Untamed

by Diana Palmer

  Except that it wasn’t out. It would never be out. He finished off the whiskey and put the glass down on the bureau. The tinkle of ice against glass was loud in the quiet room. Outside a lion roared softly. He smiled sadly. He’d raised the lion from a cub. It would let him do anything with it. When he was home, it followed him around like a small puppy. But let anyone else approach him, and it became dangerous. K.C. had said he needed to give it to a zoo, but Rourke refused. He had so few amusements. The lion was his friend. There had been two of them, but a fellow game park owner had wanted it so desperately that Rourke had given it to him. Now he had just the one. He called it Lou—a play on words from the Afrikaans word for lion, leeu.

  He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. Tat would never forgive him. He didn’t even know how to approach her. He imagined Tat’s mouth under his, her soft body pressed to his hardness, her hands in his thick hair as he loved her on crisp, white sheets. He groaned aloud at the arousal the images produced.

  And just as quickly as they flashed through his mind, he knew how impossible they were. He’d spent eight years pushing her away, making her hate him. He wasn’t going to be able to walk into her home and pick her up in his arms. She’d never let him close enough. She backed away now if he even approached her.

  He thought of her with other men, with the scores of them he’d accused her of sleeping with. His fault. It was his fault. Tat would never have let another man touch her if she’d ever really belonged to Rourke; he knew that instinctively. But he’d pushed her into affairs. Her name had been linked with several millionaires, even a congressman. He’d seen photos of her in the media, seen her laughing up into other men’s faces, her body exquisite in couture gowns. He’d pretended that she was only playacting. But she wasn’t. She was twenty-five years old. No woman remained a virgin at that age. Certainly not Tat, whom he’d baited and tormented and rejected and humiliated.

  But he had to get near her. He had to know if there was any slight chance that she might not hate him, that he could coax her back into his life. She’d never let him in the door in Maryland, where her home in the US was located. She had security cameras—he’d insisted on them—placed all around the house she owned there, the house that had belonged to her father.

  Tat’s father had worked for the US Embassy. His people had been wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He’d married Maria Cortes of Manaus, a woman who had Dutch and highborn Spanish heritage who was also an heiress. It had been a marriage of true love. They had houses in Africa and Manaus and Maryland. Tat had inherited the lot, and their combined fortunes. Tat had loved her mother. It had devastated her when Maria died of a fever she caught nursing a friend.

  He knew how Tat revered her mother. How could he tell her what the woman had done? It would shatter her illusions. But he would have to tell her something, to try and explain his behavior.

  How to get near her, near enough to make her listen, that was the problem. His eye fell on an invitation on top of the stack of mail one of the workers had left on the bureau for him to go through. He frowned.

  He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a formal invitation to a gala awards ceremony in Barrera. It was a personal invitation from General Machado himself. Now that his country was secure once more, all the loose ends tied up, it was time to reward the people who had helped him wrest control away from the usurper, Sapara. Machado hoped that Rourke could come, because he was one of several people who would be so honored. He went down the list of names on the engraved invitation listing the honorees. Just above his name was that of Clarisse Carrington.

  His heart jumped. Machado had promised that she would be recognized for her bravery in leading two captured college professors to safety and giving the insurgents intel that helped them recapture Barrera’s capital city and apprehend Sapara.

  Tat was going to be in Barrera, in Medina, the capital city. She would certainly go to the awards ceremony. It was a neutral place, where he might have the opportunity to mend fences. Certainly he was going to go. The date was a week away.

  He took the invitation back to bed with him, scanning it once more. Tat would be in Medina. He put the invitation on the bedside table and stretched out, his hands behind his head, his body arching softly as it relived the exquisite memory of Tat half-naked in his arms, so many years ago, moaning as he touched her soft breasts and made the pretty pink nipples go hard as little rocks.

  The memories aroused him and he moaned. Tat in his arms again. He could hold her, kiss her, touch her, have her. He shuddered. It would take time and patience, much patience, but he had a reason to live now. It was the first time in years that he felt happy.

  Not that she was going to welcome him with open arms. And there was the matter of her lovers, and there had to have been many.

  But that didn’t matter, he told himself firmly, as long as he was her last lover. He’d bring her here, to the game park. They could live together...

  No. His expression was grim. Despite her diversions, Tat was still religious. She would never consent to live with him unless he made a commitment. A real one.

  He got up from the bed and went to the wall safe. He opened it and took out a small gray box. He opened it. His hand touched the ring with tenderness. It had belonged to his mother. It was a square-cut emerald, surrounded by small diamonds, in a yellow gold setting. Tat loved yellow gold. It was all she wore.

  He closed the case, relocked the safe and tucked the ring into the pocket of a suit in the closet. He would take it with him. Tat wasn’t getting away this time, he promised himself. He was going to do whatever it took to get her back into his life.

  He lay back down and turned out the lights. For the first time in years, he slept through the night.

  * * *

  Three days later, K.C. came into the living room, where Rourke was making airline reservations on a laptop computer.

  “You’re going to Barrera, then?” K.C. asked.

