“I’m not.”
Confusion tugged her forehead into a deep vee, knitting her brows together, which made her head pound harder. “What? Yes, you are, aren’t you? I mean…Duke? SEAL?” She gestured with a wave of her hand to indicate his jungle fatigues.
“Not in the Navy anymore, princess.”
She glanced from his face to the men standing behind Duke then glanced out over the view. Morales’s villa. “Oh dear. Once again, you didn’t come to rescue me.” Just like last time. Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. “So once again, I must apologize for compromising your mission.”
Duke shrugged, his mouth turned down in a “who cares” expression. “Why are you here and what are you doing with Colonel Morales?”
As soon as the second part of that question was out of his mouth, Duke wanted to bite his tongue. He didn’t give a damn what she was doing with Morales. The bastard had installed her in his bedroom. That explained everything.
“The State Department sent me. I was supposed to join a medical task force for a fact-finding trip investigating a non-specific fever killing children.”
“What facts did you find?”
“I didn’t. I was to meet the group in Guyana City, but no one else was there. This Venezuelan army lieutenant came to my hotel door this morning, told me to pack up, and here I am.” Her vision swam for a moment, and she swayed. “Owww.” She dropped her head to her knee. “What happened to me?”
“You tried to escape and knocked yourself out.”
Was that laughter in Duke’s voice? Most likely. She’d probably given herself a concussion too.
Duke stood up and moved away. He didn’t like the green tinge to the doc’s skin, nor did he like the pain radiating from her. He wanted to be angry with her. How could anyone smart enough to get through medical school remain so completely clueless?
Stepping up beside him, Dalton leaned close, but kept his eyes on Cory. “Remember what we talked about, Duke.”
He turned to glare at Dalton. “Not enough proof.”
“I still say someone’s out to kill her.”
Cory gasped, her eyes going wide as Duke swore.
“No. They…they wouldn’t.”
Duke didn’t like the expression creeping across her face or the wounded tone of her voice. Why the hell did she trip every protective bone in his body? He squatted in front of her but didn’t touch, no matter how much he wanted to. “Who, princess?”
“My family. My cousins. I…” She snapped her mouth closed. A moment later, she added, “The trust fund.”
“Explain.”
“I…I suppose I’m the trust’s beneficiary except I can’t touch the principal. It pays me a yearly stipend, though that sounds rather…smallish. It’s not. The stipend, I mean. I receive a hundred thousand dollars a year, which is why I can volunteer with relief organizations. There are lawyers. A board. My cousin Gerald—”
“The dude who works for the State Department?”
Cory glanced toward the man with a California breeziness about him. She nodded. “Yes. His mother is my aunt, my father’s sister.” She processed the implications. “You can’t seriously suggest that he would…but why? I don’t control the trust. He’s the one with the power of attorney, though the board directs his actions.”
Duke rocked back on his heels, his anger swelling. He directed it at her. At himself. At Fate for putting her in his crosshairs again. Family betrayal was the worst. He should know. Once upon a time, the Navy had been his.
Chapter 17
CORY JUMPED up, but almost fell to her knees as pain lanced through her head. The cold pack was long forgotten. Hissing breath in between her teeth, she fought the stars swimming in the blackness swallowing her vision. Once it passed, she started to pace, unable to contain the disquiet, and ignoring the throb behind her eyes. As she trudged across the clearing, determination radiating from her, the men scattered and disappeared. All but Duke and the California one, who dropped down on a tarp and fixed his eye to a scope mounted on a tripod.
Duke stood with a shoulder braced against a tree trunk, watching her through hooded eyes. Was it possible that she’d shared his bed just a few months ago? She couldn’t meet his gaze as she marched past him on each leg of her circuit of the small clearing.
