by Sara Craven
He caught her watching. He smiled, reached up and touched the flower tucked behind her ear. “Nice.”
She smiled back, caught his hand in her own before he could move it away from her face. “This is your injured arm, Hunter.”
He grinned. “Yeah. And it’s doing good, thanks to you.”
She made a mock frown. “You never put that sling back on after you…fought with that soldier. You think I didn’t notice?”
He moved a little closer to her. “So?”
“You were just humoring me back in the clearing when you let me bandage you up, weren’t you? You wanted to give me a sense of purpose, a job.”
“And you did it so well.” A mischievous light danced in his eyes. “Even though there was zero chance I could get my shirt back on.”
She jabbed at him. “You’re awfully smug in your medical knowledge, you know. How does a soldier know so much?”
He looked away, the play of firelight and shadow hiding his expression. A fat drop of rain hit the tin roof. The breeze shifted, intensified. Leaves rustled.
“Rain’s coming.”
“You’re changing the subject, Hunter. Where did you get your medical knowledge? What did you used to do before you joined the FDS?”
His features hardened. He stared at the flames for a while. “I served with the Légion Étrangère—French Foreign Legion.”
Surprise flared in her. “The Legion? It still exists?” She’d heard about it. Her father, an armchair military buff, had loved to tell her old war stories, and among them were tales of the famous and exotic French Legionnaires—men’s men in a landscape of hot deserts, dense jungles and fierce combat. He’d told his stories with such passion and excitement, she’d often wondered how much of it was really true, but the notion he might’ve been embellishing hadn’t bothered her one bit. She suspected her dad had fancied himself as one of the Legionnaires in his dreams of adventure. And she’d happily lived the dream with him on cold winter nights by the fire.
He’d stopped telling the stories, though, after her mother had died. And Sarah had missed that connection with him more than he could ever have imagined. If he’d known just how much it had hurt her, how desperately cut off he’d made her feel on top of losing her mother, it would have broken his heart.
“The Legion still exists, but apart from military experts, I guess not many people know that it does. The force currently has about 8,500 professional soldiers and 350 officers ready for rapid-action deployment anywhere in the world at extremely short notice.” Hunter still wouldn’t look at her. He stared instead into the crucible of flames he’d built in the stone oven.
Intrigued, she drew her knees into her chest and leaned forward. “How long did you spend with the Legion?”
“I fulfilled my five year contract.” He grunted softly. “If you want to leave any earlier than that, you have to desert. And then they come hunting for you. It’s not pretty when they find you. And they do find you.”
Sarah looked at the flames, as if she might see what he was seeing in them, see into his past. From what history she knew from her father, if the French Foreign Legion had forged Hunter’s character, it explained an awful lot about him.
Her dad had told her that the Légion Étrangère was often referred to as the Legion of the Damned. It was an army comprised completely of foreigners—hard men who were usually running from something back home, men who had to set aside cultural differences and learn quickly to communicate in French. Men who were prepared to give up their pasts, their countries, their families and their homes in order to fight and die for a country that wasn’t their own.
It dawned on her then that the whole French Foreign Legion was a mercenary army, and it had been modeled on generations of private armies in Europe that went before it. So why should what Hunter did for a living now be so unpalatable to much of the world? Sarah suddenly felt like a hypocrite. As a young child she’d relished the exotic tales of combat, but she’d grown into a woman who abhorred war. Was it because her dad’s stories had seemed so foreign, so fictional, so far removed from her reality that they had existed in a separate part of her psyche? Maybe it was because the time spent with her father was so special she just refused to see anything negative about it.
She studied Hunter’s profile, a clearer picture of him emerging in her mind. Her father had told her that when a man joined the Legion he could take nothing of his past with him, no clothes, no cash, no trinkets or photos. Everything was confiscated, even passports. A man literally had to check his past at the gates. And if he survived his contract, he earned the right to become a French citizen. He was given a new passport, and if he wanted, a new name and new identity documents. It was the perfect place to officially bury a troubled history.
