Driven by Fire (19 page)

“We were never going any farther. The Guiding Light has used this place whenever they come down from the mountains, and right now they’re not more than ten klicks away.”

“We’re that close to a rebel army composed of criminals? Just the two of us? Who do you think you are, Rambo?”

“Soledad is with them, remember? If she’s a prisoner do you want to abandon her?”

“Of course not! I just don’t see how the two of us . . .”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he said, deliberately goading her. “I have a plan.” He put the jeep in park, looking at the dispiriting landscape.

“I’ve got a plan,” she said. “To stab you in your sleep.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “Then you’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

“That’s the only thing that’s keeping you alive, mister,” she said
smartly, unfastening her seat belt and climbing out of the jeep. There was
a large courtyard to one side of the building, and she started toward it.

He almost reminded her of her bag, then decided he’d given her enough shit for one day and grabbed it himself. “You really going to cook for me?” he said, coming up even with her.

“Hell, no. I just didn’t like that skank.”

He was amused at the idea. “Why not? She was very pretty,” he added, just to see her reaction.

“She’s a snake,” Parker said succinctly, and then shuddered. “There aren’t any snakes or spiders here, are there?”

He’d seen spiders as big as dinner plates in Calliveria when he’d been here in the past, but he suspected this might be one subject that was a little too intense for her. Murder attempts and human trafficking were bad enough—yucky wildlife was beyond the pale.

“You don’t like snakes and spiders? Wuss. We’re more likely to be visited by jaguars.”

“You can fight them off,” she said. “I suggest you cook dinner as well, unless you want to risk poisoning.”

He almost mentioned the spiders, but thought better of it. “You’re just lucky I packed provisions.”

“Not lucky. You’re a very thorough man.” She suddenly turned away, her face growing red, and he knew what she was thinking. She was remembering the sex last night, and if a shaft of arousal hadn’t hit him he would have been amused. Hell, he was amused. Except he wasn’t going there again, not if he could help it. She had a very bad effect on his attention span—she was far too distracting, and he needed to keep his brain working. “We’ll find a couple of rooms that aren’t too disastrous, eat dinner, and then settle down. Tomorrow we’ll head up into the mountains and see if we can find the Guiding Light.”

If he expected her to brighten at the mention of two rooms, he was doomed to disappointment. Didn’t she know what she wanted? Either she wanted him in her bed or not, and she couldn’t have it both ways.

But he knew what she was thinking, whether she’d admit it or not. She wanted him. She’d had so damned many climaxes the night before there was no way she couldn’t want more, though she’d seemed a bit shell-shocked by the whole thing. He might almost have thought she was a virgin—hell, she was tight enough, but he knew he was big. And he hadn’t given her much of a chance to participate—he’d wanted to fuck her into a little pool of pleasure and enjoy himself at the same time. She’d been right—it had been his way of trying to make up for what he’d had to do to her earlier that day, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. Particularly when the pleasure for him had been just as shattering.

Shattering?
That was a stupid-ass way to look at it. Intense, that was it. “Come on, buttercup. Night’s closing in.” He started up the side steps, coming into a kitchen that looked like it had been inhabited by frat boys on a spring break. There was garbage everywhere, mostly empty beer bottles and trash, and he looked around thoughtfully.

“I guess the Guiding Light has been here,” she said. “God, that name is so ridiculous.”

“Call them La Luz, then. But don’t underestimate them—they’re thugs and killers.” He kept himself from saying she ought to know something about that—he’d been too hard on her already, and he was beginning to suspect why.

His circumspection had been a waste of time. “Yes, I know I’ve been surrounded by thugs and killers all my life. I make no excuses for my family,” she said in a tired voice. “Though I’ve never had proof of the killer part.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he protested.

“But you were thinking it.”

“Don’t tell me what I think,” he growled. “Let’s find you a room, and then I’ll see if there’s a generator here. It’s wired for electricity so maybe we’ll be in luck—otherwise we’ll have to make do with candles.”

“And you think there’ll be candles left in this place.”

“I come prepared, remember.”

The halls were strewed with trash and beer bottles as well, and some of the greenery had begun to intrude through a couple of the open windows and louvered vents near the roofline. Lucky she wasn’t claustrophobic as well, or he’d have a basket case on his hands. As it was, he wasn’t crazy about the closed-in feeling of the place himself. In another year or so the jungle would take over the building completely.

He found a couple of small rooms that were marginally clean, though one had vines coming through the window. He dumped her bag in the adjoining room. “I imagine you’re going to want to clean this place up a bit.”

“You think?” Her sarcasm amused him.

“I think,” he agreed solemnly. “Just put the trash in the next room down—there’s no way we can clean the entire place, and La Luz will just come back and trash it again. We need a clean place to sleep—the rest of it will have to take care of itself.”

