The Soldier, The Nun and The Baby (Anne Stuart's Greatest Hits Book 2)

by Anne Stuart

  She shook her head, staring at him in mute pleading. He turned, shielding her behind his strong back. “You see, gentlemen. The lady is not uncertain, merely tired and impatient.”

  “If she grows tired of you, hombre,” the man said with a coarse laugh, “I’ll be more than happy to step in. I have...” She didn’t understand the rest of the sentence. She could guess what he was referring to, but she didn’t want to. Color stained her cheeks once more as Reilly guided her up the rickety old staircase.

  Dutchy was waiting for them, peering at her in the dim light. “Second door on the right, bathroom down the hall.” He spat for emphasis. “You’re our only guests right now, so it’s a private bath. Two hundred American dollars a night.”

  “You’re the soul of generosity,” Reilly said.

  “A man must support himself the best he can. Just be glad the soldiers downstairs are moving on tonight.”

  “Why should it matter one way or the other?” Reilly said carefully.

  Dutchy tried to peer at her, then gave up when she wouldn’t lift her head “You tell me, amigo.”

  Carlie waited until they were in the tiny room. Waited until Reilly closed the door behind them and Dutchy’s footsteps echoed down the hall. And then she looked around her.

  It was far from reassuring. There was one bed in the room, a small, sagging iron one, with a faded chenille cover, two limp pillows and an oil lamp beside it. There was nothing else in the room.

  “Where will the baby sleep?” she asked carefully, avoiding the more disturbing question.

  “He’ll stay with the Shumi. I figure he’ll be safer there. Right now he’s with the chief’s wives, being treated like royalty.”

  “I wonder how they’d feel if they knew he was the grandson of the man who was responsible for the genocide of three-quarters of their population,” Carlie said bitterly.

  “It would make no difference. The Shumi revere children, even those of their enemies.” He tilted his head, looking at her. “You don’t sound too fond of old Hector yourself.”

  “He was a monster.”

  “That’s right, he was your stepfather, wasn’t he? Still, it was his money that provided you with your comfortable life-style. His death that took it away from you. I would have thought you’d be more grateful.”

  “His money was drained from the blood of the people.”

  “Are you certain you’re not a revolutionary?” he asked in a lazy voice. “It’s a little late to change sides—the rebels aren’t going to welcome you and your son with open arms.”

  “They’re just as bad. They’re willing to kill anyone who gets in their way, all for the sake of their noble cause,” she said bitterly. “And it’s the children, the innocents, who get caught in the middle.”

  “Lord, what a bleeding heart,” he said mockingly. “You ought to be a missionary.”

  It took her unawares, the sharp stab of pain. Suddenly she was seventeen years old again, on a hot afternoon in a mountain village, and her parents were

  being gunned down, they were screaming, she was screaming, there was blood...

  “Stop it!” His voice was rough, hurried, as he yanked her against him. The room was hot, he was hot, and yet she shivered, unbearably cold and alone.

  His hands were hard and painful on her arms, forcing her out of the strangling fog of horror. Back into reality, the here and now, which wasn’t much better. “Stop what?” she managed to say faintly.

  “You looked as if you were about to faint. Or scream. I’m not sure which would be worse.” He didn’t release her, though his grip had loosened slightly so that she felt the warmth, the strength, the imprint of each long finger as it wrapped around her arms. “Then again, I don’t suppose either would be much of a problem. If you fainted I could simply dump you on the bed and not have to worry.”

  “And if I screamed?”

  His smile was slow and dangerous. “There’s a logical explanation for that, as well.”

  “What?” She was genuinely perplexed.

  His smile faded, the stormy color of his eyes growing darker still as he watched her. “Lady,” he said bluntly, “your love affairs have been the scandal of three continents. Don’t tell me in all that time that no one ever made you scream when you made love.”