  Rourke grinned. “You’d better believe it,” he chuckled. “I’ve got my mother’s engagement ring packed. This time, Tat’s not getting away.”

  K.C. sighed and smiled tenderly. “I can’t think of any woman in the world I’d rather have for a daughter-in-law, Stanton.”

  Something in the way he said it caught Rourke’s attention. He finished the ticket purchase, printed out the ticket and turned toward the other man.

  “Something up?” he asked.

  K.C. moved closer. He was looking at the younger man with pride. He smiled. “I knew all along. But the doctor just phoned.”

  Rourke’s heart skipped. “And...?”

  K.C. looked proud, embarrassed, happy. “You really are my son.”

  “Damn!” Rourke started laughing. The joy in his eyes matched the happiness in his father’s.

  K.C. just stared at him for a minute. Then he jerked the other man into his arms and hugged him. Rourke hugged him back.

  “I’m sorry...about the way it happened,” K.C. said heavily, drawing back. “But not about the result.” He searched Rourke’s face. “My son.” He bit down on a surge of emotion. “I’ve got a son.”

  Rourke was fighting the same emotion. He managed a smile. “Ya.”

  K.C. put a hand on Rourke’s shoulder. “Listen, it’s your decision. I’ll do whatever you want. I was your legal guardian when you were underage. But I would like to formally adopt you. I would like you to have my name.”

  Rourke thought about the man who’d been his father, who’d raised him. Bill Rourke had loved him, although he must have certainly thought that Rourke didn’t favor him. Bill had been dark-haired and dark-eyed. The man he’d called his real father had been good to him, even if there hadn’t been the sort of easy affection he’d always felt for K.C.

  “It was just a thought,” K.C. said, hesitating now.

  “I would...like that ve
ry much,” Rourke said. “I’ll keep my foster father’s name. I’ll just add yours to it.”

  K.C. smiled sadly. “Your father was my best friend. It tormented me to think what I did to him, to your mother. To you.”

  “I think it tormented her, too,” Rourke said.

  “It did. She loved me.” His face hardened. “That was the worst of it. I had nothing to give her. Nothing at all. She knew it.”

  Rourke’s one good eye searched his father’s. “Nobody’s perfect,” he said quietly. “I have to confess, I wished even when I was a boy that you were my real father.” He averted his eye just in time to miss the wetness in K.C.’s. “You were always in the thick of battles. You could tell some stories about the adventures you had. I wanted so badly to be like you.”

  “You’re very like me,” K.C. said huskily. “I worried about letting you work for the organization. I wanted to protect you.” He laughed. “It wasn’t possible. You took to it like a duck to water. But I sweated blood when you left me and went with the CIA.” He shook his head. “I agonized that I’d let you get US citizenship, even though you kept your first citizenship.”

  “It was something I wanted to do.” Rourke shrugged. “I can’t live without the adrenaline rushes.” His good eye twinkled. “I must get that from my old man.”

  K.C. chuckled. “Probably. I still go on missions. I just don’t go on as many, and I’m mostly administrative now. You’ll learn as you age that your reaction time starts to drop. That can put your unit in danger, compromise missions.”

  Rourke nodded. “I’ve had so many close calls that I’ve been tempted to think about administrative tasks myself. But not yet,” he added with a grin. “And right now, I have another priority. I want to get married.”

  K.C. smiled warmly. “She’s really beautiful. And she has a kind heart. That’s more important than surface details.”

  Rourke nodded. His face hardened. “It’s just, the idea of those other men...”

  “You’ve had women,” K.C. replied quietly. “How is that different?”

  Rourke looked vaguely disturbed. He turned away with a sigh. “Not so very, I suppose.”

  “Tell Emilio hello for me,” K.C. said. “I knew him, a long time ago. Always liked the man. He’s not what you expect of a revolutionary.”

  Rourke chuckled. “Not at all. He could make a fortune as a recording artist if he ever got tired of being President of Barrera. He can sing.”

  “Indeed he can.”

  Rourke turned at the door and looked back at the man who was the living image of what he’d be, in a few years.

  He smiled. “When I get back, maybe you could take me to a ball game or something.”

  K.C. picked up a chair cushion and threw it at him. “Get stuffed.”

  Rourke just laughed. He picked up the cushion and tossed it back.

  “You be careful over there,” K.C. added. “Sapara has friends, and he’s slippery. If he ever gets out of prison, you could be in trouble. He’s vindictive.”

  “He won’t get out,” was the reply. “Just the same, it’s nice that my old man worries about me,” he added.

  K.C. beamed. “Yes, he does. So don’t get yourself killed.”

  “I won’t. Make sure you do the same.”

  K.C. shrugged. “I’m invincible. I spent years as a merc and I’ve still got most of my original body parts.” He made a face as he moved his shoulder. “Some of them aren’t up to factory standards anymore, but I get by.”

  Rourke grinned. “Same here.” He searched K.C.’s hard face. “When?”

  “When, what?”

  “When do you want to do the paperwork?”

  “Oh. The name change. Why not get it started tomorrow? Unless you’re leaving for Barrera early?”

  “Not until Thursday,” Rourke replied. His face softened. “I’d like that.”

  K.C. nodded.

