Hot Soldier Down

by Cindy Dees

  Drained, she slumped on a chair beside him and watched him sleep, the way she had for the past seven weeks around the clock. Dawn lightened outside the window, and fatigue dragged at her.

  By now she knew his features almost better than she knew her own. The smooth plane of his brow, the aggressive slash of his eyebrows, the sweep of dark lashes against lean cheeks. She’d only seen his eyes on the rare occasions he was awake, but their smoky-blue color was unforgettable. Intelligence burned like a beacon in Tom Foley’s gaze.

  His personnel records verified her observation. Summa cum laude from Texas A&M, fluent in Spanish and Chinese, top graduate in his Special Forces training. Heck, just finishing that grueling course was an accomplishment.

  He stirred in his sleep, and she leaned over him to trail her fingers through his thick hair. It was the one thing that always seemed to calm him. His forehead was warm under her palm, but she was familiar enough with him to know it wasn’t a fever. He just ran to the hot side.

  Without warning his good arm snaked up around her neck. He yanked her down, twisting so she landed partially beneath him. She stifled a scream. Man, he was fast! She spoke carefully. “Good morning, Tom. Do you always tackle people like this?”

  The corner of his generous mouth curved upward. “When they look like you, I do.”

  His heavy, solid body pressed her down into the sagging mattress, and lust roared through her. He was her charge, her patient, for crying out loud. She had no business panting after him. “Any chance you could let me breathe, here?” she gasped.

  His weight immediately eased off her, but he didn’t turn her loose. His thigh lay across her legs. One of her arms was trapped beneath him, and her free hand pushed to no avail against his muscular chest.

  “Good grief, Tom. Be careful, will you? I haven’t spent all this time nursing you back to health just to have you break everything again in some macho display.”

  Up close his eyes were the color of a stormy sky. “Let’s talk, shall we, Annie?”

  His voice was dangerously soft. It hinted at violence if she didn’t give the correct answers. She gulped. He’d always seemed so harmless lying unconscious in a hospital bed. He’d responded like a puppy to her touch, eager, grateful even. Nothing had hinted at this deadly side of his personality.

  “What would you like to talk about?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice even.

  “The apartment’s free of bugs?”

  “Well, it’s got a cockroach problem, but I’ve laid in a good supply of bug spray.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he stared at her with that saber-sharp stare of his. Suddenly he looked very much like the trained killer she knew him to be. And she was alone with him in a grungy apartment in a foreign city. A flippant attitude probably wasn’t the wisest choice right about now.

  She cleared her throat. “No bugs. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Everything. Like how she’d nearly killed him? Like how she’d broken his bones and caused him weeks of suffering? Like how she was responsible for deciding his life was less valuable than her own? No way. She didn’t have a death wish.

  “Everything covers a lot of territory. Could you be more specific?”

  “When and where did you first see me?”

  “On the helicopter pad at the American embassy seven weeks ago.” A glimpse of a heat blob on the infrared radar didn’t really constitute seeing him.

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “You, lying on the roof with a steel cable tangled all around you. A Marine guard cut you out while the embassy doctor and one of your men did some fancy first aid to stop the worst of the bleeding.”

  “Joe Rodriguez. He’s the Blackjacks’ medic.”

  “Your men haven’t introduced themselves to me.”

  He leaped on her words like a prosecuting attorney. “I thought you said they came to visit me at the hospital.”

  “They did. But they weren’t exactly chatty. They’d slip in, sit with you for a while, maybe whisper a word or two to you and then leave.”

  “It was a risk to come see me. The government could’ve been using me as bait to draw them out. Were they disguised?”

  She cast her mind back through the days and nights of her anguish and guilt to those ghostly visits by his men. “Come to think of it, I guess they were.”

  “When was the cover story for me put in place?”

  “Before you left the embassy. While the doctor and your medic stabilized you enough to move, the paperwork was done.”

  Skepticism laced his voice. “That’s pretty damned fast.”

  “You were pretty damned hurt,” she retorted.

  “So you stuffed me in your car, drove me and both our fake visas to the hospital, and strolled into the emergency room?”

  “More like I ran screaming into the emergency room, but yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Five hours of surgery to repair your kidney, set and pin your arm, fix the rest of your settable fractures and sew up the worst cuts that the doc and Rodriguez hadn’t already gotten to. Then you slept for six weeks.”

  “When did my men come see me?”

  “One of them came right after you got out of recovery and were put in your room. The tall, blond one.”

  “Dutch.”

  The nickname fitted the guy. He was a solid six foot five of Nordic blond good looks. “He came in, read your chart, nodded at me and left. The next guy didn’t visit for about a week. After that, one of them came in every couple days to check on you.”

  “That would’ve been enough time for them to establish covers. Excellent. They didn’t lose their cool and do anything stupid.”

  “I didn’t think any of you Special Forces guys were stupid.”

  “We’re not. But we are intensely loyal to each other. There’s always a chance emotion will get in the way when one of our own is hurt.”

  “You guys get pretty close, huh?”

  “You could say that.” The very flatness of his voice spoke volumes.

