Leave No Trace

by Cindy Gerard

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  She blinked once, slumberous and slow, as she rolled to her side facing him. “Where are we?”

  He checked his watch; barely half an hour had passed since he’d lain down. He shifted to his side, facing her. “We’re someplace safe,” he assured her.

  Her smile was soft, secure. “I already had that figured out, or you wouldn’t have been sleeping.”

  He tried not to read too much into her trust in him. Tried not to feel protective and possessive and . . . Christ. This was so insane.

  He barely knew her. And yet . . . he knew her. Knew her strength and her heart and her remarkable, resilient spirit.

  His heart rumbled hard in his chest when those blue eyes full of questions and longing searched his. When she reached out, touched his face with the very tips of her fingers, he knew he should pull away. Just like he knew he couldn’t.

  Didn’t want to. Didn’t intend to.

  He covered her hand with his—sandpaper against silk—and brought it to his mouth.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” he whispered a warning against her fingertips.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.” Sky blue transitioned to smoky cobalt as she brushed an index finger along the seam of his lips. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I need.”

  He groaned and gave a Hail Mary thought to playing the saint, but he didn’t have it in him.

  “Sometimes,” she whispered, moving in until her face was just inches from his, “it’s just got to be about the moment.”

  He was humbled by the entreaty in her eyes and by her lack of expectation beyond the here and now. She’d just told him not to feel any responsibility, any obligation or guilt. She’d given him a pass in the accountability department.

  He wasn’t feeling quite as cavalier. Possibly a first for him.

  “I’ve had a lot of bad moments lately,” she went on. “I need a good one. I want it to be with you.”

  He sucked her fingertip into his mouth, bit it lightly, then drew her flush against him. “Just promise me you won’t be sorry.”

  She brushed her mouth against his, then skimmed her tongue along his lips. “I think you worry too much.”

  “Occupational hazard,” he agreed, and finally kissed her.

  She was turning to him in desperation. He knew that and felt guilty about it. Just not guilty enough, he thought as he deepened the kiss and slipped his hand under her clingy T-shirt to feel skin on skin.

  She arched into his touch, letting him know she was totally on board, totally involved, and wonderfully responsive.

  Silk, he thought, as he skimmed his palm up her rib cage and cupped a full breast in his palm. She made a soft sound that was a mix of pleasure, impatience, and a lot of encouragement. Following his lead, she slid her hands up and under his shirt. And damn near blew the top of his head off.

  The touch of her hand was so sensual and seductive he had to remind himself that no matter how eager she was he needed to go easy with her. She was bruised both physically and emotionally. He was not going to charge in like a bull and overwhelm her with his own need. He didn’t want to add to her problem. He wanted to fix it.

  So he took his time with his hands, leisurely drank his fill of her mouth, enticing her unhurriedly to that place where pleasure outdistanced any possibility of pain, where satisfaction became the prize in a lazy and lengthy seduction that took him to a place he’d never been before with a woman: complete commitment to her needs.

  He’d never been selfish, but he’d never desired to be selfless either. Until now.

  With her help, he lifted her shirt over her head, gave himself a moment to look and indulge and appreciate before he lowered his head to her bare breast.

  Pillow soft. Woman sweet.

  And her sighs. The fluid way she moved against him, inviting him to take what he wanted, do as he pleased . . . she stole his breath. Despite his best intentions she turned him into a pulsing mass of sexual hunger by stoking a craving that needed to be assuaged more than he needed to breathe.

  He was on fire for her. Five-alarm, fully involved, on fire. He buried his hands in her hair, shifted to his back, and pulled her over on top of him. Her weight was slight and hot nestled against him as he fumbled to drag a condom out of his backpack and put it on. Her breasts were heavy and full as he reclaimed them with his mouth, and he wished to God that he could keep wanting only to please her.

  But she did things to him. Turned selfless into selfish, and suddenly it became about tasting. And stroking. And sucking his fill as she writhed against him, pressing her pelvis against the erection that raged beneath his zipper.

  He couldn’t believe he was with her like this, couldn’t believe that she was all but ripping his shirt off, then turning frantic fingers to his buckle before going to work on his zipper. Caught up, caught in, and caught by the storm of desire she had whipped into a frenzy, he made quick work of her cargo pants.

  He knew she was commando beneath them. Still, he growled when he felt nothing but skin against his palms. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the quivering silk of her belly and buttocks as he brushed his hands against her, then lifted and settled her over his straining cock.

  “No,” he ground out when she would have taken him inside. “Too soon. I want you ready.”

  She actually laughed, as much in frustration as amusement, as she took him in her hand and guided him to her opening. “Trust me on this. I’m ready.”

  And Jesus, oh, Jesus, was she. Her slick heat enfolded the tip of his engorged penis like a warm, wet kiss, welcoming him deep, demanding complete penetration and obliterating caution.

  She was like a vessel waiting to be filled. He gripped her hips, fully engaged and selfishly locked in what was supposed to have been her moment but had become his as well.