“My dad used to tell me stories about the Legion,” she said softly.
His eyes flashed to hers. “He did?”
“He told me that if a man wanted to hide from something terrible he’d done, he could join, and after he’d served his contract, if he survived it, he could—”
“Be rectified, get a new identity.”
“Yes. He said criminals did it to avoid the law.”
Hunter gave a dry laugh. “Criminals, refugees, revolutionaries, paupers, poets and princes—all welcomed into the French Foreign Legion since King Louis Phillipe established the force in 1831. Yeah, I’ve heard those stories, too.” His eyes held hers. “That’s the romantic version, Sarah. It’s not quite like that now. Not that easy for a criminal to get in.”
Was he mocking her? She studied his eyes. “Why did you join, Hunter?”
He shrugged. “Must’ve read the same stories your dad did, got the same romantic notions in my head. You know, the promise of exotic adventure in a man’s world. Hot sun, victorious combat, cool desert nights, cheap wine—” he cocked a brow “—and of course, compliant females.”
Warmth tingled over her skin at the thought of sex with Hunter.
He looked away. “Or maybe it was the promise of a cloak of official anonymity, the promise of a new life.”
Sarah had an uncomfortable and growing sense that this was the truth. His accent was Irish, yet he’d told her he was a French citizen. He had to have been rectified. But why? What had driven him to do it? What dark past was Hunter McBride hiding from?
“Is your name really Hunter McBride?”
The fire popped and cracked. The wind rustled in the trees and fat leaves clacked together. A few more drops of rain plopped on the tin roof. He sat up suddenly, reached over, took both her hands in his.
“Yes. I wouldn’t hide that from you. Not now.”
What are you hiding then? “You’re Irish,” she said. “At least you were before you became French.”
“That was another lifetime.”
“And you don’t want to tell me about it?”
A darkness sifted into his features. His jaw hardened and his eyes turned cold. That look of danger was back. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the truth about Hunter McBride. “It’s okay,” she said, backpedaling. “Maybe…maybe some other time.”
“Yeah.” He picked up a twig blown in by the wind and tossed it at the fire. “Maybe another time.”
But there wouldn’t be one. The notion of a future hung un-articulated between them. The wind whipped a little harder and the fire wavered. Drops of rain began to bomb steadily against the tin roof, and the banana palms swished against the walls.
Hunter stared into the coals. His heart was thudding hard. He’d allowed Sarah to push him right up to the very edge of his past, but he was incapable of going further, incapable of giving her the whole truth.
Yet he’d crossed a line with her—in more ways than one—and he knew in his gut there was no turning back. He just didn’t know if he could go all the way. Or why he should. She’d be out of his life within seventy-two hours.
If they were lucky, by this time tomorrow they’d be in Cameroon. He’d use his radio to contact the FDS. It would b
e risky, but not as risky as using it in the Congo. The FDS had an agreement with the Cameroonian government, and FDS soldiers were free to operate in the area. He could have Sarah on an FDS chopper within an hour or two of crossing the border.
Hunter would then move on to the next phase of his mission, which was to help “kidnap” Dr. Jan Meyer from his research station in Gabon. The man was a world-renowned expert in infectious diseases and affiliated with the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Medicine in Belgium, Europe’s answer to the CDC. If anyone could identify the pathogen it was he. The FDS knew Meyer would come to the São Diogo lab willingly, but in the interests of secrecy, they couldn’t let him know about the pathogen until they had him sequestered. They would make it look as if he’d been taken hostage by rebels for cash, and they’d set up a fake negotiating system in an effort to stay under Cabal radar. The next major challenge would be to find an antidote in time.
Time.
Hunter stared at the hot orange embers as the fire began to die down and rain drummed on the roof. Everyone was running out of time. Even him, for God’s sake. He’d be forty-three in a few weeks. Jesus, what was his life all about, really? How often did a woman like Sarah come a man’s way?