  “Anyway, you woke up eventually, and you know the rest.”

  “I remember you doing things to me.”

  Discomfort blossomed in her gut. She’d taken over most of his day-to-day care, not only to help out an overburdened nursing staff, but also because she’d gotten, well, possessive of him in the weeks of watching over him.

  “What do you remember?” she asked hesitantly.

  Surprisingly, he was the one who looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. “You gave me massages.”

  She nodded.

  “And you gave me medicine. Painkillers.”

  She nodded again.

  He frowned. “And sponge baths?”

  She winced and nodded a third time.

  “Damn! And I slept through it?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m still going to have to help you until you get your strength back. The embassy doctor wants you to stay in bed for another couple weeks.”

  “Two more weeks? No way.”

  “Tom. You were terribly injured. You’ve got to give yourself time to heal.”

  “I’m sick of being laid out like a slab of meat.”

  She wiggled out from under him and sat up, glaring down at him. It was hard to concentrate when his hand settled in the small of her back like that. “Tom.” Drat. Her voice sounded as breathless as she felt. “You’ve got to stay in bed.”

  “And just how are you planning to make me do that?”

  She was intensely aware of how much bigger and stronger than her he was. There was no way she could forcibly make him do anything. “What’s it going to take to keep you in bed?”

  Sexy sparks lit his eyes, making them glow bright blue. “If you kept me entertained enough, I might be convinced to stay here.”

  “Entertained, huh? How do you feel about gin rummy? I play a mean game of it.”

  “Hate gin rummy.”

  “Cribbag
e?”

  “Nope.”

  “Strip poker?”

  A grin split his features. “Now you’re talking.”

  She shook her head, grinning. “My father taught me never to gamble with strange men, especially when clothes are involved.”

  “Too bad. But he’s right.”

  She stared at him thoughtfully. “Would you accept some sort of bribe to stay in bed?”

  His grin widened, took on a suggestive slant. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Outrageously expensive chocolate would work on me. How about you?”

  “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

  “Oh. Isn’t that un-American?”

  He shrugged. “There is one thing I might like enough to stay in bed for…”

  She perked up. “If it can be had in Gavarone, it’s yours.”

  “Oh, it can definitely be had in Gavarone.”

  “Name it.”

  “You.”

  She blinked. He sounded serious. “Come again?”

  “You. If I can have a taste of you, I might be convinced to stay in bed a little longer.”

  She felt hot all of a sudden. “And just what constitutes a ‘taste’ of me?”

  He considered her for a moment. “A kiss.”

  She gazed at him narrowly. “What’s the catch?”

  “Just one thing.”

  She groaned. “I knew it. What?”

  “I need a preview. To make sure you taste as good as I think you will. Besides, you owe me two kisses for walking out of the hospital.”

  “You’ll stay in bed if I play along with this foolishness?”

  “I pinkie swear.”

  A shudder of pure delight whisked down her spine. He was a job, dammit, not her boyfriend! “Two kisses to pay you back for not making me carry you out of the hospital. Then we’re square.”

  “Three kisses. You owe me one for staying in bed today.”

  She did her best to sound resigned. It was better than letting on how her heart was racing and her breath was suddenly strangely short. “You realize, of course, that this is blackmail and you’re a bully.”

  “Poor little good girl,” he crooned as he levered himself upright. “A big, bad sinner like me had to come along and spoil everything.” The smile faded from his eyes, leaving them as bleak as a cold winter sky. He leaned forward and his mouth descended toward hers.

  “Welcome to hell, angel.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tom was in trouble the second his lips touched hers.

  She tore away his defenses, revealed his weakness. She made him feel, damn her. Women were part of his personal life. His other life. The one that had nothing to do with being under cover, trapped in a hostile nation on the verge of civil war. Warm lips, silky skin, the smell of lavender—those had no place here.

  And yet…

  Against his will he tasted her. Sweet. Soft. He’d forgotten how good a woman could taste. So very long he hadn’t allowed himself this pleasure. It was like…coming home.

  Memories of jungles and rebels, of death and the hunt, fell away from him like so many discarded bits of useless trivia. The razor edge of his habitual tension dulled, softened. Escape ceased to matter. Anything ceased to matter but this moment.

  One by one his senses reawakened as her mouth moved beneath his, her body became restless next to him. Her arms went around his neck, and he swept her up against him with his good arm. Ahh, God. That felt good. Slowly, reluctantly, he emerged from the chrysalis of pain he’d lived in for all these weeks. Too late he realized the damage was done. His cocoon was pierced, light already seeping in, calling to him to come out and fly. He could no more deny its summons than the butterfly.

  Reluctantly he surrendered to their kiss, taking Annie with him, up, up into unfolding currents of air and warmth. He was exquisitely aware of the softness of her mouth, of her gossamer fragility. He felt her shyness in the way she hesitated, in her awkward movements. He’d caught her off guard. His training and instincts urged him to capitalize on her weakness, to press his advantage. But he restrained the hunter in himself; he let her come to him.

  His breath caught in his throat, forgotten in the enjoyment of her. His mouth opened against hers, asking for—and receiving—permission to take more.

