by Anne Stuart
He released him and rose. Dutchy immediately curled up into a fetal ball, gasping and choking, cursing as he fought to regain his breath. A moment later he managed to stagger to his feet, stumbling out of the room, falling against the doorframe as he went.
The sound of the shower was still going. Carlie probably hadn’t heard a thing. For that matter, Dutchy probably hadn’t seen a thing. He’d been waiting for Carlie to finish, so he could watch her as she dried off.
He stood very still for a moment, in the darkened room. He could still feel Dutchy’s neck beneath his hands, still feel the burning contempt that had washed over him, combined with an irrational, possessive rage. There was no reason for him to feel possessive. She wasn’t his, and she never would be.
He needed to walk out of that room and slam the door behind him. But the crack in the wall let a narrow sliver of light into the room, and it called to him, with a siren lure.
He could think of any number of reasonable excuses. He needed to know just how much Dutchy had seen, so he could decide whether to poke his eyes out or not. He needed to look and see how strong she really appeared to be, whether she could withstand the rigors of the remainder of the journey. He needed to look and make sure she hadn’t collapsed in the shower, oblivious to the scuffle in the other room.
He needed to look and remind himself that she wasn’t the kind of woman he desired, that he didn’t like small, trim bodies. He liked statuesque blondes, built along generous lines. He and Billy had been alike in that, though Reilly had always preferred his women to come equipped with brains, as well.
He needed to look and see what Billy had fallen in love with.
Damn it, he just needed to look.
There was no shower curtain. The shower was a rusted-out metal stall with a drain at the bottom, and Carlie stood beneath the stream of water, face upturned, oblivious to everything but the pleasure of the water sluicing down over her.
She was small, just as Reilly had suspected. Small, firm breasts, narrow waist, flat tummy. Smooth, creamy skin, beaded with water.
He backed away, furious with himself. Furious with the adolescent surge of desire that threatened to knock him to his knees. He was no better than Dutchy, a horny old man drooling over a naked woman.
He’d seen enough naked women in his thirty-six years to take one in stride. She wasn’t the skinniest, the curviest, the shortest, the tallest, the ugliest, the prettiest. So why was he having this inexplicable reaction to her?
Jungle fever. Not enough food, not enough sleep. Hell, he needed a drink. Pushing away from the wall, he headed into the hallway in search of that very thing. Only to run smack-dab into Carlie, wrapped in an enveloping towel, hair and eyelashes spiky damp with water.
He looked down at her, keeping his expression cool and distant while he took into account that this towel was much thicker than the one he’d first seen her in. He couldn’t see the shape of her breasts beneath it. But then, he didn’t need to. He could remember quite vividly how they’d looked, taut with water streaming down around them.
“I take it you like prancing around in towels,” he drawled. “Billy never told me that about you.”
Even in the dimly lit hallway he could see her flush. “I forgot to bring my clean clothes in with me,” she said. “What were you doing in that room?” She glanced over at the empty bedroom.
“Catching a Peeping Tom. Our friend Dutchy was watching you take a shower.”
She clutched the towel even tighter around her slender body. It would be easy enough to take her hands, move them away and pull the towel off her. He could pull her into his arms, wrap her legs around his waist and carry her back to the room. And he had no doubt that Caterina Morrissey would let him.
“What did you do to him?”
“Let’s say he won’t be making that mistake again for a long time,” Reilly drawled.
“What about you? Did you look?”
He gave her his best, most cynical smile. “What do you think, princess?”
“I think you’re a pig,” she said fiercely.
“Now that sounds more like the Caterina Mendino I’ve heard about,” he drawled. “Did you save me any hot water like I asked?”
“No.”
“Just as well. I think I’m needing a cold shower about now.” And he sauntered past her, with just the right amount of swagger.
* * *
Carlie wanted to kill him. A white-hot surge of anger whipped through her veins, and she shook with the effort to control it. She didn’t like anger. She wasn’t used to strong emotions, love or hatred, desire or spite. She’d been in his company for less than forty-eight hours, and already she’d been through a lifetime of emotions. Each time she felt something fierce and implacable it was harder to draw her hard-won serenity back around her.