  She blinked. Her practical knowledge of sex was nonexistent, her theoretical knowledge so vague and so outdated that it was almost useless. She had only the faintest notion of what he was talking about, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to explain. She tried to pull away, but he wasn’t about to let her go.

  “If they haven’t,” he continued, his voice low, disturbing, “then maybe I’ll have to expand your horizons.”

  She held very still. He was going to kiss her. She knew it. She wasn’t quite sure why—he hadn’t shown much fondness for her up to now. But then, fondness didn’t seem to have much to do with desire. She’d gathered that much over the years, from scraps of conversations she’d heard. It had never made much sense to her.

  He gave her plenty of time to escape, to turn her head. But she couldn’t. She felt mesmerized, curious, as his head dipped down, blocking out the light, and his mouth touched hers.

  It wasn’t bad, she thought with surprise. The roughness of his beard, the firm contours of his mouth, the warmth of his body so close to hers were all quite.. .nice.

  He lifted his head, and she took a startled breath. “That’s very pleasant,” she said ingenuously. “I think I-”

  He didn’t let her finish the sentence. His mouth came down over hers again, but this time it was open, against hers, and he was putting his tongue in her mouth. She tried to jerk away, but he’d threaded one large, strong hand through her hair to hold her in place, and there was no escape, nothing to do but stand still and let him kiss her with devastating thoroughness.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed, blotting out the faint light, blotting out everything but the feel and taste of him. It was terrifying, it was smothering, it was dangerously splendid. She wanted to kiss him back, but she hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about it. She wanted to lift her arms and touch him, but she was afraid to. He had his mouth on hers, his hand behind her head, but otherwise he wasn’t touching her. And yet she felt captured, possessed, yearning, and she started to sway toward him, wanting that heat and strength tight around her.

  He pulled away abruptly, taking a step back. She wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly cold, and lifted her eyes to look at him.

  His breathing was slightly rapid, his mouth was damp, but apart from that he appeared completely unmoved. “You kiss like a virgin,” he said flatly.

  It was probably meant to be an insult. Instead it simply frightened her. Now wasn’t the time for Reilly to discover she wasn’t who he thought she was. Not with Timothy out of reach and the place crawling with soldiers.

  “I don’t like kissing,” she said. A complete lie. As devastating as it was, she’d found her first kiss to be downright wonderful. She wanted him to kiss her again.

  “That’s a shame,” he drawled. “It’s a lost art.”

  I ’m Caterina , she reminded herself, trying to hold on to her fast-fading self-control. “Perhaps,” she said coolly, trying to sound suitably sophisticated. “I’ve never learned to appreciate it.” True enough, she congratulated herself.

  “Perhaps,” he echoed her tone, “I could give you lessons.”

  She backed away from him, unable to hide her instant panic. Reilly didn’t miss it—he wasn’t a man who missed much—but he said nothing.

  “I don’t think so,” she finally managed to say, pushing her short-cropped hair away from her face. “And I don’t see why we have to share a room. Didn’t the owner say this place was empty right now? Surely I could have my own room?”

  Reilly’s smile was cool and fleeting. “Sorry, your highness. You’re staying with me. Those weren’t just any ex-soldiers lounging around downstairs, propositioning you. I made sure you couldn’t see them and th
ey couldn’t see you, but I imagine you recognized their leader’s voice.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, no longer caring if he guessed the truth.

  “Well, maybe you wouldn’t be that likely to run into your stepfather’s chief executioner. He didn’t travel in the same social circles. That was Endor Morales, sweetheart. Quite possibly the most dangerous man in all of San Pablo, and it was just our dumb luck to run smack into him.”

  She fought back the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. “Do you think he suspected anything?”

  “Morales didn’t get as far as he did by being a trusting soul. He suspects everything and everybody. But as far as Dutchy knows, I’m just a low-life expatriate, probably a drug runner, with no interest in San Pablo politics. Morales won’t be able to get anything else out of him, though I imagine he’ll try. At lest the baby’s out of the way, and we can probably manage to keep him a secret for a few hours. Long enough for a decent night’s sleep and then we can get the hell out of here.”

