘the rest’?”
“Evidence of sabotage.”
Ernesto leaned forward, his attention clearly captured now. “Sabotage? Arista tracked you to the crash site. Are you suggesting that someone sabotaged your lady’s chopper?”
“She’s not my lady.” Liar. He pushed on regardless. “Nor am I suggesting anything. I’m stating it. Someone sabotaged that Black Hawk. I saw it myself. The fuel sensors were tampered with and so was the collective rod.”
“And, naturally, you think I was the intended victim?”
Rick braced his knuckles on the edge of the desk and leaned forward, making a point of invading his buddy’s personal space. “You can’t tell me the thought didn’t cross your mind when that chopper went down that it could have been you.”
The knot in Ernesto’s throat shifted as he swallowed.
Evidently, not.
Hell, he probably would have thought the same thing himself if he hadn’t spent the past two months fighting his growing attraction to Eve, as well as a growing case of guilt over his own involvement in his sergeant’s death.
A case growing worse by the day.
By the hour.
As usual, his friend seemed to tune in to his thoughts.
“What about you? Why is it I only hear about this suspicion of yours now, seven weeks after the crash?”
“I was distracted. But the fact is, I should have thought about it. And so should you. While you still have the chance.” Rick jerked his chin to the plastic vial between his fists. “See it for yourself. Surely a man with your spot in the presidential pecking order can get it developed discreetly?”
They both knew he could.
Just as he knew Ernesto would do it.
“While you’re waiting for the prints, I need a favor. I’d prefer you didn’t mention it to Eve.” He snagged the man’s gold pen from its stand and scratched out a name down the side of the blotter. As expected, Ernesto’s brow shot up at the rank and branch of service, not to mention both nationalities he scrawled beneath.
“May I inquire—”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Ernesto inclined his head. “What is it you need?”
“Whatever you can find out. I’d do it myself, but you have the connections and, frankly, I need the sleep.”
Ernesto glanced at the smear of dirt, sweat and dark-green cammo paint he’d left on the blotter and grinned. “You need more than sleep, my friend.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Of course.”
He straightened. “Thank you. For the hospitality and the timely extraction, too. I owe you
.”
“Carajó. It is I who owes you and you know it. But if you insist on repaying me, there is the matter of a lady who appears not to be yours…”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Ernesto’s chuckle dogged him as he turned and headed across the room. Hell, he could still hear it as he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. Ten paces down the corridor stood the girl who’d carted Eve’s ruck out of Miguel’s study. She had his beside her now as well as both AK-47s, magazines still locked in, leaning against the wall.
“I’ll take those.”
She smiled gratefully as he lifted the ruck and slung it over his right shoulder. He snagged the rifles next.
“Where is Señorita Paris?”
“In the white room. But I am to escort you to the—”
“Where is this white room?”
The girl appeared to weigh her mistress’s displeasure against his own. She finally shrugged and pointed down the hall. “Take the last right, then another right, then a left. Four doors down at the end.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.” She smiled. It was above average. But unlike Eve’s, it didn’t sear straight through his gut.
Ernesto was right. He had it bad.
Damn.
He nodded and headed down the hallway to the first turn, feeling the noose tightening about his neck—his heart—with every stride of his boots. He knew darn well what that maid was thinking. He was thinking it too.
But he wasn’t doing it.
They wouldn’t be doing it.
Not tonight. Not ever.
He just had to figure out a way to let Eve know without hurting her. While he was at it, he’d search for a way to let his body know, too. Unfortunately, just thinking about Eve’s body had his own thrumming in hopeful anticipation. After that heavy petting session in the jungle this evening, it was going to be damned difficult, even knowing what he now did.
A baby.
Bloody hell.
Which of course, was precisely where he was headed. Only his would be lined with satin sheets. He knew she was hoping he’d change his mind. He suspected she’d even accept a purely sexual relationship with him—for a while. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. If this was just about having sex with Eve he’d have taken it in a heartbeat and he knew it.
But it wasn’t.
It was about making love.
Yesterday he might have been able to cross that line, to take that step. But not now. Not after what he’d learned today. He could never have her now. Loving Eve Paris might well be heaven on earth. But making love to her would also earn him a one-way ticket to hell.
He turned the final corner and steeled his resolve.
His hope.
It was after midnight. Eve had taken the last watch—a double no less. She had to be exhausted. She was probably sleeping. He nudged the door open and stepped inside.
She wasn’t sleeping.
Other than her ruck and web gear, the bed was empty. So was the room. Where the hell was she?
Miguel.
He slugged the panic down.
“Eve?”
His bellow echoed through the room as he dropped his gear and opened the door on his right. It led to a darkened sitting room.
“Eve?”
A closet.
“Eve?”
Bloody hell. Locked.
He slammed his palm into the third door. Hard. “Eve!”
Nothing but chilling silence.
Images flashed through his mind. The chopper, shattered. The cockpit baked almost beyond recognition. A sawed-down collective. A tub, filled with water. Eve inside it.
Dead.
Panic rocked through him again. This time, he didn’t bother knocking it down. He used it. He yanked his right boot up and smashed his heel straight into the door with all his might. The edge of the wood splintered as it crashed open.
“What— Who— Rick?”