She slammed the bedroom door behind her and pulled on clean clothes. It was marginally cooler that night, and the oversize white T-shirt disguised her lack of a bra. The loose cotton skirt hung low on her hips, brushing her ankles, but she took comfort in the feel of cloth against her legs. She wanted to be back in the safety of her cell, in the safety of her habit. This world was strange and unsettling.
Reilly was strange and unsettling. But he was the only safety she had left in her life, at least for now. She could make it through the next few days, long enough for him to get the baby safely out of the country, on his way to his grandparents. And then she would tell him the truth, make her way down to Rio de Janeiro with the sure knowledge that she’d been tested, most thoroughly, and risen above temptation. Surely Reverend Mother Ignacia could no longer deny that she had a calling, that she was ready to take her vows.
She moved to the window, running a hand through her damp hair. It was dark and quiet out there, only the occasional bark of a stray dog, the call of a jungle bird piercing the humid night. She leaned her head against the wall, staring.
She missed Timothy. His quiet little sounds, the warmth of his small body against her. She knew with complete conviction that he was well taken care of, yet she couldn’t ignore the small, empty ache in her heart.
It would be worse, of course, when they got out of the country. Reilly would take him away, up north, to the big, soulless cities of the United States, and she would most likely never see him again. He would have grandparents to love him, and he would never even know about Sister Mary Charles, so important a part of his life for such a short, sweet time.
She heard the door open behind her. “You ready for dinner?” Reilly asked casually.
She made the mistake of turning to look at him. In the dim light of the oil lamp she could see him far too clearly. He was wearing a towel, and nothing more, and she had no doubt he’d done it purposely. Though there was no reason that he’d think a woman like Caterina Morrissey de Mendino would be discomfited by the sight of a man dressed in nothing but a towel.
But Sister Mary Charles was. She stood there, momentarily transfixed, staring at him.
His long black hair was wet, pushed away from his angular face, and he’d cut himself shaving. She’d known he was a big man, but without clothes he seemed even more massive. Not that his shoulders were immense, or his muscles bulky. He was lean and wiry and powerful looking, like no other man she’d ever seen. Dangerous and beautiful, he was like a jaguar she’d once glimpsed beyond the walls of the convent. Sleek and hard and mesmerizing. And she wanted to touch him.
“Close your mouth, Carlie,” he murmured. “You’ll catch flies.”
She closed her mouth, still staring. He had a very tempting mouth himself. Wide, mocking, narrow lipped and sensual, it curved into a mocking smile at her trancelike state. “Better close those beautiful blue eyes of yours, as well,” he added. “I’m about to get dressed.”
She whirled back to the window just as he began to reach for the towel at his waist. She could feel the color flood her body, and she could only thank God the room was dark enough that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment.
S
he stood there, staring mindlessly out the window, listening to the sound of clothes rustling. The snap of elastic, the rustle of cotton, the unnerving rasp of a zipper being pulled. That zipper told her she was now safe from future embarrassment, and she started to turn back.
He was directly behind her, dressed, thank God, though he hadn’t bothered to snap the faded jeans he wore, and he’d left the khaki shirt loose and unbuttoned, bringing his smooth, bare chest unnervingly close. “Even your ears are blushing,” he said, reaching out and pushing a damp strand away from her face. There was a shattering tenderness in the gesture. She didn’t want tenderness from this man, from any man. “Why would I blush?” she said in what she hoped was a suitably offhand voice. “I’ve seen hundreds of naked men.”
“Besides which, if you’re going to prance around in nothing but a towel, you’re going to have to expect me to follow suit,” he murmured. He was no longer touching her, but he was dangerously close. She could smell the soap on his skin. Toothpaste on his mouth. Danger in the air.
“I wasn’t prancing,” she said in a strangled voice. “And I wasn’t blushing.”
