Make Mine a Marine

by Julie Miller

  "Am I the she-bear?"

  Short of breath and good sense, he could only stare when she turned and faced him. She clutched the soap between her supplicant hands, then crossed her arms over her breasts. But as much as her tempting Venus body mesmerized him, he found he couldn't look away from the hopeful curiosity in her golden-green eyes.

  "Yes," he answered simply. "I saw you on a vision quest. Last December. Seeing Brodie Maxwell again, when his wife was in trouble, reminded me of some things I needed to deal with. I went home to Nebraska to visit my mentor, Otis Peace Hands. He helped me with the ceremonies and led me to the vision."

  "Of me?"

  Many in the Anglo world didn't have patience or interest in learning the details of his native traditions. But he sensed—he hoped—that Sarah might be different. She possessed the curious mind of a true scholar. And right now she was a frightened vessel, set adrift in the world, needing answers to questions to regain security and a sense of balance.

  He rarely shared this side of himself. He'd been rejected before for being strange, unnatural, even heathen. But he'd been able to resist little where Sarah McCormick was concerned. And here in this sheltered glade, feeling warm and wet and tired, humbled by Sarah's trust, he found he could no more resist her pleading, needy request than a starving man could say no to a morsel of food.

  "I didn't know it was you at the time," he explained. "But certain signs tell me that you are the mother Kodiak I saw."

  "What signs?" She swayed closer. Automatically, Hawk clasped his fingers over her hips to steady her at arm's length.

  "Your hair, for one." He pulled a strand of its silky length from the water and draped it over her shoulder like a modest cloak. "It's the same caramel-brown color of Kodiak fur.

  "And your eyes…" He swept his gaze back to the irresistible golden light there. "Tawny. Like the bear's."

  Though her lids were pink and puffy, her gaze was clear and bright.

  "You have the most beautiful eyes." It pained him to do anything that might douse the light there. But she had asked for the truth. "The bear in my vision had her heart ripped out. She had a red, bloody wound on her chest."

  Sarah squeezed her hands tightly against her heart. Her voice was little more than a mournful wheeze. "Like the blood on my shirt today."

  "Not exactly." Hawk breathed in deeply, turning his face to the sound of a pair of wild macaws, calling in the treetops above them. How could he explain the aura of heartsickness he'd read in her that first night at the town meeting? How could he tell her that he'd envisioned her as his salvation? And knowing that, how could he justify having failed to keep her safe time and again?

  "This is difficult for you to talk about, isn't it?"

  In a move as miraculous as it was gentle, Sarah touched his brow. She trailed her fingertips along the lines of tension that spanned from his forehead to his temple. Then she laid her hand to rest against his cheek.

  He basked in the healing power of her attentions, unable and unwilling to pull away. He looked down at her and mimicked the same actions with his own fingers on her face.

  "You always help when you're needed, don't you? It's not in your heart to let anyone else suffer. The bear spirit is so strong in you. Let it heal you, too. Don't give away what you need for yourself."

  He felt the timid pressure of her fingertips in his hairline. "Does your bear die?"

  He felt a tremble shimmy through her body, or maybe it was his own shuddering response to the piteous plea in her voice. "I don't know."

  He tightened his grip and tilted her face up to his. "I do know she was fierce and valiant, and she saved her cubs."

  He cradled her face in both hands now, possessively, tenderly, beseechingly. "We have to write our own endings to what we envision in life. And I swear to you, despite my failures, that I will keep you safe. I will get you home."

  "The girls are my cubs?"

  "I think so."

  "Thank you." That merest of whispers caressed his ears and settled like a balm over his own doubtful heart. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

  "You're welcome." Her words healed his vulnerability. And the aura surrounding her head and shoulders lightened with a silvery glow. Her bath, his words—somehow, he had finally done the right thing and helped her. He'd led her back to her own strength, and in doing so, had rediscovered his own. "You're welcome, schoolmarm."

