Once a Warrior

by Fran Baker

  “Lots of guys have come walking out of the jungle after a crash that should have killed them.” He couldn’t tell her that he was living proof of that. Not without blowing his cover. If he closed his eye, though, he could still see the doctor looking down at him sympathetically and saying how sorry he was that they couldn’t save the other one.

  “But?”

  “They’re the exception, not the rule.”

  Feeling her control starting to frazzle, she lowered her head and looked at her hands. Later she could grieve. But now, not knowing what waited around the next bend, she needed to keep it together.

  “I guess I’ll go lie down for awhile.”

  “I could be wrong, you know.”

  She raised her head and smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Good night, Cain.”

  He stared down at her for a long reflective moment before he turned his attention back to the river. “Good night, Cat.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Good morning.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Why?” Cain grinned at her over the mug of coffee he’d poured from the pot on the stove, his eye gleaming like polished silver. That was the only thing about him that could even remotely be called “polished,” though. His hair was rumpled, his clothes wrinkled, and a night’s growth of dark stubble shadowed his jaw, carving intriguing hollows in the planes of his face. “Are you playing ‘Beat the Clock’?”

  “Very funny,” Cat sniffed as she swung her legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. Then she shoved her own disheveled hair out of her eyes and squinted at him. She’d only meant to lie down for a few minutes, to cry for a little while, and had never dreamed that she would actually go to sleep. But the rocking of the boat and the rumbling of the engines had been so soothing that she’d just drifted off. And had slept like the proverbial log.

  Now the sun was peeking through the porthole, almost blinding her with its brightness, and the smell of freshly perked coffee filled the cabin.

  She breathed in its delightful aroma. “Is there enough of that to go around?”

  “Sure is.” When she made to get to her feet, he waved her to remain where she was and set his own mug aside. “I’ll get it.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She planted both palms in the small of her back and arched it, stretching her cramped muscles.

  “Milk or sugar?” he asked her over his shoulder.

  “You have sugar?”

  What he had was a small pink-and-white box of cubes in the pantry, which she’d apparently overlooked the night before. “One or two?”

  “Two, please.” It felt strangely intimate, watching him pour and stir sugar into her morning coffee. She squirmed, discomfited by the thought, and wished that she’d just gotten up and done for herself.

  Waiting on her didn’t seem to bother him in the least, however. To the contrary, he appeared happy to do it. He was neat too, sponging off the counter after setting the pot back on the burner and replacing the box in the pantry. Much neater, she mused, than—

  Mentally Cat sprang erect. There was no comparison between Johnny and Cain. None whatsoever. Johnny was her Blue Angel, while Cain was . . . She skimmed her gaze over the unruly hair, the broad shoulders that stretched the seams of his T-shirt, that tough, street fighter’s body. Cain was the devil’s own.

  “One coffee, two sugars.” He caught her studying him from behind when he turned to face her. For an instant their gazes locked, reinforcing the feeling of intimacy that had so flustered her only seconds ago. Then that buccaneer’s grin curled his mouth, and he handed her the mug.

  Flushing slightly, she smiled her thanks and took a sip. The sweet, steaming liquid scalded her tongue, but she wouldn’t have spit it out if her life had depended on it. Feeling as if she’d swallowed a flaming sword, she racked her brain for something—anything—to say.

  “I didn’t hear you come down this morning,” she finally managed.

  “I washed up, but I figured showering and shaving would be pushing it.” The sunlight caught his wide, white smile in his beard-darkened face.

  She looked away from that disturbingly attractive smile. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Couple of hours.” He’d backed into a narrow canal, out of the line of fire, and had gone below to see if she was all right. She’d been curled up in a ball on his bunk, the silvery paths of her tears streaking her pale cheeks. Before he could do something stupid, like bury his face in her copper-penny tangle of hair that provided such a striking contrast to those black pajamas, he’d gone back up on deck and stretched out on the portside bench. And had awakened with an erection like a telephone pole.

  “Where are we now?”

  “About thirty miles south of Saigon.”

  “How much farther do we have to go?”

  “You’re a regular Baby Snooks this morning, aren’t you?”

  Back on familiar ground, Cat tossed him a cheeky smile. “Keep that up and I won’t offer to make you breakfast.”

  “You can cook, huh?”

  “I make a mean cheese omelette.”

  “A cheese omelette I can handle.” Leaning back against the sink, Cain took another sip of his cooling coffee and eyed her across the cabin. “But mean”—he shook his head and smiled slowly—“it’s way too early for mean.”

  He was coming on to her, she realized, and felt herself go cold all over. And she, a married woman, was coming right back at him. Blocking out an unbidden image of Johnny’s serious face, she pushed to her feet

  “I’ll wash up, and then I’ll fix us something—” Her voice broke, and though she turned away quickly, he saw the tears spring to her hazel eyes.

  He saw the ghosts, too. The husband who had disappeared without a trace and the life she had planned with him shredded by the winds of this stinking war. Vexed, he topped off his coffee and headed for the hatchway.

  “I’ll be topside if you need me for anything.” And she would need him, he told himself. Before this ended, she would need him as much as he was beginning to need her.