  This time she arched into him, her arms tightening around his neck. Her abandon spun him around like a carnival ride. A chuckle, or maybe a growl, rumbled in the back of his throat, and he loosed the hunter, closing in on his prey.

  His arms formed a solid cage around her, and he used his weight to trap her in place. His mouth slanted across hers, his tongue plunging and exploring at will. The sheer force of his abrupt desire startled him.

  She turned her head a little to catch her breath, and he followed, stalking her, granting her no escape. Surprisingly, she didn’t evade him but rather met his pursuit head-on. The hunter had met his match.

  ANNIE GASPED FOR AIR, stunned by the intensity of their kiss. This was no tentative, first-time exploration. This was lust, greed, covetousness and gluttony all at once. A single thought pierced her consciousness.

  If this is hell, let me burn here forever.

  She reveled in surrendering, gloried in stalking him back. She sought his unyielding hardness, loving his strength—even in his weakened state. She couldn’t imagine him in full health.

  His lips wandered across her cheekbones, her eyelids, her chin, nuzzled her ear and nibbled her neck. His mouth returned to hers, settling upon hers in a perfect fit.

  In those endless nights beside his sickbed, she’d wondered sometimes what it would be like to kiss him. She couldn’t fail to notice that, beneath his bruises and wounds, he was a gorgeous guy. Even unconscious, he’d radiated an aggressive male aura of sexuality. But her idle fantasies hadn’t even begun to match the reality.

  His neck was a warm, muscular column beneath her fingers. The tendons beneath her palm tensed as if he would move away from her, and she tightened her grip. He smiled against her mouth and stayed.

  His mouth moved across hers with finesse, and she returned the favor, savoring the warm, male taste of him. After a delicious eternity, he lifted his mouth. She blinked and opened her eyes, gazing into the loveliest blue-gray gaze she’d ever seen.

  “Wow.” He cleared his throat. “Okay then. I guess that counts as all three kisses.”

  Her face flamed with heat. She moved to get up, but his arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist. He pulled her back down easily. “Don’t go,” he murmured. “Stay for a minute.”

  Here he was, being nice to her, and he didn’t even know she was the one who almost killed him. She pulled her tattered defenses around herself and reached for a light tone of voice. “Long assignment in the jungle, soldier?”

  “Not especially. I just wanted to say thank you for helping me.”

  He was thanking her? During all those days and nights of watching over him, his pain had become her pain, his suffering, hers. Her guilt at choosing to sacrifice him rather than die herself had been boundless, and it rose up to choke her anew. Tears burned the back of her throat and she swallowed hard. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  She sat with him until his breathing gradually slowed into the unhurried rhythm of sleep. He murmured a protest, but did not wake as she eased away from him. Wobbly, she stood and looked down at him as he slept. What the hell had just happened here?

  It was all well and good to fantasize about being swept off her feet by some big, strong, macho male, but she knew very well that the reality of men like him was another thing altogether.

  She’d only spent the last eight years in the military fending off guys just like him. Had she learned nothing? When she’d first joined the Air Force, she’d been young and naive, relatively inexperienced with dating. And then suddenly she’d found herself in pilot training, surrounded by fast, confident, wannabe fighter jocks. It had been a cannonball into shark-infested waters.

  She’d fallen for a
couple of them. But fortunately she’d wised up fast, before she got burned too badly, and before her reputation got shot to pieces.

  To guys like Tom Foley the military was their life—their wife, mistress and true love—all rolled into one. They had neither the time nor the inclination to sustain meaningful emotional relationships. They weren’t bad people. They just didn’t do love.

  If those types of guys found a woman along the way who was willing to spend twenty years stashed away in some cruddy base housing facility somewhere, waiting and worrying over them, the Tom Foleys of the world weren’t dumb enough to say no. But she’d seen plenty of those relationships head south when the men finally did retire—cynical, psychologically messed up and emotionally fried.

  No, thank you. She was having nothing to do with a man like Tom Foley.

  In the meantime, she needed to stop by the embassy and make a few last-minute arrangements. She figured it would be at least tomorrow before the Gavronese government, which was a veritable model of inefficiency, came looking for her to see if she knew where the American patient had gone. She had to be fully in hiding by then.

  She glanced around the dingy bedroom. It needed help. She and Tom were going to be stuck here for a while, and this depressing room wasn’t going to help his frame of mind one bit. Oh, and she needed to lay in more food. He was no doubt going to eat like a horse.

  Fortunately, the apartment had a working refrigerator. There’d been several biology experiments growing in it when she rented the place, and it had taken her a whole day to work up the courage to clean it out, but it was spotless now.

  She tiptoed out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her. She took a critical look around the apartment’s main room, cataloguing items she’d need to make the place a little more hospitable. Home décor was completely out of her realm of expertise or give-a-crap, but if cheering the place up meant Tom would heal faster and they could get out of this town faster, she would gladly channel Martha Stewart.

  Tom was still sleeping soundly, his good arm flung wide over the covers. Satisfied he’d be unconscious for several hours, she eased out of the apartment, locking the door carefully behind her.