  And then it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to dip his head and capture her mouth in a gentle kiss. In one intake of breath he remembered her request the night before, the impropriety she worried about, something deeper she feared in his touch.

  But in the next breath his worry had disappeared. She didn't pull away. She didn't murmur a protest. She slid her fingers into his hair and parted her lips and welcomed him.

  Hawk explored her mouth with a reverence and gratitude befitting the esteemed status of her spirit guide. He tasted the sweet, tender skin along the inside of her mouth and sipped at the corner with his tongue. Then he felt a delicate suckle along the harder rim of his mouth, the unmistakable tug of her soft lips shyly demanding something more from him.

  Barely aware of his own chest-deep groan, he gathered her in, flattening his hands over the smooth lines of her back and pulling her close. She wound her arms around his neck and stretched herself tightly against him like a cat settling into her lair. She angled her mouth to offer him greater access, and Hawk plunged in, claiming her with a natural rightness reserved for normal men.

  An equal partner in this embrace, Sarah made gentle demands of his lips, and Hawk willingly complied. She was eager to learn and he was eager to teach the teacher the simple, ecstatic joys of a nip on her earlobe, or the tracing of a damp pattern of kisses down the column of her neck. And the teacher turned the tables, teaching herself, and him, the delights of little nibbles along his jaw, or the press of a kiss to the soft underside of his chin.

  Never had any loving felt so pure, so perfect.

  Never had a kiss made Hawk feel so powerful, so human. Never had a woman felt so right.

  Hawk reclaimed her mouth and Sarah squirmed against him, the tips of her breasts beading like tiny brands piercing his chest. An unbidden, welcome rush of heat pelted his body below his waist. He slipped his hands lower, captured her hips, and rubbed himself against her. The heart-stopping friction eased his ache, yet intensified his desire.

  And scared Sarah to death.

  At least, the sudden whimper in her throat and the startled push of her hands against his chest and the quick ducking of her face made him think he had scared her. He sensed she was new to all this, she'd just been traumatized, and still, like an insensitive brute, he'd overwhelmed her with his own needs.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered as she pulled away. He moved his hands to the neutral location of her shoulders, needing her to balance him as much as he intended to balance her.

  Water swept in between them, along with concern and regret for Hawk. "Sarah, that was unforgivable. I didn't mean to—"

  "Don't." She touched his chest and he fell silent.

  Water lapped at the tops of her breasts, creating a hushed drumbeat of sound as she tried to even out her breathing. Hawk inhaled deeply, lifting his gaze from the tempting sight. He drank in the air, filled with the sickeningly sweet perfume of flowers, and found the steamy atmosphere couldn't quite provide his lungs the reviving air they needed.

  Maybe his lungs weren't working properly, because Sarah began to pet him. She brushed her fingertips along his chest, his face, his neck and shoulders. They were gentle, apologetic strokes, as though she wanted to soothe a restless beast.

  Did she see him that way? A primitive man-beast who couldn't control his wants or temper? Hadn't he behaved in exactly that way?

  "Honey…"

  The endearment dipped out, but he quickly snatched it back with silence when the caressing stopped and she clenched her hand into a fist between them.

  "You must think I'm a t
errible, mixed-up, teasing, prudish spinster."

  She spoke the apology to his chest, and a flash of anger aimed at the men who had made her believe such garbage mingled with his own regret. "I think you're an incredibly courageous, first-class lady who's been through hell today."

  She tipped her chin up and met his gaze, looking surprised by the vehemence in his voice.

  "I apologize for taking advantage of that. But I don't for one minute believe that you're a tease or a prude." He shook his head, not sure how to make her understand. "A man doesn't get turned on like that by an unresponsive woman. You make me crazy with the way you touch me. Being shy doesn't make you a tease, and being unmarried sure as hell doesn't mean you're a prude."

  He tightened his fingers around her shoulders to emphasize his sincerity. "I'm only sorry I pushed you into this today. I wanted you, and I didn't take into account how you might be feeling."