“You’ve spent too long at that convent,” he said, closer to the truth than he’d ever know. “Some of the sisters’ modesty must have worn off on you.”
She stiffened. If she had any sense she’d ignore him. But she wasn’t feeling very sensible. “Do you think I’m trying to entice you?” she snapped.
“Not likely. You’ve been giving off that touch-me-not look for days now. I would have thought Caterina Mendino would have been more interested in cementing her right to protection, but you seem to take my nobility for granted.”
“You’ll protect me for Billy’s sake,” she said, certain at least of that.
“Wrong.” He touched her again, with both hands this time, pushing her damp hair away from her face.
“You won’t protect me?” Her voice wavered slightly. It wasn’t the fear of his withdrawing his protection that made her tremble deep inside. It was the feel of his long, hard fingers on her skin.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll protect you. But not for Billy, and not for the baby. Not for the sake of those beautiful, lying blue eyes of yours.” He ran his fingers across her cheekbones, and her eyes fluttered closed for a brief, dangerous moment.
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t like to see the bad guys win. I don’t like bullies, I don’t like it when weaker people get hurt.”
Her eyes shot open. “Who says I’m weak?” she demanded.
“Oh, you’re not. Not in spirit. But a strong man could snap your neck in an instant. If you pushed him far enough. And you’re a pushy broad.”
The notion was so bizarre she had to smile. Meek, gentle Sister Mary Charles was a far cry from a pushy broad, but as long as he believed it, so be it. But one more thing was troubling her.
“Why do you say I have lying eyes?” she asked, wishing he’d take his hands from her face. Afraid of where else he might put them.
That cynical smile broadened. “They look so innocent. So sweet, and honest, and shy. But I know damned well Caterina Morrissey de Mendino doesn’t have a shy, innocent bone in her body. You’re a barracuda, lady. You may not look the way Billy described you, but I imagine your soul is just as twisted.”
This was dangerous ground. About the only thing she had in common with Caterina was dark hair. Caterina had been tall and shapely, even in the advanced stages of pregnancy. Her eyes had been brown, Carlie’s were blue. Her feet had been big, her manner imperious, her tastes extravagant.
She raised her eyes and looked at him, for a moment hiding nothing. “Maybe you should believe my eyes,” she whispered, “and not what you’ve heard.”
He stared for a moment, unmoving, his hands cupping her upturned face, and she wondered if he’d kiss her again. Instead he backed away, suddenly, as if he’d looked into the face of a bushmaster. For a moment he looked dazed, and her sense of disquiet grew.
She lifted a hand to call him back, but he’d already turned from her. “I’ll find some food for us,” he said brusquely. “If I were you I’d stay put. I put the fear of God into Dutchy, and Morales and his men have left, but I don’t trust them to have gone that far.”
“What about the baby?”
“I’m going to check on him right now. In the meantime, sit tight. It’s not safe around here, and I’m not in the mood to play hero.”
“You don’t really have the right qualifications,” she said sharply.
He paused by the door, buttoning his shirt. “Oh, yeah? I would have thought I’d be perfect hero material. I’m big, a number of women have told me I’m handsome, and I fight on the side of law and order.”
“You’re a conceited oaf,” she said, shocked at herself.
“Now you, on the other hand, don’t quite qualify as a damsel in distress. You’re too strong, and you lie too much.”
There it was again, that trickling of unease. One she quickly squashed, as she realized he was about to abandon her in this Spartan hotel room. “Can’t I come with you? I want to make sure the baby’s all right.”
“You can stay put. I’m going to check out a few other things while I’m at it, and I don’t want you trailing around behind me, getting in my way.”
“I can be very quiet.”
“No,” he said, his voice sharp. And he closed the door behind him before she could utter another protest.
She stared at that door, remembering. She’d promised to do as she was told, no questions asked. She needed to keep that promise, to sit on the bed and wait until he deigned to return. She needed to ignore her empty stomach, her anxiety, her curiosity. She needed to remember the vows she wanted to take. Vows of obedience. Poverty. Chastity.
