Driven by Fire (25 page)

He was probably lying when he said he could smell civilization
a
few miles away, just using it as an excuse to get away from her. There
were wild animals in the jungle, jaguars and pumas and . . . and snakes.

She hugged her knees tightly. Maybe she was going to die from one of those snakes, maybe that explained her lifelong, irrational fear. Deep inside she’d always known they’d bring about her death, and she’d been terrified, knowing those coils would wrap around her, slowly, squeezing the life from her, crushing every bone in her body so that he could swallow her whole . . .

“Stop it!” The sound of her voice in the jungle was a shock. Her throat hurt from Soledad’s clawlike fingers—if she hadn’t shoved her away Soledad might have killed her. But she hadn’t meant for Soledad to go over the ledge—it had just happened. If only she didn’t keep seeing Soledad’s pale, surprised face as she went spinning, gliding downward to smash against the sharp rocks of the ravine. She would see that face in her nightmares when she was in her eighties, she knew it. She’d killed a woman. A woman who’d already been shot, an evil, murderous woman. None of that made a difference. In the end she’d taken a life, and she felt forever changed.

“Come back, Ryder,” she whispered out loud. “Please don’t leave me here.”

Only the sound of the night birds answered her, but that was its own comfort. If someone else was moving around in the jungle the birds would grow still and silent. She didn’t have to worry about the Guiding Light sneaking up on her, she didn’t have to worry about anyone surprising her . . .

“Wake up, gorgeous,” Ryder said. He was squatting down beside her, and she could just manage to see him in the darkness.

“I’m awake,” she said, certain she couldn’t have been sleeping.

“Sorry it took so long, but we’re getting out of here. There’s a bigger road just ten miles away, and then it’s straight on to Puerto Claro. Get up. I’ve got food in the jeep.”

“Okay,” she said sleepily, shrugging off the jacket and struggling to
stand up. Her legs didn’t feel like holding her, and Ryder caught her as
she stumbled, holding her against him for a long, breathless moment.

He was so big. So hard, so warm—no one could possibly hurt her if he was looking out for her. He let her go, and she made her way back to the jeep, walking carefully, knowing he was following her with his eyes.

It wasn’t until she was safely buckled in that she spoke. “Thank you.”

He barely glanced at her. “For what?”

“For coming back.”

If she thought that would ease the tension between them she was mistaken. “Rather than abandoning you in the middle of the South American jungle? It was tempting, but I figured if I did that it might piss off your old man.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come back. He cares a lot more for Billy than he ever did for me, and I don’t think you’re going to keep your hands off my baby brother.”

“No, I’m not.” He put the jeep in gear. “So I guess I should have left you behind.”

His tone was flippant, but she was in no shape to know whether he was serious or not. “I guess you should have,” she said wearily. “Why weren’t you angry that I destroyed the phone?”

He hesitated for a moment. “We have enough information downloaded from it to put your brother away for the rest of his life. The important thing was not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”

“I see.”

He turned to look at her. “Come on, gorgeous. Don’t sound so defeated. You’ll have plenty of time to fight with me once we get to the plane.”

“Stop calling me that. And I am defeated. If you’re looking for a fight you won’t find one from me,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.

“That’ll be a refreshing change,” he said, concentrating on the road as he maneuvered his way through the dense greenery. “Just keep your head down if we come to a town. One
norteamericano
driving alone wouldn’t garner that much attention. A pretty woman would get everyone talking.”

She looked over at him, trying to read his expression. He looked older somehow, bleaker than when she had first met him. No, that wasn’t true—he’d looked just as grim when he’d scoured the container ship for bad guys. His long dark hair was pulled back from his face, his dark-blue eyes were hooded and unreadable, his mouth flat. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and she could still remember the feel of his stubble against her sensitive skin.

“What are you blushing for?” he demanded irritably.

“It’s almost pitch dark—how can you tell I was blushing?” she shot back.

“I notice you’re not denying it,” he pointed out.

“I’m not denying anything. How long till we get to the main road?”

“How the hell should I know? I didn’t even know it existed. With luck it’ll be a couple of hours to Puerto Claro.”

She didn’t allow herself to groan aloud at the thought. “In fact, we’d probably be better off heading straight for the plane,” she said finally.
No time alone with a bed in between us, no watching eyes
. “That would probably be the smartest idea.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But every time I get around you, I start acting stupid, and I don’t see that that’s about to change anytime soon.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean every time we’re alone we end up in bed together, and that’s not a good thing. I get sloppy, you get emotional, everything gets fucked, including us.”

“Am I supposed to laugh at that?” she said icily.

“Better than crying. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I promise to wake you up if I decide to stop sooner.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said stiffly. “I’m fully able to take care of myself. I killed Soledad, didn’t I?”

He was silent for a moment. “She would have died anyway. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I’m not,” Jenny said fiercely. “She was an evil, horrible woman who deserved to die, and I’m not sorry. I’m not.”