Eve scrambled to her feet so quickly, she slipped.
He shot into the room and grabbed her by her arms before she could fall. Her wet, glistening arms. Her wet, glistening body. Bubbles? In some far corner of his panic-seared brain, it actually made sense. Or…it had. A moment ago.
Maybe.
“I’m sorry. I thought—”
What had he thought?
He sure as hell couldn’t seem to think now.
The amusement lurking in those deep-emerald eyes burned off his confusion. A second later, humiliation burned into his skin. He swore his face was at least as pink as her steam-flushed cheeks. At least she wasn’t nude.
Well, not completely.
Unfortunately, though the froths of tiny white bubbles clinging to her curves were making a valiant effort to hang on, they were slowly but surely losing ground. Any second now the thinning froth sliding down her breasts was going to go.
Cover her.
With what?
Himself?
He blinked. He could swear her lips were moving. But he couldn’t hear anything. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“A towel. Could you please hand me a towel?” She pointed behind him, to her left. He turned around and spotted the stack of plush white towels beside the sink. He also spotted Eve again, reflected in the mirror behind them.
The bubbles.
He reached out and grabbed the top three towels off the stack and turned to thrust them at her.
It was too late.
The froth slid off her breasts at exactly the same moment, plopping softly into the water below. Good God, the shadowy jungle had not done her justice. He ripped his gaze up only to face a simmering reflection of his own desire in hers. She reached out and took the top towel from his hands and shook it out before carefully wrapping the white terry around her torso and tucking the trailing end in at her breasts. He knew it was for the best, but he still swallowed a groan as those mesmerizing curves disappeared from his view.
“Thank you.”
He reached out, automatically assisting her over the lip of the tub only to stand mutely, stupidly, behind as she crossed the blue and white tiles. She snagged one of the matching robes from the row of hooks beside the bathroom door, tossing it over her shoulder as she stepped over the splinters of wood that had fallen down into the doorway. She turned, stared at the still-steaming bath beside him, and smiled.
Spoke.
“It’s all yours. If you want it.”
He knew damned well she wasn’t talking about the tub.
She loved him.
Eve smiled to herself as she headed to the bed.
The realization didn’t cause her to stumble or even force her to catch her breath. Heck, her pulse didn’t even pick up its pace. Instead, the knowledge seemed to spread through her on a warm steady wave of healing contentment. It was as if her heart had known forever that Rick Bishop was the man for her and had simply been waiting for her brain to catch up.
It finally had.
She really did love him.
Her heart had left so many clues these past few days. So many unexpected turns in her thoughts and in her actions. Or so she’d thought. They all made sense now. She made sense. Why else had she trusted Rick with so much of herself?
With so much of Carrie?
Rick would never betray her confidence. She knew it just as surely as she knew that he was also in love with her.
She just wasn’t sure he’d realized it yet.
She suspected he might.
Maybe that’s why he was fighting so hard, fighting them. Why he’d withdrawn from her after they’d kissed in the jungle.
If so, it was okay. He needed time.
Time she planned to give him.
It was the least she could do after he’d given so much of himself to her. Eve pulled her ruck and web gear from the bed and set it on the floor beside Rick’s, then crossed the room to lock the door. She thought about waiting for Rick to finish his shower, then decided against it. When he was ready to talk about them or
what had happened with Ernesto, he would.
Until then, she was tired. They both were.
They needed sleep.
The shower spray ceased as she drew the feather coverlet to the foot of the bed. She padded across the room once more and flicked off the lights, doing her best to ignore the sliver shining through the crack in the door where the lock had been. Then she slipped beneath the gloriously dry comfortable sheets. The moment she closed her eyes, she felt him.
As usual, Rick made no sound as he approached the bed.
She was halfway to convincing herself she could fall asleep anyway when she felt the side of the bed dip.
Her side.
She opened her eyes and peered through the shadows.
She could make out a white terry robe that matched the one she wore, as well as the damp sheen to his freshly washed hair. From the darker shadow on his jaw, she didn’t think he’d had a chance to shave. But the grease paint was gone.
And he smelled wonderful.
Still she waited, as silent as he.
It was odd. She could almost hear him trying to form the words. Whatever was on his mind, he didn’t seem to know how to say it. A chill shot down her spine as he drew his breath in cautiously, as if he was trying to steel himself. But why? After everything they’d been through, how bad could it be?
“Rick?”
“I killed them.”
The words just hung there.
She didn’t know what to say, what to think. She finally forced out the only word she could. “Who?” Fear snaked through her as she waited. Fear of the unknown.
Fear of knowing.
“Carrie. Turner. The baby. Their baby.”
The fear gave way to utter confusion as she pushed herself up on the bed until she was sitting against the headboard. “I don’t understand. I was there, remember? In the pilot’s seat. If anyone is responsible, it’s me.”
“You’re right, you don’t understand. There’s no way you could. But I do. Eve, Turner shouldn’t have been there. Hell, if it wasn’t for me, Carrie wouldn’t have been there either.”
Sweet Mother in Heaven.
The way Rick had grown more and more distant earlier tonight in the jungle, the wall she swore she’d felt erected brick-by-brick after she finally told him about the baby.
“You knew she was pregnant?”
Crossing the Line Page 18