  He lifted his hips to meet her, to impale and immerse himself in the sweetest friction, the most electric heat . . . and the absolute, incomparable sense of coming home.

  She gasped his name, braced her palms on his chest, and rode with him in a rhythm that called to the ages and with an abandon that called to him like a siren’s song.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she straddled him. Her back was arched, her eyes were closed, and the expression on her face was pure, uninhibited bliss. Endless longing and forgotten pleasure. When she suddenly stiffened and her head dropped to her chest to ride out the wave of her climax, he knew he’d witnessed something important.

  Something more than sex, more even than an emotional healing. He’d just witnessed the liberation of a spirit that had been held captive by abuse, degradation, and shame.

  He was already shooting over the top when she clenched around him, shivered, and collapsed across his chest.

  And later, as his hand drifted lazily over the silk of her hair, he wondered when he had started thinking, So this is the woman I’ve been waiting for.

  Ten

  “And this one?”

  Cav shivered when Carrie traced a fingertip over the scar on his right thigh. When he didn’t answer, she reached for a piece of fruit.

  He’d retrieved the food and tea Thura had brought earlier, setting the tray on the floor at the head of their makeshift bed.

  Though he was on the road to recovery physically he hadn’t recovered from the rush of emotions, or from the sight of Carrie, gloriously, unself-consciously naked and stretched out on the blankets beside him. She’d propped herself up on an elbow and was nibbling at the fruit and cheese, studying him with a mix of concern and curiosity and the prettiest lingering sexual glow.

  Those eyes. They saw too much. Said too much. The way she looked at him was as disarming as her hand was pleasing, as it drifted back to the tense muscles of his thigh.

  This is the woman I’ve been waiting for . . .

  He kept coming back to that. What was the point? Where was the logic? Besides, she’d made it clear that all she’d needed was a moment in time. Well,
they’d had it.

  And it had been astounding.

  “Cav?” she pressed softly. “How did you get this scar?”

  “The scar’s not a big deal.” He needed to follow her lead and enjoy the moment. They still had over an hour before they could leave to meet up with the extraction team. He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  “Hum.” She sounded as skeptical as she looked. “Yet it looks like a big deal.”

  She didn’t need to know how he’d gotten it or the scar on his biceps or any of the dozen or so others that seemed to intrigue and worry her. When this was over she’d go back to her life in Georgia, and he’d . . . Well, he didn’t know where he would go.

  “When I told you that you worry too much, you said it was an occupational hazard.” She offered him a grape. He sucked it off of her fingertips. “So what exactly do you do? Or does that fall into the ‘if you tell me you’ll have to kill me’ category?”

  He plucked some fruit off the plate. “Have another grape,” he said evasively, then grinned at her put-out look.

  “I still don’t know how you know Wyatt,” she said, respecting his privacy on the occupation question. “Or is that off-limits, too?”

  For the life of him, he didn’t understand how he could feel so content in the midst of a life-or-death situation, but he did. Carrie’s “good moment in time” philosophy had apparently rubbed off on him.

  He stretched back, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. “You first.”

  “This is just an observation . . .”

  He could hear the smile in her soft southern voice.

  “But it occurs to me that you practice avoidance better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  He smiled, too, because she was not only beautiful and sexy but smart and funny. “It’s that occupational-hazard thing again.”

  She made a sound that was something between a snort and acceptance. “We grew up together,” she said, giving him his way. “Stayed friends.”

  He opened one eye. “Define friends.” That issue had been working on him since Wyatt had called him in Jakarta.

  She cocked her head and considered. “More than friends once. In high school we were an item.”

  “And he walked away from you?”

  She leisurely traced a fingertip from his left collarbone to his right and back again. Her touch made him shiver and burn at the same time.

  “Not so much away from me, as from Adel, Georgia.” She lifted a shoulder. “Lotta people do. Not much excitin’ goin’ on around there.”

  He loved how her drawl had intensified as she relaxed.

  “Were you heartbroken?”

  She was quiet long enough that he opened his eyes again. And by the time she said, “For a while, yeah, but not anymore,” he was pretty certain he didn’t believe her.

  She still had a thing for Wyatt.

  Which probably answered his next question. “Why did you come to Myanmar, Carrie?”

  Another hesitation. Another Ah ha moment when she had to think about it a bit too long.

  The truthful answer probably went something like: Not long ago, Wyatt had come home to Adel with a new wife. It had stung. So Carrie Granger had gone looking for adventure. Something to help her douse the old flame and soften the blow.

  He understood. Savage was a great guy. Carrie-worthy. Something he wasn’t.

  “I might have been a little disenfranchised,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

  It occurred to him that these were the kind of moments he’d been missing for a long time. Quiet, intimate moments with a woman who mattered. Moments where barriers fell and truths came out. Dangerous moments for a CIA asset. Moments he’d had to avoid at all costs, for more years than he wanted to count.

  The same years that had brought him to the place he was today: a man who could not possibly be someone good for someone like her.

  “Maybe I was a little hurt that Wyatt was once and for all off-limits,” she admitted.

  Her soft words drew his gaze back to her face.