  “Can’t we leave now?”

  “No way. Morales and his men will be watching us like hawks. Any change in our plans would set off alarm bells. We said we were going to spend the night, so we’ll spend the night.”

  “But the baby...”

  “The baby will be safe. I didn’t come this far and go through this much hassle to let anything happen to him. The Shumi will keep him out of everybody’s sight, and we’ll be out of here first thing in the morning. For the time being all we can do is sit tight.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t be. Morales didn’t seem any more than casually interested. As long as you stay close you’ll be safe enough.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you, Reilly!”

  “Stop sounding like an outraged virgin,” he said wearily. “Your honor, such as it is, is safe with me.”

  That was the second time in as many minutes that he’d called her a virgin. If she pushed it, he might begin to realize there was an unexpected truth to his accusation. He’d already turned his back on her, moving to the front of the room to stare out into the streets, dismissing her, and she told herself he wasn’t interested. His kiss had been nothing more than another intimidation tactic.

  “Am I allowed to take a shower alone?” she demanded frostily.

  “Unless you want me to wash your back.”

  She couldn’t tell from his voice whether he was being facetious or not, but she decided not to push it. “When can I see the baby?”

  He turned. “Keep away from the kid. He’s as safe as he can be, and having you come waltzing around will just put him in danger. Dutchy’s out of gas, and so is the damned jeep. He’s supposed to get a shipment in the next day or two, so if Morales and his men have gone, it would be worth our while to wait. Otherwise we’ll have to head out on the river. Or by foot.”

  “I think I’d prefer to ride,” she said faintly.

  “I imagine you would. Don’t hog all the hot water. Assuming there is any,” he added. “I wanted a shave, as well.” He rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw.

  “Don’t do it on my account.”

  “Honey,” he said wearily, “this is all on your account. If you hadn’t run off from Billy and then decided to come back when things got a little hairy, neither of us would be in this mess. You’d be safe and sound in the States, the baby would have a nanny and you wouldn’t have to be bothered with worrying about the little kid. You’d be out partying.”

  “I doubt he’d find a better nanny than the Shumi women,” Carlie said. “And I don’t like parties.”

  “Since when?”

  She shut her mouth. She wasn’t made for deception. She wasn’t made for hostility, she wasn’t made for men, or kisses. And yet here she was, trapped smack-dab in the middle of it all. Unable, and unwilling, to escape.

  “Take your shower, Carlie,” he said, turning back to the window, dismissing her. “I’ll be here when you come out.”

  “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

  “You’d better believe it. Unless you’d rather take your chances with the soldiers downstairs?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  He turned to look at her. “If you don’t know, then I’m not going to bother explaining.”

  For a moment she didn’t move. He was a big man, tall, lean and strong. The stubble of beard on his chin, the dark amber eyes, the rough contours of his face suggested power and danger. And yet she trusted him, more than she ever thought possible.

  The gun was tucked in the waistband of his khakis. It was a big gun that fit his big hands. It would keep her safe. It would keep Timothy safe.

  “I know the difference, Reilly,” she said, her soft voice an apology. She grabbed her knapsack and shut the door behind her, heading in search of the bathroom.

  But behind her she heard the slow, savage curse of a man pushed to his limits. And she wondered why.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  There was no question about it—she was making him crazy. There was no escape, either—with Dutchy prowling around, his piggy eyes suspicious, alert for ways to make an easy buck, Reilly had to keep up pretenses. Not to mention that small band of Mendino’s Black Shirts downstairs, complete with Butcher Morales watching over them. It wouldn’t take much for them to come after Carlie, even without knowing who she was. She was female, she was pretty and he was the only thing that was stopping them. If they decided they could take him, it would be her death warrant. And it wouldn’t be a pleasant way to die.