  Cat felt so hot and sticky and smelly that she decided to take a shower. In lieu of shampoo, she washed her hair with soap. After she’d toweled off, though, she was in a dilemma as to what to put on. She couldn’t force herself to wear her underclothes again until she’d rinsed them out in the sink, so she settled on the pantyhose and black pajamas.

  She combed her hair and left it loose, figuring the sun would bake it dry. Found toothpaste in the medicine cabinet, next to the mosquito repellent, and spread some on her index finger to brush her teeth. Then, praying that the bra and panties she’d left hanging on the only towel rack got dry before Cain needed to use the bathroom again, she went back out into the cabin and whipped up their breakfast.

  The heat and the humidity that greeted her on deck staggered her almost as much as the tricolors he was flying.

  “What’s with the French flag?” She’d almost dropped the paper plates and plastic forks she was carrying when she saw it hanging limply from the mast that speared up into the bleached blue sky.

  Cain smelled his soap on her skin when she entered the wheelhouse and decided that the second—okay, the third—best route to a man’s heart was through his nose. Nodding his thanks, he took the first and dug in. “I found it when I was tearing this baby apart and figured it might come in handy someday.”

  Since Johnny had left, Cat had eaten most of her meals alone. Now, even though it meant she had to stand, she opted for company. “But given the hundred years of bad blood between the French and the Vietnamese, isn’t that a little like waving a red flag in front of a bull?”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “Not this week.”

  She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Why not this week?”

  “Great omelette, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice and fluff—”

  “The French flag,” she reminded him.

  He savored the last bite. Swallowed it r
eluctantly. “Charles de Gaulle said something the other day that really pissed off the Americans. Now he’s back in Charlie’s good graces.”

  “Charles de Gaulle?”

  “The president of—”

  “And the leader of the Free French during World War Two.”

  “You certainly know your French history.” The language too, he recalled with a rueful smile.

  “I ought to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “My mother is French. She met my father during World War Two, and they were married in Paris.”

  Finished eating, he set his empty plate on the instrument panel. “Ah, that explains the cheekbones.”

  She tilted her head back just as he turned to look at her. “Whose cheekbones?”

  His smile deepened as he took her plate from her limp fingers. “Yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Accents grave”—his forefinger grazed first her right cheekbone, then her left—“and aiguë.”

  Shivers chased over her skin. At the same time, the air in the wheelhouse grew heavy and thick, making it hard for her to breathe. Thrilled yet terrified by the tenderness of his touch, she stepped back on legs that had jellied and looked past him.

  Cain read the fear on her face and blamed himself for putting it there. “I’m sorry, Cat, I shouldn’t have done—”

  “There’s someone out there.” She said it so softly that it took a few seconds for her words to sink in.

  When they did, his pulse hit a lick and his nerves sang to life. He heard it now, the sucking sound of footsteps in the murky rice paddy that lay just a couple of klicks beyond the canal. Viet Cong returning from their hard day’s night in Saigon, he wondered, or Americans tracking them down?

  Panic beat like bat wings in Cat’s throat when six Vietnamese guerrillas wearing pith helmets stepped up onto the bank, which was covered with knee-high saw grass, and pointed their guns at the occupants of the boat. Their faces were young, but sinister. All had the menacing expressions of men who weren’t afraid to either kill or be killed.

  “I can see— Oh, God—they’ve got—”

  “Don’t go off the deep end on me now, for Christ’s sake.” Cain’s voice was low but harsh and brooked no argument. “Just do exactly as I tell you—no questions, no complaints—and we’ll be fine. Understand?”

  She made herself breathe in, breathe out, slow and normal. “Yes.”

  It was too late to curse himself for not getting an earlier start, Cain thought, as he pivoted on his heel and saw the guerrillas’ hostile faces. Or for not locking and loading instead of fooling around with Cat. He only hoped it wasn’t too late to talk them out of plugging him full of holes. God knew what they would do to her if they killed him.

  Because he was smart enough not to do anything stupid in the name of heroism, he yanked the .45 out of his waistband and twirled it, presenting her with the butt of it. “Do you know how to shoot this?”

  She took it, surprised at how heavy it was, and gripped it with both hands as she looked at him fearfully. “No. I—I’ve never even held a gun before.”

  “Lai day!” The tallest of the VC, who seemed to be in charge of the small squad, waved his Soviet AK-47 in an impatient come-here gesture.

  Realizing he didn’t have time to give her more than a quick lesson, Cain said, “Just point it at their balls and shoot.” He grinned crookedly then. “If it’ll help improve your aim, pretend it’s me.”

  She answered with a sickly smile of her own. Then she watched, her stomach churning, as he stepped out of the wheelhouse and approached the rail with his hands raised. He’d dropped anchor in the middle of the canal. That was smart, she realized, because the guerrillas would have to swim if they wanted to confront them physically. Distance, however, was no barrier against their bullets.

  Cat had no idea what Cain said when he spoke to them in Vietnamese, but was relieved to see the guerrilla leader’s sneer turn into a smile. Then he pointed to the French flag he was flying and said something else in a vicious tone that caused all three of them to burst out laughing. Obviously relaxed by the “hail fellow, well met” atmosphere, he pulled a cigarillo and his Zippo out of his jeans pocket and fired up.