Her stomach roiling from the head injury, nerves, and shock, Cory knew she needed to lie down and be still. But she couldn’t. Her brain felt like it might explode as thoughts zinged through it like silver balls in an old-school pinball machine. Lights. Clangs. Bells and whistles. Why would Gerald want her dead? The trust reverted to John Hopkins Medical School when she died. Didn’t it? She didn’t even know how much was in it. Her mother and father divorced when she was a pre-teen. She’d seen her mother every other Christmas and one month during summer vacation, until she’d turned eighteen. All contact with her mother ended after that.
Her father had been a cold, calculating man, especially for a doctor. A surgeon of world-renown, he pushed her into the sciences and medical school to follow in his footsteps. She’d chosen pediatrics over his objections, and when he’d died in a plane crash returning from treating a member of the Saudi royal family, she hadn’t grieved as properly as a heartbroken daughter should have. It was at the reading of his will that she’d learned of the trust and stipend. Had she changed her mind and gone into a surgical residency, the entire trust would have been hers. The $100,000 per annum was more than enough for her.
But now, as she fought nausea and pain, pieces began to fall into place. But. She came up with some pieces that didn’t fit anywhere. She stopped across the camp from Duke and focused on him—or tried to. Her vision went wonky periodically, and she’d see two or more of him, or the stars and darkness intruded. She had to squint her eyes shut and press fingertips to her temples to keep the top of her head from peeling back and spilling her brains on the ground.
“Gawddammit, princess.” Duke caught her before she crumpled to the jungle floor. They needed the BS twins and needed them now.
“Wha—?” She was cradled in Duke’s arms, and she nuzzled against his throat, pressing a small kiss to his skin. He smelled the same, like a breeze blowing across the ocean—fresh with a tang of salt. She trembled slightly as the memories of their night together flashed through her. Her thighs tightened, her desire slicked her vagina. Surely her reaction to him was wrong on some level, especially in this place and at this time. His muscles tensed and he fairly vibrated. This angry man was the one she remembered from Africa, but definitely not the one in whose arms she spent the night in Key West.
Duke wanted to drop her on her ass. Wanted to hold her tighter. Ask her to kiss his skin again. His dick stood at attention and saluted like she was a fucking admiral. This woman stirred his most primal urges—to take her, imprint his body on hers so she’d never forget him, own her in every possible way. Mine. The word reverberated in his psyche, all the way to his very soul. His need to protect her was overpowering. As was his need to shake her until she got a clue.
He carried her to his bedroll and set her down. Gently. “Don’t move.” He knew his voice was gruff and commanding, but he didn’t expect the soft moan or hard shiver that skittered through her entire body. “Keep your eyes closed.”
Her breathing quickened, her lips parted, and her tongue peeked between her lips to wet them, leaving a glistening invitation behind. He was so fucked up. She was hurt, and all he could think about was stripping her naked. Duke backed away before he did something monumentally stupid and searched the clearing for the cold pack. When he located it, he reapplied it to her head.
“You knocked yourself out, princess. Keep the cold pack on and don’t move. Don’t make me tie you up.” And didn’t that sound like best damn idea ever? He shifted his hard-on to a more comfortable position as he flipped the edge of his blanket over her. “We have business to take care of, and then I’ll call for our ride home. Just…stay out of the way until then. Okay?”
“Yes, all right.”
Memories nudged at him, but he pushed them away. He didn’t have time for the past. The present was far too dangerous to let stray thoughts intrude. He moved away to radio the away team, to get their timetable, and to let the B team know things had changed. They couldn’t hike out of the jungle with Cory hurt. If he took out the colonel and the EODs did their job, the helo could land on the helicopter pad. The team could hold it until everyone loaded up, and then they could blow it remotely after they took off.
He snagged Uri’s radio and started issuing orders.