He glanced at her, and before she realized what he was doing, he’d reached over and unfastened her seat belt, hauling her up against him as he drove one-handed, his arm around her.

She didn’t fight him. She started crying, silent tears streaming down her face. She had no idea who she was crying for—whether it was for the sweet young woman she’d thought she’d known, for her own blind innocence, for the man who held her so comfortably and let her weep into his T-shirt. It was for all of them, and she lay against his shoulder and cried.

She was in rough shape, Ryder thought, holding her trembling body against his as he maneuvered the jeep along the dirt track. It was a rare trick, steering with one hand and keeping the drive smooth enough that she didn’t bounce out of his arms, but he could do it, simply tightening his hold when he reached a rough section. She was holding on to him, her fingers clinging to his T-shirt, and he could feel the dampness of her tears soaking through the thin cloth. Funny, he’d never seen her cry before, not even when he was deliberately hurting her. She hadn’t even cried during sex, though he’d known she’d wanted to. Women had a habit of crying after a really good climax, and he’d made sure she’d had several the two times he’d gotten her in bed.

And then he’d taken it all away by telling her she fucked like a virgin. What had gotten into him? He wasn’t always such a bastard, but for some reason she brought it out in him, and he kept saying such cruel things to her.

But he knew what had gotten into him. She had. She was the greatest danger to his peace of mind that he’d ever run into. She made him want things he couldn’t have, care about things that didn’t matter. She was . . . lovely, and there was no room in his life for lovely. Everything in his life was hard and gritty and lonely, and he’d made peace with that long ago. Every day he was with her he was offered a view of another kind of life, one he’d turned his back on, and no matter what he did he couldn’t put her out of his mind.

She fell asleep before she even stopped crying, and she let out a few remaining shudders as she slept against his shoulder. The ride was rough, but she’d adapted. Sooner or later she’d get back to her elegant suits and her pro bono work and her safe life, and he wouldn’t have to think about her again.

But he would. He had the gloomy suspicion he’d think about her every day for the rest of his life. The only consolation being that it was unlikely to be a long life—his profession didn’t lead to old-age pensions and retirement villages.

He moved his head down and placed a soft kiss on her tangle of hair. She didn’t have to know she had somehow become his kryptonite. He’d get her back to New Orleans, hand her over to Remy, and deal with Billy Gauthier. And then she’d never want anything to do with him again.

It was for the best. She needed to keep her distance—when she was around he made stupid mistakes like not taking Soledad’s gun away. She could have been killed because he’d been too worried about her reaction if he searched Soledad’s body. She’d resolved that, and lost part of her soul in doing so. You couldn’t kill someone and remain unchanged, and he’d done that to her. She would have to live with that for the rest of her life, and his memory would be inextricably tied up with the knowledge that she’d taken a life.

He needed to get the hell out of New Orleans. The Committee branch was up and running, Bishop would be back from his goddamn honeymoon, and Peter Madsen could damned well reassign him. Right now Eastern Europe sounded just about right, someplace dark and depressing and cold. Just like his nonexistent heart.

The wound in his arm was throbbing beneath her head and he welcomed it, proof that he was alive, proof that he could still hold her for a few hours longer. Once they left Calliveria everything would be back the way it was. For now he could hold her, let her tangled curls blow against his mouth, and drive on into the night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

By the time they reached the small private landing field, Parker had woken up, pulling away from Ryder and huddling in on herself. He was half tempted to haul her back, but his instincts had told him she’d reached her limit. All he had to do was tell her she was in shock, and there was a good chance she’d erupt from the unnatural quiet that surrounded her like armor, but there were times when shock and denial were old friends. He’d let her be for now—there would be time enough to knock her out of it once they reached New Orleans.

He didn’t think he could sleep once they got on the plane, but he did, halfway into his scotch on the rocks. He woke when they were about to land, the lights of the Crescent City like a welcoming beacon, and he glanced over at Parker, still huddled in her single seat at the back of the spacious cabin, the one reserved for the nonexistent flight attendant. She still had that glazed expression on her face, and he suspected she hadn’t slept during the six-hour flight. The moment they touched down she began to unfasten her seat belt, but he glared at her and she leaned back, dropping her hands. The last thing he wanted was for her to end up flat on her face if the plane had to come to a sudden stop.

The car was waiting for them, gassed up and with the keys over the visor. He tried to take Parker’s arm when they started down the short stairs but she pulled away, walking ahead of him, and he ground his teeth.

A moment later he caught up with her, yanking her against him. “Sulk all you want,” he said, deliberately trying to goad her into a reaction, “but I’m not risking you running off into the night.”

To his annoyance she didn’t try to break free. “Why would I do that?” she said in a listless voice. “I can’t very well walk to town, can I?”

“You’re in shock,” he said, going for the big guns. “Who knows what you’d do.” He waited for her hot denials.