  He glanced over at the bed. It barely qualified as a double, and that concave middle would roll their bodies together despite their best efforts. Maybe he should just say the hell with it, give in to temptation and have her.

  Despite her maidenly airs, he knew perfectly well he could. Hector Mendino’s daughter was notoriously easy, and she needed him. Add to that the look in the back of her eyes when she glanced his way, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She wanted him, all right.

  It was neither conceit nor imagination that told him so. It was his instinct, honed ever time, and they hadn’t failed him yet.

  He sank onto the bed, the springs screaming in protest beneath his big frame. At least the place looked relatively clean, and the sheets smelled like sunlight. He wondered what it would be like to sleep beside Carlie’s shower-fresh body, on sheets that smelled of sunlight.

  The notion was dangerous. He could always spread his bedroll on the floor, though the scarred wood promised to be a lot harder than the packed jungle earth. He’d found Billy’s wife in a convent—it would be suitably penitential for him to sleep on the floor.

  The very notion of Our Lady of Repose still unnerved him. He’d always made an effort not to fall into that mind trap so many men, particularly those who’d been raised Catholic as he had, were prey to. Some thought women fell into two groups, whores or Madonnas. But in reality, life was never that orderly or convenient.

  He liked women, he truly did. He liked their looks and their bodies, the foreign way their minds worked, the crazy way their emotions worked. He liked their laughter and their tears, their husky little cries, their feel and their scent and their taste.

  But for so long there’d been no room in his life for anything more than the briefest of relationships that he’d almost forgotten how much he did like them.

  Now was a hell of a time to be remembering. He was trapped with a small, slight yet tough young woman who’d made his best friend’s life a living hell. A woman who couldn’t be further from what he wanted or needed. A woman he seemed to want and need anyway.

  He heard a noise out on the street, and he wandered over to the window. Morales and his men were making a great show of leaving, something that failed to reassure him. He expected they wouldn’t be going far.

  There was no sign of Dutchy sending them on their way, another oddity. A man like the old innkeeper would be m
ore likely to send his powerful customers off with admonitions to stop in again. If Dutchy wasn’t downstairs, then he was somewhere else.

  Reilly could move very fast, very quietly, even in heavy boots. He could hear the sound of the shower from the end of the darkened hall, hear Carlie humming beneath her breath. He paused for a moment, alone in the darkness, picturing her. What would she look like beneath the shower? The water sluicing down over those small, firm breasts of hers, breasts that had never nursed a baby. Her belly would still be soft from the pregnancy, her waist still thickened. The kid was less than a month old—it was amazing she’d had so much stamina. His sisters had been in a state of exhaustion when his nieces and nephews had been a month old, and they’d had all the benefits of modern life. Besides not having to trek through a jungle.

  For a moment the thought of his older sister Mary, she of the placid disposition and the taste for sloth, being on a forced march through the rain forests of San Pablo brought a rare smile to his face. One that vanished when he heard a tiny knocking noise from the bedroom next to the shower.

  The door was ajar. He pushed it open silently, and his night-trained eyes focused on Dutchy, his fat face pressed up against the wall, staring avidly through a narrow crack that let in a shaft of light.

  The rage that filled him was immediate and overpowering. Dutchy never knew what hit him. One moment he was pressed up against the wall, drooling over the inhabitant of the shower room, in the next he was flat on his back on the floor, with Reilly kneeling over him, his big hand wrapped around Dutchy’s wattled throat.

  “Get a good eyeful, Dutchy?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “I could make you very sorry you decided to play Peeping Tom with my woman.”

  “Hey,” Dutchy gasped, “I didn’t mean no harm. I was just looking, is all. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a white woman around here? A look doesn’t do any harm, and I didn’t figure you for a possessive guy.”

  “You figured wrong. I’m very possessive,” he said, increasing the pressure just slightly. Enough so that Dutchy’s tiny eyes began to bug out even more, and he clawed at Reilly’s arms uselessly. “Mess with me or my woman again, and you’ll get more than a warning.”