And what fool would honestly let her go?
He jerked to his feet and threw another log onto the fire. The rain came down even harder, waves of sound hammering over the roof with each gust of wind. A loose sheet of tin began to bang somewhere, and wind began to moan eerily through the old structure.
Sarah was watching him in silence, those beautiful warm brown eyes liquid with the reflected light of the flames, searching his face for answers. He sat down beside her, unable to talk.
“Hunter.” She touched him, fingers soft on the skin of his arm. “I didn’t mean to pry.” Her eyes glimmered. “I care about you. I…I just want you know that.”
Wind tore suddenly at the banana palms and rattled the leaves. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed. The rain came down in a solid silver curtain, and water began to drip through rusted nail holes in the roof.
Hunter stared at her hand, pale and smooth against his sun-darkened skin. His throat tightened. Emotion began to burn in his chest. When had he last felt a touch like that? When had anyone cared about him?
He lifted his eyes slowly and his gaze meshed with hers. The warmth, the tacit permission, the invitation he saw in her eyes engulfed him in a dizzying wave.
She got to her knees, leaned forward, her lips slightly parted, her lids low and sultry over her eyes. And Hunter’s heart clean stopped. Thunder crashed. His heart kicked back at twice the pace. She placed her hand against his face and brought her mouth closer to his.
She was going to kiss him.
His mind raced, scrambling again for all the reasons he shouldn’t do this. Then her lips touched his, brushed over them, soft as butterfly wings. His stomach swooped and his mind went blank. He closed his eyes, tried to hold himself still, but his muscles began to tremble.
She brushed her mouth over his again and then he felt the tip of her tongue, wet, soft as velvet, run over his lips. Hunter groaned as he grew hard and his groin started pulsing with each beat of his heart. He could think of nothing beyond losing himself deep inside this woman.
But just as he reached up to cup her head, to pull her mouth down harder on his, she drew away.
His eyes flared open.
She sat back on her heels and was watching his face. Arousal flushed her features, and he could see that her nipples were pressed hard against the soft fabric of her thin camisole. Another wave of delirious heat swooped through his belly. But he didn’t dare make a move. Not this time. This had to be her decision and hers alone. She had to be sure.
Lightning cracked again and thunder followed almost immediately. The storm was right over them now. The rain hammered and the piece of tin banged louder, faster.
She moved her hands to the hem of her camisole, and with her eyes holding his, drew it slowly up over her belly, then her breasts, then lifted it over her head.
Hunter’s mouth went bone-dry.
She sat in front of him, naked from the waist up, breasts aroused, her burnished tangle of curls brushing her shoulders.
He shook his head mentally, thinking for a fleeting moment he was dreaming. But he wasn’t.
She stood up, wriggled her skirt down over her hips, taking her panties with it. She stood absolutely naked in front of him, the firelight flickering gold over her creamy pale skin.
She wanted him, all right. He tried to swallow, couldn’t. He stared at the dark delta between her thighs, and the hot, pulsing ache in his groin screamed for release. He lifted his eyes slowly, trailing them up from the insides of her thighs to her belly button, up slowly to her breasts. She was beautiful and there was nothing shy about her. Those facts sparked something dark and savage in him. He clenched his teeth. He wanted to haul her to the ground, plunge himself into her…but he didn’t want to make it happen too fast. He wanted her to take him where she wanted. He had a sense she needed it that way. She needed to be in control. And a part of him found intense delirious pleasure in the notion.
She knelt down slowly, bringing her mouth close to his ear as she reached for his belt. Her hair fell across his chest as she whispered, “I want to see you naked, Hunter McBride.”
His mind swooned. He moved his head around to kiss her, but she pressed her fingers to his mouth, holding him back. “Naked first,” she murmured.