“One place to sleep? Or two?” She didn’t look happy about the idea, but she was accepting it, and he gave her a lazy smile.

“Despite your insistence to Rosario that we like to cuddle, I thought you’d be happier with your own bed tonight. In case you didn’t notice I left my bag next door. Now you can always talk me into changing my mind—far be it from me to disappoint a lady.”

“Go to hell,” she said without much heat. “This room will be just fine. I don’t suppose there’s anything like a broom around here?”

“Improvise. I’ll see what I can do about dinner and electricity.”

She waited till he was gone, then turned to look at the tiny room in dismay. The only furniture was a very narrow bed, and she realized this must have been one of the nun’s rooms back when this was a working convent. A good thing too—the walls must be imbued with virtue and chastity. No place for her to be thinking about last night, the feel of him inside her, the way she could still feel him.

She started with the trash, newspapers and beer cans and old boxes, scooping them up and dumping then in the abandoned room next to them. The bed in that one was splintered and the mattress slashed open, and she simply threw the garbage in there and shut the door.

She was left with a room full of dirt and an old mattress. The first thing she did was push open the louvered window and haul the mattress halfway out. She beat at it, watching clouds of dust emerge and then settle back down on the ticking, but she kept at it, sneezing, until she was satisfied that at least half a pound of dirt was gone. She pulled it back onto the metal bedsprings, listening to them creak in protest, then surveyed the dirt on the floor. “Improvise,” he’d said. Heading out into the hallway, she picked up a discarded newspaper and wadded it into a large, loose ball, then used it as a makeshift broom, herding rather than sweeping the top layer of dust and dirt out into the hallway and away from their doors.

She surveyed the darkening room with satisfaction. She left the windows open to allow at least a breath of fresh air in the room, then headed into the hallway. If Ryder wasn’t able to turn on the electricity, it would be dark before he could get to his room, and she didn’t want anything encouraging him to share hers.

His was in worse shape, and it took three trips to the newly designated trash room to clear out the trash. His mattress had a slash in it, but it was still in one piece. She lost only a little bit of stuffing as she beat some of the dirt out of it, and by the time she was sweeping the place, it was growing very dark indeed. Was he going to leave her here in the dark while he wasted his time doing whatever he was doing? One thing was for certain—she wasn’t going after him in this shadowy place. She didn’t quite trust him on the subject of eight-legged creatures, those that she refused to name. She would go back to her own room and sit tight, wait until the lights came on or he brought her a candle.

The shadows had grown deep in her room, and she pulled the louvered windows closed. Enough air seeped through, and she didn’t fancy sleeping with a jungle a foot away from her bed. She didn’t know how fast the foliage grew, but she had a sudden horrifying vision of lying in bed and waking up bound to the mattress by the invasive vines like in some 1950s horror movie.

She shuddered, sitting down on the mattress. Why hadn’t she brought a flashlight with her? The only things in her bag were a couple of changes of clothing and not even the grace of a nightgown. Thank God Ryder had no intention of repeating last night’s debacle, despite that box of condoms he’d shown up with. She could still remember the expression of disgust on his face when he woke up, and his succinct “God damn it to hell.” As curses went it was mild, but the tone of voice made it equal to the most profane. He was even more horrified by what had happened last night than she was. There was no way he would be coming near her again.

As for that disgust, she knew perfectly well that it had been directed at himself, not her. Knew it in her head, but in the long run it made no difference. It had felt like a stab in the heart when she’d woken up, warm and sleepy and splendidly sated. He’d ripped all that lovely feeling away and ruined it. What had he said . . . “love causes nothing but trouble”? Then again, what did love have to do with what happened between them? It was sex, it was an accident, it was her own stupid fault and she had to stop thinking about it . . .

“Don’t move, Parker.”

She looked up and saw Ryder standing in the door, his gun pointed directly at her head.

Chapter Seventeen

Jenny stared at Ryder in utter horror. His face was emotionless in the shadows, the gun hand steady as it pointed at her head. He was going to kill her, and she had no idea why, unless that had always been his plan. He’d just wanted to get her away from everyone so that he could shoot her and dump her body, and then no one would ever find her. She opened her mouth, to beg, to scream, but nothing came out. She should fling herself to the floor and cry for mercy, but it wouldn’t do her any good. He was an implacable man, and he’d made his decision. At least she knew it would be fast. She opened her mouth again, and his cold, deadly voice stopped her.

“I said, don’t fucking move,” he said again in that chilling, flat voice. “Stay absolutely still.”

Why didn’t he just shoot her? Did he get some kind of enjoyment from dragging it out? Did he want to see her cry, did he . . . ?

The gun spat fire a second before the noise deafened her, and she felt something hit her neck, hard, knocking her onto the ground, and she lay there, motionless. She could feel the warmth and wetness of blood and knew she was dying, smothering beneath an unknown weight. “Why?” she managed to croak.