But she hadn’t made those vows yet—Mother Ignacia hadn’t let her. And she certainly had made no vows of obedience to Reilly.
Nor vows of chastity, either. She wasn’t going to sit alone in that room, in the middle of the bed she’d be sharing with him, waiting for him to return. She was hungry, she was edgy, she was out in the world, for a short, dangerous time.
She wasn’t going to spend that time cloistered in a hotel room as if it were her cell.
She opened the door and went after him.
* * *
Chapter Eight
* * *
Blue eyes, Reilly thought. Innocent, lying blue eyes, staring up at him. With a soft, tremulous mouth that needed to be kissed. Blue eyes, and a firm, slender body, with small, high breasts.
Billy Morrissey had had blue eyes, as well. Two blue-eyed parents, and the tiny baby Carlie carried strapped to her slender body had eyes that were already turning brown.
His knowledge of genetics wasn’t that exact, but he somehow doubted that two blue-eyed parents would have a brown-eyed child. So which one was the real parent? Carlie? Or Billy?
It made sense that Caterina Morrissey de Mendino had lied about the father of her child. After all, the Morrisseys were wealthy Americans who could provide a decent home for a baby. The real father could be anyone—a decadent member of the jet set Caterina used to pal around with, or one of her stepfather’s bodyguards. Or anyone in between. No, her estranged husband was the most convenient choice, and whether he was anywhere near San Pablo ten months ago probably didn’t matter.
He could hardly blame her. She was doing what was best for the baby, and if that included lying to everyone, so be it. He could find a certain grudging respect for a mother willing to risk it all for her child.
There was only one problem with that scenario. She didn’t have the body of a woman who’d given birth less than a month ago. She might love that baby with a fierce, maternal passion, but she certainly hadn’t given birth to him.
Of course, there could be any number of reasons for her masquerade. She could enter the United States as the widow of a citizen, but as the mother of a U.S. citizen, as well, her residency would be assured. She’d also have claim to the Morrissey mo
ney, which would be hard for anyone to resist. Chances were she was some friend of the real Caterina’s, with the same expensive tastes.
Odd, he thought, moving silently through the shadowed street toward the Shumi encampment. She looked a lot younger than Caterina should have been. A lot more innocent. It must be part of her stock-in-trade. Along with an indefinable ability to make people want to believe in her. And he, the cynic of all time, was finding it far too easy to believe in her, as well.
Which all went to prove he’d been right in getting out. Not re-upping when his last tour of duty came to an end, heading out for his mountaintop in Montana, away from danger and distractions. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was marginally more vulnerable than he liked. He had to be, falling for a lying little tease.
Except she hadn’t kissed like a tease. One thing was for sure—she was lying to him, lying through her teeth, and he intended to find out the truth. In that small, concave bed tonight, he had every intention of finding out exactly who and what she was.
He’d be gone a couple of hours. He’d check on the kid, though he had no doubt Timothy was in the lap of baby luxury among the Shumi women, then he’d scout out the village, quietly, assessing the danger. That should give Carlie just long enough to start worrying whether he was coming back or not. Just long enough to panic and be ready for the slightest bit of extra pressure.
Oddly enough, he didn’t find the notion appealing. He didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to terrorize her into telling him the truth. He wanted her to offer it, freely.
Another sign of dangerous weakness, he thought with disgust. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up as dead as Billy Morrissey, and he wasn’t quite ready to die.
The night was still and marginally cooler than the heart of the jungle they’d just traversed. The slow-moving river that ran through the village was deep and brown, the currents sluggish, but he thought he felt his first hesitant breeze since he’d landed in this miserable country. The heat, the rebels, the murderous black-shirted soldiers, the presence of Morales himself, the jungle, all added up to dangers that were scaring the hell out of him. Only a stupid man would be fearless. The sooner he got those two out of here and safely back to the States, the sooner he could retire to his mountain and pull himself together.