  "I wanted you to kiss me." Her quiet voice stunned him into silence. "You weren't taking advantage. I needed to be held like that. I needed you. You brought me back to reality. I'm sure I'm through this yet. But I have to be strong for the girls right now, and you helped me. You made me feel almost…"

  Her eyes rounded, big as saucers, then shuttered again.

  "Almost what?" Hawk prodded.

  She smiled, but the sweet curve of her mouth didn't reach her eyes. "I'm glad you're with us. I'll try to be a little less crazy from now on, okay?"

  "Sarah?"

  But she had already left him, slogging her way through the water toward the shore. She covered herself as the water got shallow. Exposed to her hips, she stopped. "I don't have any clothes."

  She kept her back to him, and Hawk bit down on the urge to tell her that her reticence came too late. He'd already seen and felt most of her. But he didn't think of her as a lady without good cause.

  With a gut-deep sigh that revealed the remnants of frustration, anger, caring and desire, Hawk quickly waded to shore and picked up the black T-shirt he had discarded earlier. "Here. You can wear this until you get back to your tent and change."

  She stared at the material dangling from his hand and then looked up at him expectantly. Then she did the damnedest thing and twirled her finger in the air, asking him to turn around. His initial reaction to her belated modesty cooled into something bordering on possessiveness and protection. If she wanted to cover herself, then he wanted her to be covered.

  With his back to her, he heard the water dripping from her skin as she climbed out, and the squish of her footsteps on the muddy beach. She snatched the shirt from his grasp, and he imagined he could hear the whisper of soft cotton settling over her softer skin.

  "Thank you," she whispered, then darted around him down the path, carrying her boots.

  Hawk stood where he was, transfixed, breathing deeply, or maybe not even breathing at all. She'd wound her hair into a cord and pulled it over her shoulder, giving him a clear view of her backside scurrying down the path. His shirt engulfed her slender figure, hanging to her thighs. But it clung to her wet skin, hinting at the graceful length of her back, the slim nip of her waist, and the seductive flare of her hips.

  Hawk dove back into the water and prayed for the self-discipline his body couldn't seem to remember around Sarah. A cold shower would have been a greater blessing than this warm bath. But he reckoned that a man who couldn't do his job right and couldn't remember his place got what he deserved.

  Chapter Eight

  I am He who commands the sun.

  All others of this earth are but ants that swarm at My feet. I provide all that is needed. I take all that is due Me.

  I am He.…

  The royal litany, first spoken by the gods for Him, obeyed by peasants and soldiers alike, rang through His consciousness like a war cry.

  But why was He at war? Had He not brought peace to the land, and ruled with Prini at His side for long, fruitful years? Long enough to build a great city from the black rock from the far side of the island. Long enough to secure the tribute of the native tribes. Long enough to see His people know him for a god and make His will their own.

  What had disturbed Him? Who had dared to invade His kingdom? Why had He been summoned from the land of the gods?

  He focused His mind and tried to make sense of His surroundings. He traveled quickly, like a canoe manned by eight powerful slaves. But He did not hear the silent rhythm of their matched strokes. These noises were uncommonly loud, not the natural sounds of the jungle. The whining cacophony was a cruel attack on His ears, and difficult to ignore.

  He wished for the blessed peace He had once known. But the sounds were not new. They had first come to Him like the distant rumble of thunder, the faint, incoherent stirrings of a gathering enemy. Now His enemies were close at hand, close enough to touch, close enough to make out words of a language He did not understand.

  He'd been fast asleep when the first disturbance had jarred Him into a level of dreamlike slumber. In a dimly remembered passage of minutes, or perhaps eons, he heard the sounds again. Over and over. It had taken Him a long time to awaken. A long time to acknowledge the presence of an enemy.

  And an even longer time to understand that He was alone.

  They'd left Him alone for all eternity.

  Fools!