She felt rather than saw him stride into the room, and a moment later the weight was lifted. She felt weak, boneless, waiting for the second shot, but he’d put the gun away, and he was squatting down beside her, and there was a concerned expression on his face. “Are you all right, Parker?”

“You . . . you tried to kill me!” she said accusingly.

“Don’t be an idiot. I’m a better shot than that. Look over there.”

She looked, and it took her a moment to focus in the shadows. A huge snake lay on the floor beside her, the head nothing but a pulpy mass, and she began to scream.

Ryder pulled her into his arms, slapping a hand across her mouth to try to silence her. “We don’t need to advertise our presence to the entire countryside,” he muttered in her ear. “You’re fine, the snake is dead.”

She struggled, terrified. She had to get away from it, get away from him. “Don’t!” Her voice was muffled from behind his hand, and he loosened it slightly. “I . . . Let me go.”

Instead, he simply scooped her up in his arms, carrying her from the room, back into his. She was crying now, sobbing in reaction and horror. She hated snakes, even more than she hated spiders. She couldn’t even look at photographs of them without wanting to throw up, and one had fallen on her; she had its blood on her clothes, and she yanked at her shirt in panic, until he caught her hands. He sank down on the narrow bed and held her still, his voice soft, soothing, until the panic fled and all she could do was collapse in his arms, weeping uncontrollably.

It took her a long time to realize he was holding her with surprising tenderness, one hand on her hair, his fingers stroking her tear-streaked face. She could feel his warmth, his strength enfolding her trembling body, and she slowly began to relax, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t let anything harm her. She was safe. She was home. She closed her eyes, burying her face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the unexpected peace of him.

It was pitch black when she finally could speak. “I know what you’re going to say,” she managed in a rusty voice. “You’re going to say ‘Jesus, Parker, it was only a boa constrictor.
’
”

“Anaconda,” he corrected. “And there’s no such thing as ‘only’ when it comes to giant anacondas.” He didn’t loosen his hold on her, and she was glad. She wasn’t ready to be on her own.

“I thought you were going to shoot me,” she said in a very small voice.

He sighed, and his chest moved beneath her. “I know you did. Why?”

She shook her head against his shoulder, still not looking up. “I don’t know. Because I annoy you?”

“If I shot everyone who annoyed me, then the world wouldn’t have a population crisis,” he said. “And you don’t annoy me that much.”

For some reason that made her lift her head and manage a shaky smile. “I don’t?” she said hopefully.

“It’s not you who’s annoying, it’s my reaction to you,” he said finally.

“What does that mean?” she asked, confused.

“When you figure it out, let me know.” He released her, and she had no choice but to relax her stranglehold on him. “No generator—it was stolen long ago—but we’ve got candles and flashlights and a cistern full of rainwater. I think we need to wash the blood off you.”

She almost panicked again, but then he’d hold her again, and she wasn’t sure that was a very wise idea, simply because she wanted him to so much. “Blood?”

“The snake’s.”

She couldn’t help it—she let out a little moan of distress.

“Don’t worry—there’s a bathtub, and even if it’s not hot, in this climate it’ll be warm enough for you to wash. If I were you I’d just dump the clothes. I’ll get dinner while you bathe. That sound good to you?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice, torn. On the one hand she wanted every trace of the snake gone from her. On the other, she didn’t want to leave Ryder’s side.

But she wasn’t going to have him scrub her back or keep her company while she bathed. “Where’s the tub?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just off the kitchen. I’ll be right there if you need me.”

She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want to need anybody, but that was before she came to a place filled with monster-sized snakes who’d crush her and swallow her and . . .

“Stop thinking about it. It’s dead, and trust me, they don’t travel in herds. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.”

She knew it, and it was the most unsettling thing she could think of. He was safety, he was home, he was everything she needed. “Okay,” she said in a small voice.

Before she realized what he was doing, he’d scooped her up again and was carrying her through the darkened halls of the place. She closed her eyes, knowing she’d imagine snakes in the shadows everywhere she looked, not opening them until he set her down next to a large old-fashioned bathtub. He turned on the tap and began to fill it, then turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can find you something you can use for a towel, and I’ll bring you your clean clothes. Just get in the tub, and I promise not to look.”

He’d already seen everything, touched everything, but she didn’t say a word. She waited till he was gone, leaving the door open a crack, and she surveyed the shadows. Nothing moved, and there was no furniture for a creature to hide behind. She reached for her T-shirt, and saw the blood on her hands, sprayed across the front of her shirt, and she froze. She was still standing there when Ryder returned, an old lantern in his hand as well as her satchel. “I found this in the kitchen—either it belongs to the rebels or they were used to the power going out. Either way there’s enough light . . .” He stopped, looking at her. “You need to take off your clothes,” he said patiently, moving to turn off the tap.