  Her smile was whimsical. “A girl never forgets her first love, you know.”

  Her candor didn’t surprise him; it was who she was.

  “But that was then. I’m over it.”

  Didn’t change a thing where he was concerned. He was still no good for her.

  If he was honest, he had to admit that he was teetering very close to alcoholic status. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wished he had a drink in the past twelve hours.

  He was burned out and just plain tapped out of goodwill toward man. He didn’t know if he had enough left to pull himself away from the abyss, let alone be the man that a woman like Carrie needed.

  “Why did you come for me?” she asked.

  At last, an easy question. “Because Wyatt asked.”

  “And he knew you’d do it.”

  He closed his eyes again. “Yeah. He knew.”

  Her hand lay flat on his bare chest now. Warm and light and the most sensual presence he’d ever known.

  If she had thoughts or questions about why Wyatt hadn’t come himself, she didn’t voice them. She lay down close to him instead and rested her head on his shoulder as if she needed the contact to keep her grounded.

  “How did you find me?”

  He touched a hand to her hair, pulled her closer, and thought, Fuck it. He was going to enjoy the moment. “Wasn’t easy. Do you know why you were arrested?”

  She made a sound of frustration. “No idea. I got out of the cab, saw a girl in trouble, and I tried to help her.”

  He knew the rest of the story. Had spent a lot of money and a lot of hours ferreting out the facts.

  “That girl was a prostitute who had stolen from a customer, who had sent a hired enforcer to punish her. As it turns out, that same customer was also a high-ranking military official—the judge presiding over your trial.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “And since the girl was a known prostitute, when the police saw you aiding and abetting a criminal, they assumed you were a working girl, too, and hauled you off to court.”

  “Some court.” She shivered and snuggled even closer. “How did you find all of this out?”

  “I have . . . sources,” he said evasively, then laughed when she punched him. “My contacts checked out all the taxi companies in Mandalay, found a driver who remembered a fare for a blond English-speaking woman. He filled us in on what happened and that it was the military, not the city police, who made the arrest. After that, it was just a question of finding the judge.”

  A greenback still talked louder than the Myanmar kyat. A little grease on the palm had helped a court clerk remember the trial of a blond woman, possibly American, who had been sentenced and shipped off to the ruby mines.

  “Did they really think they would get away with it?”

  “They did,” he said soberly. “You weren’t going to get out of here through any diplomatic channels. The Junta military regime would never have acknowledged that you went through their system. We’re talking international incident of epic proportions here.

  “So once the top brass figured out what the judge had done, they went into full cover-up mode. Their intent was to leave no trace that you ever set foot on Burma soil. I’m betting some heads rolled over this, but they were in too deep to let you go.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “The entire military must be looking for us by now.”

  He nodded. “That they are.”

  “How are we going to get out of the country?” She rose up on an elbow, her eyes intent on his. “My purse with my passport and all my luggage were in the taxi when the driver saw the MP and took off. I don’t have a shred of ID.”

  “You don’t need ID,” he promised her. “You’ve got me.”

  He didn’t want her worrying; that was for him to do. So he pulled her down and kissed her. Not because she looked like she needed kissing but because he needed it. Because he n
eeded to feel her soft and giving beneath him one more time. Because he needed to feel the pulse of her body take him inside and remind him of the good things life had to offer.

  And because he needed, even more, to have one final memory of what it felt like to make love to her in this incredible moment in time.

  Eleven

  Cav was pulling on his pants and making plans to get going when he heard an increase of activity outside the window.

  He touched a hand to Carrie’s shoulder to wake her.

  She sat up abruptly. “What?”

  “Something’s happening. Get dressed.”

  An urgent knock sounded on the door. He opened it up a crack. “Soldiers have arrived,” Tun said, sounding panicked. “They search the village.”

  “How many?”

  “Two trucks. Two jeeps.”

  Cav swore under his breath. They hadn’t skimped on the manpower. This was an all-out manhunt.

  “We must go now,” Tun said.

  “No,” Cave said adamantly. “You take the children and Thura to a safe place. I don’t want you implicated in helping us.” God only knew what the Junta would do to Tun and his family if they discovered they’d helped criminals.

  “But—”

  Cav laid a hand on Tun’s shoulder, cutting him off. “We’ll be fine.” He checked his watch. The extraction team would already be in flight, so he had to come up with alternate transpo fast.

  “Go take care of your family.”

  Tun hesitated. “You can find the way? You are certain?”

  While Carrie was sleeping, Tun and Cav had gone over the map and he’d plugged the coordinates into his GPS. “I’ll get there.”

  Tun finally gave in with a sober nod. “Be safe, my friend.”

  “You, too.”

  He shut the door and turned back to see Carrie had already pulled on her T-shirt and was zipping up her pants and toeing into her sandals.

  “I take it we just lost our ride to wherever we were supposed to go, to meet whoever was supposed to get us out of here?”

  “That pretty well sums it up.” And since there were no cell phone towers for a hundred miles around, he had no way to contact the team to change the rendezvous point.