  The petty fools had defied His wishes. They had taken it in their small mortal minds to disobey His final request.

  Rage boiled within Him. Glimpses of dreams became clear-minded purpose. He sped along under a power not His own, carried in a land canoe with thunder captured in its prow. Inspecting the cargo beneath him, He realized these thieves carried booty that was rightfully His. He moved into a container, felt the familiar warmth of things cherished. He hovered there, absorbing the bold-spirited heat of a gold icon. It was set atop a staff of carved, polished teak. Men had cowered before that symbol of power.

  Marriages had been bestowed. Harvests blessed. Men had been killed by the one who had wielded that staff.

  He surfaced, feeling stronger now. The abhorrent sounds receded, and He could sense the presence of another. This one was weak, not like the warrior's mind He had first touched, then trailed from the tomb.

  He passed through walls, following the peculiar stench as much as the simple mind. A peasant. He could tell at once, hovering in the small confines beside the man. His clothing might look different, but the sun-weathered skin and small-minded expression were the same.

  This peasant held a circlet of gold in his right hand while he steered the land canoe by a round, black rudder in his left. He recognized the golden gift and watched how this rank peasant defiled the gold by touching it and fondling the garnets and emeralds once worn by His beloved.

  He gathered Himself, focused on His rage. The peasant glanced around nervously, like a small animal sensing the presence of something much larger about to spring upon it for dinner. He watched the telltale beads of sweat break out on the peasant's upper lip. And like the victorious hunter, He knew the prey was His.

  He reached out.

  Pitiful little man.

  The peasant saw Him with his mind and screamed.

  He gave a little nudge, laughing inside at the small man whose screams jarred the air in the tiny land canoe. The man jerked and He pulled away, freeing Himself from the acrid smell of imminent death.

  The canoe careened into the trees like hunted prey cornering itself. It smashed through the trunks and leaves and sailed into the air, soaring for a moment like the great harpy eagle. Then it plummeted to earth and burst into flame.

  A common peasant was hardly a worthy sacrifice, but the burning pyre at the foot of the cliff soothed the obsessive quest for vindication.

  He gathered Himself after the exertion of the hunt, savoring the victory, enjoying the semblance of silence.

  But He turned when He sensed others coming. Others who had violated His sanctuary and denied Him the one thing He wanted most.

  He would find them.

  He would f
ind them all and punish them for what they had done.

  I am He who commands the sun. Bow down before Me.

  Or know My wrath.

  Sarah stared at the toffee-colored plait of hair she held in her fist and remembered her father's sad words when she'd cut it short back in college. You don't look like my little girl anymore. He'd meant it as a compliment, a signal that he knew she was growing up. But shortly after that, her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. And other than a regular trim to keep it looking neat, she hadn't cut it since. Her father had found great comfort in familiar things.

  She'd found comfort in them, too.

  But little in Tenebrosa felt familiar. And nothing about today left her feeling like a little girl.

  She flung the braid behind her back, knowing what she must do. But it wasn't easy. Dear Lord, it wasn't easy.

  Hawk had bathed her and calmed her and comforted her with his gentle hands and voice. He had washed away the touch of another man, but he couldn't reach inside and cleanse her of what she herself had done.

  She'd selfishly taken five innocent children away from their homes and families just so she could experience the adventure of a lifetime.

  Some adventure.

  She'd killed a man. While he’d ripped at her clothes and put his hands on her, she’d reached into the foliage for his gun. When he sat back to unzip his pants, she’d raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. Just like that. A man was dead.

  She'd involved the girls in covering up a crime against Tenebrosa. Tomb-raiding. There were probably international laws against that sort of thing.

  And now, because of her, they'd been left to die.

  Sarah studied the pile of drab, shapeless clothes she'd been told to leave behind. The tans, whites, and browns represented a lot more than her safe, boring taste in clothing. They symbolized the woman she'd always been. Reserved, predictable, responsible. She'd always done what was expected of her.