Once more she tried to reach for her bloody shirt, but her hands dropped helplessly. “I can just get in, clothes and all . . .”

“And end up washing in snake blood?” he said heartlessly. “I don’t think so.” He came up to her, and before she realized what he was doing he’d pulled the T-shirt over her head. She didn’t even protest, not when he unfastened her pants and pushed them down her legs along with her underwear, not when he unfastened the white bra that was now stained with red. She shuddered.

But there was nothing sexual in his touch—he was efficient and businesslike, and when she was finally naked he scooped her up and set her down in the lukewarm water. “I know it feels warm but it’s colder than your body temperature, and if you stay in there too long you’ll start shivering. Do you need me to wash you?”

“N . . . no,” she said, cursing her slight stammer. “I’ll be fine.”

He nodded. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll come get you. I’m just on the other side of the door, making us something for dinner. There are a lot of canned foods—I can manage to whip us up something.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly.

“Of course you will.”

Ryder left the door ajar. He could see her from the corner of his eye anytime he wanted to, a mixed blessing. She was looking a little shell-shocked, and while his own reaction to things like snakes was prosaic, he wasn’t fool enough to underestimate the effect of true phobias. And even a snake lover might have problems with a dead anaconda falling on their head and covering them with blood.

But he could hear the sound of water splashing, smell the scent of the lavender soap he’d found her, and he knew she was managing, maybe better than he was.

It had taken ten years off his life when he’d walked into her room and seen that anaconda reaching toward her. The thing had to be at least a foot in diameter and God knew how long, and if he’d been a couple of minutes later, it could have twined around her neck, shutting off her screams and her breath and killing her.

He didn’t want to think about that. Parker was one of the most alive people he knew, full of piss and vinegar, at least when he wasn’t hurting her. To think that her vibrant life could have been snuffed out in seconds . . . unsettled him. He was used to death and its unexpected swiftness. He just hadn’t really thought about it for Parker. Letting her come with him had always been a risk, but he’d assumed that risk was from the rebel soldiers and the devious Soledad. He’d forgotten about the indigenous wildlife.

He glanced back into the bathing room. She was moving slowly, rubbing the soap along her shoulders, and he wondered if he should offer to wash her slender back. No, that would be a very bad idea. He’d already played with fire when he’d stripped off her clothes, and it had taken his iron will not to pay attention to her lithe body, her perfect breasts, her long legs, and the soft curls between them. Last night had been a onetime occurrence. He’d brought the condoms because life had a habit of throwing you curves, but the more he thought about it the more determined he was to leave her strictly alone, and the reason was both simple and deeply troubling.

He liked her too much. He liked her smart-ass reaction to him, he liked her bravery. The woman had been shot, had her house blown up, had been hit on the head—and she just kept going with no sign of weakening. Even the trauma of the pain he’d given her hadn’t lasted long. He’d been forced to hurt other women before, not as badly as he’d hurt Parker, and they’d looked on him with such horror he’d known his best bet was never to go near them again. Parker had bounced back with surprising speed, her fear leaving her, responding to his touch with anger, and then with something else.

She’d been the one to kiss him. She’d started it last night, a fact he knew shamed her. He could have explained to her that it was only normal—the two of them were trapped together in a dangerous situation, and it heightened adrenaline and hormones.

There was also an intimacy between the giver and receiver of pain, whether it was for a little healthy kink or the need to find out information. It left them both vulnerable, much as he hated to admit it. He now felt more responsible for her, almost protective.

Fortunately she’d come to her senses, and she wasn’t about to kiss him again. God knew he wasn’t going to put moves on her—he’d already traumatized her enough. No, he’d let her be. He didn’t have room in his life for anyone, and Parker was the kind of person a man made room for. If he’d had any sense he would have insisted she stay home, but he’d been stupidly easy to convince. Granted, she could identify the cell phone without its distinctive case, but it wouldn’t have taken much for him to figure it out once he caught up with Soledad.

He should have left her behind. But someone had tried to kill her in New Orleans, twice, and he was no closer to figuring out who it was, or why. Leaving her in Remy’s care wouldn’t have set his mind at ease. Remy was one hell of an operative, but Ryder didn’t trust anyone as much as he trusted himself.

So he’d brought her into a different kind of danger, forcing him to realize she was too big a distraction whether she was with him or thousands of miles away.

What was it about her? He couldn’t afford to let her get to him—it would be disaster for both of them. He was going to stick to her like glue from now on—this was far too dangerous a place for her. He was going to feed her and sleep beside her like a brother and keep her safe until he could get her back to the States and get her out of his life. The plan was simple.

The question was, could he follow it?