Cory curled onto her side, her head cradled on her bent arm. She used her other hand to keep the rapidly warming cold pack on her forehead. Duke’s voice faded into the distance, a low rumble beneath the hum and buzz of insects. She had to be the world’s biggest idiot. She wasn’t some starry-eyed schoolgirl. Not anymore. Men like Duke didn’t rescue princesses imprisoned by malevolent kings, or evil wizards, or corrupt military officers in the jungles of Venezuela. Men like Duke did their jobs and seduced women with growled commands that ignited a girl’s darkest desires, making her crave things she didn’t even have names for.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trailed across her nose before it dropped to the blanket surrounding her—a blanket that smelled of Duke. She sniffled and tugged the material closer to her nose. Why this man? Why did their paths always cross at the worst possible times? As a rule, she attempted to avoid self-reflection, or examining the subconscious responses of human interaction. She’d been raised by an aloof man of science, taught to trust in the empirical nature of facts rather than emotions. Yet here she was, craving the touch of a man who hated her, one who only tolerated her presence because she kept getting in the way of his missions. And crying about it.
Hero worship. That certainly explained her feelings for him, feelings that had no place in her life. Once she was back in the States, she would go her own way, would walk away. Just like she’d tried to do before, like she’d been forced to do when they’d caught her in his hospital room. Those men in dark suits with unsmiling faces who told her she needed to forget about Africa, about Duke Reagan, about SEAL Team Atlantis. For her own good. For her own safety. And his. Their mission had been top secret. And he was the only survivor.
Only he wasn’t. She recognized the surfer, Dalton, and the man called Tank. She remembered him too. Tall and muscular and unemotional. With guns as big as he was. Weapons, she corrected. A gun was something else. She recognized these men from Mother Goose’s bar as well.
Duke had told her he was no longer in the Navy. But he was here. In jungle fatigues, carrying weapons. With a military team. Once again on a covert mission she found herself caught up in.
Circles. Like a waterspout forming in a bathtub, her thoughts circled the drain. She didn’t understand. There was some fact just out of reach that was the key to everything. She kept chasing the idea even as sleep claimed her.
Duke stared down at Cory for a long time. He ignored Dalton’s quizzical perusal as he squatted beside her and removed the used cold pack. A large knot, surrounded by angry purple bruising, decorated her forehead. Stupid woman, running through the jungle without watching where she was going. Stupid woman to be here in the first place. Except to be fair, she wasn’t. She was wicked smart and had kept him alive against all odds. He couldn’t really blame her for being out of her element, for trusting people, for wanting to save the damn world instead of herself.
Without stopping to examine his motives, he brushed a fingertip across her cheekbone, following its arch to the shell of her ear and lower, tracing the line of her jaw. Smooth, soft skin. Delicate. Like her. Yet she was one of the toughest women he’d ever met. He wondered if she still had nightmares. He did.
Cory shifted under his touch, and she murmured something low, the sound sexy and going straight to his dick. Damn thing still hadn’t gotten its priorities straight. Or maybe it had, and it was his big head that was screwed up. He flashed back to the bed games he’d played with Angie and wondered if the princess would be as responsive to his commands. His dick throbbed, liking that idea a hellava lot.
Duke pushed to his feet. He was on a mission, dammit. The last thing he needed was a distraction like Dr. Prince. Yeah, that was the ticket. Everything professional. No more princess. No more Cory. No more pet names. Dr. Prince. And the sooner they blew the hell out of Morales and his compound, the sooner they’d be in the air and headed back to civilization. And the sooner he could get her the fuck out of his life.
Cory woke up groggy and disoriented, a faint throb in her skull reminding her of the knot on her forehead and how it got there. Her vision wavered, and she squinted her eyes shut, hoping to clear the double vision. It was still there when she opened her eyes.
Dalton hunkered down on his heels beside her, helped her sit up, and passed her a canteen. The water was tepid but still felt good in her parched mouth. She swished the first gulp around and then leaned away to discreetly spit. She tried a tentative swallow. When her stomach didn’t rebel, she drank more. If she closed one eye, the man came into focus.
“How long was I out?”
“Just over an hour. You’re lucky. The cartel doesn’t know you’re gone yet.”
“That’s good, I presume?”