  That prompted their leader to make a new demand.

  Cain spoke to them in Vietnamese again, then addressed Cat in English over his shoulder. “Lay the gun on the floor and go below. In the drawer under the bunk, there’re some cartons of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes and Chesterfields and Salems. Bring me a couple of each.”

  Knowing that he was fraternizing with the enemy, had probably even cursed America’s presence in their country, didn’t keep her from racing across the deck and down the hatchway to do as he’d ordered. She’d been so tired and depressed last night that she hadn’t even noticed the drawer. Now, as she pulled it open with shaking hands, she discovered that it contained several dozen neatly stacked cartons of cigarettes.

  Tell him for me that he’s a goddamned traitor.

  Colonel Howard’s words rang in her ears as Cat slammed the drawer shut and carried the cigarette cartons back up on deck. Her arms loaded, she moved toward the rail. Cain threw his burning cigarillo into the stagnant brown water, where it drowned with a sizzle, then took the cartons from her and tossed them, one by one, to the guerrillas on the canal bank.

  Their leader still wasn’t satisfied, however.

  He glanced at Cat speculatively, gestured at first himself and then her, and said something to Cain.

  Despite the sweat that was beading on her face and pouring down her back, Cat froze. She might not understand the language, but she understood perfectly well what that leer on the leader’s acne-scarred face meant. He wanted her.

  His followers smiled their hearty approval of the suggestion.

  To her relief, Cain replied with a negative shake of his head and an unequivocal, “No.”

  Cat relaxed her guard too soon. Whether Cain was simply taking advantage of the situation or trying to emphasize his point with the VC, she couldn’t even begin to guess. But when he pulled her into his arms, tipped up her chin with a callused thumb and dipped his head, she knew exactly what he was going to do.

  “Sorry,” he said softly just before his hard mouth captured hers in a kiss.

  Shudders coursed through her, liquid and hot, as his lips moved over hers. A whimper of protest issued from her throat and her hands made a futile attempt to push him away. She pressed her lips together tightly, trying to deny him access to that which he sought so avidly.

  But his mouth was as skillful a thief as he was. It slanted against hers, taking her breath. It gentled on hers, winning her trust. Then it opened over hers, robbing her of the will to resist.

  Her fingers clutched the front of his T-shirt and her head fell back. An aching deep inside her yawned wide. Her lips parted and his tongue arrowed home with a force that licked at her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. A tremulous sigh shook her whole body as feelings she’d thought she’d buried came flooding back. His heat seared her through their clothes. She welcomed it, wanted it, nurtured the flames it ignited in her.

  Cain pulled back once to look at her face, saw himself in the cloudy depths of her eyes, and then his mouth crushed down on hers again. He hadn’t meant for things to go this far. Had merely intended to show those stupid bastards that they couldn’t have her. But now that he’d touched her, now that he’d tasted her, he couldn’t let her go.

  The sun beat down on them with fiery fists as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. She tilted hers, the better to accommodate him. Her world careened when he used his tongue to make slow, sweet love to her mouth. Her senses reeled when he cupped her derriere and pulled her higher and harder against the front of his body. She clung to him dizzily, her fingers sinking into the long, straight strands of his hair and surrendered to the power of his lingual persuasion.

  Cat had never received such a blatantly erotic kiss. Not even from Johnny. Had always held something of herself
back. Even from Johnny. Now guilt pierced her to the core at the realization that she’d given her all to Cain, and she shrank away from him. There was fire in him like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and she wanted to put it out before it was too late.

  “Stop,” she pleaded, batting at his hands and backpedaling to put some distance between them. “Please, stop.”

  His breathing was so harsh that it was several seconds before he could speak coherently. “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter?” she repeated stridently. “I’m married to another man, that’s what’s the matter!”

  Ignoring the boiling cauldron churning in his stomach, he lashed back with, “A man who’s officially presumed—”

  “Don’t say it!” She knew in her heart that it was true, and yet she wasn’t ready for such a truth. “Presumed is a hell of a long way from confirmed.”

  Cain stood silently for a moment, watching her struggle with her emotions. He wanted to turn away, but forced himself to face the pain in her eyes. The pain he’d put there, he reminded himself in disgust.

  “This is all my fault.” He dragged a repentant hand through his hair. “I instigated it. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  Her face burned, as much from shame as from the scrape of his beard. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “I guess I don’t,” he admitted, his own ire rising now. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I’m as much of a traitor to my husband as you are to your country!”

  The instant the words left her mouth, Cat wanted to snatch them back. She’d always had something of a temper. A sharp tongue on occasion, as well. Her father blamed it on her red hair, while her mother claimed it was because he’d spoiled her rotten. But she’d never intentionally hurt anyone before the way she had Cain just now.

  And she had hurt him. She’d seen it in his bleak expression right before he’d turned his back on her. Saw it yet as he stood motionless at the rail, staring out at the bank. His feet were braced a shoulders’ width apart. His hands, balled into fists, were held rigidly at his sides.