Hunter closed his eyes as she undid his belt buckle. This woman just didn’t stop surprising him. How could a man have ever let her go? How could he let her go? He felt himself swell into her soft hands as she freed him from his zipper. He groaned with pleasure as she clasped her hand around him and began to caress him. He watched her face as she stroked him to an unbearable pitch. She smiled, her lids heavy, and began to tug his pants down over his hips. He lifted his body to help her.
Thunder crashed again and sheet lightning illuminated the sky. The world flickered like old movie. She sat back on her heels and ran her eyes brazenly over his body.
He leaned forward to grab her, to pull her down onto him. But she restrained him with the palm of her hand against his chest, slowly straddling his legs. The idea of her thighs parting over him nearly drove him wild. His heart began to palpitate and his vision swam. He placed his hands on her hips, ran them up along the contours of her waist to the swell of her breasts. He cupped them, squeezed, grazed his thumbs over her nipples. They grew even tighter. She lifted her chin, tilting her head back, and moaned softly. Her motion had the effect of opening her legs wider, slanting her pelvis toward him.
He slid his hands back down along her waist, down the outside of her thighs and then slipped one hand around her buttocks and moved the other to the inside. The skin here was unbelievably smooth and soft. With the hand on her behind, he tilted her pelvis even more, and cupped his other palm over her hair, his fingers seeking the soft folds within. He found them, slipped his fingers up inside her. She was wet, slick, hot. She moaned again, sinking some of her weight down onto him, and her eyelids fluttered in pleasure.
For a second Hunter couldn’t breathe. And in the next second he couldn’t hold on any longer. In a swift movement born of years of hand-to-hand combat, he had her flat on her back and was kneeling over her. With one hand he pinned her wrists to the floor up over her head, with the other he traced the line of her breasts. Shock—and desire—flared in her eyes. He grinned. “My turn, Sarah.”
Chapter 14
The savage look in his eyes shot a thrill through her. He had her hands trapped above her head, her body exposed, at his mercy. He knelt over her, phenomenal in his nakedness, pure male power and potent arousal. The wind gusted, blowing a fine mist of moisture over her hot skin. Sarah shivered.
He leaned down, caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth and whispered words in French she couldn’t understand—and didn’t need to. The seduction was rich enough in the w
ay he said them. Waves of scarlet pleasure wheeled through her brain. He traced his mouth down the column of her neck, over her breast and down her stomach, tasting, teasing, flicking with his tongue as he moved along the length of her body. He reached her thighs and she felt his hands part her, then she felt his tongue. Hot. Wet. Her world narrowed to just the sensation. His tongue flickered, traced the part of her that throbbed with each pulse of blood through her body, then suddenly thrust hard and deep. She cried out in delicious shock. His tongue moved inside her and she arched her back, aching for release. But just as she thought she was going to explode, he withdrew.
She gave a crazy sob of relief, desperately eager to hang on to the painful pleasure of her need, not ready to let go yet.
He knelt between her thighs and used his knees to push her legs open wide, impossibly wide. He leaned over her, covering her body with his, and she felt the hot, smooth, rounded tip of him enter her. He watched her face as he slowly, rhythmically, dipped just the tip of himself into her, not once breaking visual contact. Sarah tilted her pelvis up in desperation, opening wider to him, aching for all of him. He smiled, dark and feral, and then plunged deep into her with a hard, guttural groan.
She gasped. He was incredibly hot. He moved inside her fast, hard, faster, the slippery heat of his friction against swollen nerve ends almost unbearable. Her eyelids fluttered. Crimson waves spiraled through her brain. She could control nothing that was happening in her body. He rocked his pelvis hard against hers, thrusting deeper each time. Her nerves screamed for release, and suddenly her muscles exploded around him. She dug her nails into his back and swallowed a cry as contractions shook her.
Her release pushed him to the edge. He took her jaw, made her look at him, and with a final hard thrust, he shuddered into her.
Sarah lay naked, enfolded in his arms, the tropical air soft on her skin. Rain still fell in a curtain around the veranda and clattered on the tin roof. The fire crackled as it died down to embers.