  Rourke went back to his room to start packing.

  * * *

  The paperwork was uncomplicated. The attorney was laughing like a pirate.

  “I knew,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “It was so damned obvious. But I knew better than to mention it. Your old man,” he added, to Rourke, “packs a hell of a punch.”

  Rourke fingered his jaw, where there was only a faint yellow bruise to remind him of his father’s anger when he’d accused him of being Tat’s real parent. “Tell me about it,” he laughed.

  K.C. managed a bare smile. “I need to have a few classes in anger management, I guess,” he sighed.

  “No, Dad,” Rourke said without realizing what he’d said, “you’ll do fine the way you are. A temper’s not a bad thing.”

  K.C. was beaming. Rourke realized then what he’d said and his brown eye twinkled.

  “Nice, the way that sounds, son,” K.C. said, and his chest swelled with pride.

  “Very nice.”

  “Well, I’ll have this wrapped up in no time,” the attorney told the two men. “You can check back with me in a few days.”

  “I’ll do that,” K.C. said.

  * * *

  Rourke walked out the door of his house with a suitcase and a suit bag, in which he had a dinner jacket, slacks, shirt and tie. He was going to look the best he could. He was so excited about the day to come that he hadn’t slept. Tat would be there. He’d see her again, but not in the same way he’d seen her for eight long years. Tomorrow night was going to be the best of his life. He could hardly wait.

  * * *

  The flight to Barrera was long and tedious. Rourke caught the plane at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. It was sixteen hours and eight minutes to the Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus. He tried to sleep for most of the flight, only fortifying himself with food and champagne in between. He was impatient. He had to conduct this like a battle campaign, he thought. Tat wasn’t going to be welcoming, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent years tormenting her.

  Finally the plane landed. The tropical heat hit him in the face like a wet towel, and it was something he wasn’t accustomed to. Kenya was mild year-round.

  He went through passport control and customs, with only the carry-on bag and his suit bag. He always traveled light. He hated the time spent waiting for luggage at baggage claim. Much easier to travel with only the essentials and buy what he needed when he arrived. He didn’t advertise it, but he was quite wealthy. The game park kept him in ready cash, from tourism. Not to mention what he’d made for years as a professional soldier, risking his life in dangerous places. It was wonderful that K.C. was his father, but Rourke didn’t need his father’s financial support. He’d made his own way in the world for a long time.

  He walked through baggage claim and looked for the appropriate sign, which would be held up by a limo driver he’d hired from Nairobi on his cell phone. He could easily afford the fees and he hated cabs.

  The man spotted him and grinned. Rourke, dressed in khakis, tall and blond and striking, with the long ponytail down his back could never be mistaken for anyone except who he was. He looked the part of an African game park owner.

  He smiled as he approached the man.

  “Senhor Rourke?” the small dark man asked with a big grin.

  Rourke chuckled. “What gave me away?” he asked.

  “You do not remember?” the little man asked, and seemed crushed.

  Rourke had an uncanny memory. He stared at the man for a minute, closed his eye, smiled and came up with a name. “Rodrigues,” he chuckled. “You chauffeured me around the last time I was in Manaus, just after the Barrera offensive. You have two daughters.”

  The man seemed to be awash in pleasure. “Oh, yes, that is me, but, please, you must call me Domingo,” he added, wringing Rourke’s hand. Imagine, a rich cosmopolitan man
like this remembering his name!

  “Domingo, then.” He drew in a breath. Jet lag was getting to him. “I think I need to get a hotel room for the night. I’m flying out to Barrera in the morning. General Machado is having an awards ceremony.”

  “Sim.” The man nodded as he climbed in under the wheel. “Several people are to be honored for their part in overthrowing that rat, Arturo Sapara,” he added. “My cousins were tortured in Sapara’s prison. I danced with joy when he was arrested.”

  “So did I, mate,” Rourke replied solemnly.

  “One lady from Manaus is to be awarded a medal,” Domingo said with a smile. “Senhorita Carrington. I knew her mother. Such a saintly lady,” he added.

  “Saintly,” Rourke said, almost grinding his teeth as Domingo pulled out in traffic.

  “Creio que sim,” Domingo replied, nodding. “She was kind. So kind. It was a tragedy what happened to her husband and her youngest daughter, Matilda,” he added.

  Rourke drew in a long breath. “That was truly a tragedy.”

  “You know of it?” Domingo asked.

  “Yes. I’ve known Tat...Clarisse,” he corrected, “since she was eight years old.”

  “The senhorita is a good woman,” Domingo said solemnly. “When she was younger, she never missed Mass. She was so kind to other people.” His face hardened. “What that butcher did to her was unthinkable. He was killed,” he added coldly. “I was glad. To hurt someone so beautiful, so kind...”

  “How do you know her?” Rourke asked.

  “When my little girl was diagnosed with lymphoma, it was Senhorita Carrington who made arrangements for her to go for treatment at the Mayo Clinic. It is in the United States. She paid for everything. Everything! I thought I must bury my daughter, but she stepped in.” Tears clouded his eyes. He wiped them away, unashamed. “My wife and I, we would do anything for her.”