“Yeah. Means they aren’t out beating the woods for you, and gives us time to plant some explosives now that it’s almost dark.”
“Oh. Well. That is good, I suppose.” She squinted again then blinked rapidly. Her vision remained blurry. That was not a good sign.
“The medics will check you out tonight when they pick us up.”
“Oh. That’s good.” She wasn’t thinking very clearly, and was repeating herself. That worried her too. How hard could she have hit her head? And it was only a branch for goodness sake. “I…Dalton, correct?” At his nod, she continued. “I do hate to bother you, Dalton, but I…uhm…I need…”
“Only head we have is a hole in the ground behind a palm frond.”
“Well, yes, I would imagine…” What was wrong with her? She attempted to stand up, but didn’t get very far.
Dalton grabbed Cory’s arm to steady her. “Easy there, doc. C’mon. I’ll walk you over.”
She managed to keep her feet moving, one in front of the other. Dalton was nice enough to use his knife to scoop out a spot. “I won’t look,” he teased. As he stepped back behind the palm, he added, “But if you fall on your sweet, naked ass, doc, all bets are off.”
Blushing furiously, she kept her eyes shut. That helped her equilibrium. She got her cargo pants unfastened and pushed down to her knees, her utilitarian cotton panties going with them. Moving slowly, she squatted and hoped there were no creepy crawlies sneaking up on her bare bottom. That’s all she’d need—snake or insect bite. Finishing as quickly as she could, she swayed as she straightened up. Bending over to pull up her pants left her panting and fighting for consciousness.
“Fuck, princess. I can’t leave you alone for a minute before you get yourself in trouble.”
Duke. She blushed, the waistband of her pants still around her thighs. Rough hands swatted hers out of the way. She wobbled for a moment then her temple gently collided with a very muscular chest. She sighed and instinctively relaxed. Duke would take care of her. Even incensed at her, he would treat her with gentleness despite his gruff demeanor.
Damn but she had a sweet ass. Rounded. Smooth. Made for a man to grip while she rode him hard, or to buffer his thrusts as he pumped into her from behind. Growling and reining in his lust, he jerked up her panties, doing his best to ignore her fingers hooked in his belt, her head bracing against him. Her hair, looking like burnished copper under the late afternoon sun, did its best to escape from the braid she’d used to tame it. With a bit more care, he pulled up her pants and fastened them, then her belt.
Brushing a stray tendril off her cheek, he barely resisted the urge to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “C’mon, princess. Back to bed.”
“Promises, promises.”
He could not have heard her mumbled words correctly. Yo, dickhead! What happened to your resolve to stay professional? He told the irritating voice of his conscience to shut the fuck up. Griping her biceps, he turned her toward the camp. When she stumbled for the second time, he scooped her into his arms. The action was expedient. Get her back to his bedroll ASAP without further injury. That’s what he told the damn voice. And that’s what he did.
As soon as she was stretched out, covered with a blanket, and appeared to be resting, he boogied. He wanted to do some up-close scouting before he settled in with his rifle. Sooner or later, the colonel would return to his bedroom. Duke would get him in the crosshairs then.
Cory choked back a whimper. Her head felt like it was going to explode. She looked around, bleary-eyed. Dusk had wrapped shadows around the campsite. Dalton appeared to be the only other person there. He sat next to his spotter’s scope, in a position where he could watch both her and the villa on the next hill.
Her vision remained blurry, but she wasn’t seeing double at the moment. That was a good thing. She focused on Dalton, saw him tense and meet her gaze.
“Awake again?”
“So it appears.”
“Get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
She wanted to squirm under his unwavering stare, relieved when he lowered his head to peer through the scope. When he looked up, he focused his piercing gaze on her once more.
“Are you going to tell him?”
Cory searched her memory. To whom and what was he referring? Clueless, she asked that very question. “Tell who what?”
“Duke. That you fucked him that night in Key West.”
Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1) Page 13