“Maybe I am,” she said dully. “Can you drop me at a hotel?”

“No.”

She didn’t argue about that either, simply letting him settle her into the front seat of the car and fasten the seat belt around her. The sky was growing light in the east, and he usually loved that time of day. Right then he wanted the night to be eternal.

What the hell was he going to do with her? She couldn’t go to a hotel—she had no luggage, no ID, nothing. Taking her to her father’s house was out of the question, given that Ryder’s next visit wasn’t going to be of the social kind, and while her intel jacket had the names of close friends and favorite relatives, he knew that showing up with her in this state would be something she’d never forgive. There was no choice but to take her back to the house on Magazine Street and hope she’d come out of her fugue state on her own.

Part of him sympathized. He’d killed more people than he could remember—no, that was a lie. He remembered every one of them, up to and including the three men at Soledad’s compound. They haunted his dreams and even his waking hours, and he was trained for this kind of work. For an innocent like Parker the memory of Soledad going over that balcony would be a permanent scar.

It didn’t matter that she would have died anyway. Should have been dead, except that the truly wicked never died easily—it was as if their very evil gave them the ability to withstand things that would kill an ordinary mortal. He should have realized that Soledad wouldn’t go that easily.

Parker said nothing when he pulled into the underground garage on Magazine Street, though she made no effort to climb out of the car. He came around the side and opened the door for her, taking her arm, and she followed him docilely enough, still with that shuttered expression on her face, and he wanted to shake her. Instead, he led her into the house, nodding at the security camera as he led her up the three flights of stairs. The house was empty—Remy had his own apartment in the French Quarter and Jack had a house in the suburbs, of all things. Only Ryder lived in the house full time, Ryder and enough security and booby traps to outfit Fort Knox.

When they reached the third floor she started toward the bedroom she’d used, his old bedroom, and then stopped, and he saw her absently rub her arm, the arm he’d hurt when she’d last been in the room.

“Not there,” he said, moving her to the other side of the hall. The room he’d taken over was small, unfinished, and the only piece of furniture was the king-sized bed that fit his tall frame the best. She stood just inside the door, not even looking around her.

“You can spend the night here,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take my old room.”

She said nothing. Her face was unnaturally pale, and he could see the streaks of her earlier tears, though now her warm brown eyes were flat and expressionless. She’d get over most of it, he told himself. A good night’s sleep in a decent bed and she’d be ready to move on.

He was almost out the door when she spoke. “Are you going to kill my brother?”

He stopped, not turning to look at her. “If I have to. I don’t think it will be up to me. We already dumped the evidence from the phone, and the FBI will have a warrant out for him if he’s fool enough to return to this country. Otherwise someone will find him overseas.”

“And kill him,” she said dully.

“And kill him.”

She lifted her head. “Could you stop them?”

“Not even if I wanted to.”

She nodded, as if she expected nothing less, and he took a step toward her, his frustration boiling over. “Look, you can hate me all you want. The fact of the matter is your brother is a vicious criminal who’s victimized women and children, and he deserves anything he gets, just as Soledad did. Don’t waste your sorrow on monsters like them—save a little for their victims and the ones who died because of them.”

“I’m not mourning Soledad and Billy,” she said in a voice so soft he almost couldn’t hear it.

“Then what are you mourning?”

“Loss,” she said, turning her back on him and walking to the window. “The loss of my brother, loss of innocence, loss in the belief that I knew what I was doing. You.”

“What about me?”

She kept her face averted, her back straight. “I’m mourning the loss of you.”

He moved so fast Jenny wasn’t prepared, spinning her around and pushing her up against the wall with none of his usual tenderness. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, open-mouthed and carnal, rough when he’d been sweet, and she felt her whole body come alive again, the blood surging through her veins, her heart pumping. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him against her, and she could feel he was hard, aching for her. She closed her eyes as feeling washed over her, need and sorrow and pure longing so hard and powerful she thought she might explode from it.

He slid his hands down, caught the T-shirt and ripped it in half, the stretchy cotton shredding beneath his grip, and she caught her breath, shocked. He put his arms around her hips and lifted her up so that her breasts were at the level of his face, and he put his mouth on one and sucked, hard, using his teeth, as a shaft of white-hot longing went straight between her legs to the very center of her being. She wanted him there, needed him there, and she panted as he pulled her legs around his hips, her sex pressed against the hard rod of his erection, too many layers of clothes between them as he moved to her other breast, taking it in his mouth with a roughness that made her whimper in longing and need. A moment later he pulled away, and she went flying through the air, ending on her back on the huge bed, staring up at him in shock as he ripped off his clothes, then crouched over her like a predatory beast. “I don’t care if you’re afraid of me,” he growled. “I don’t care if you’ve been hurt. All I care about is fucking you as hard as you can take it. I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll feel like you’ve died and gone to hell. I’m going to fuck you so hard that no one will ever come close. You’ll never get me out of your mind, out of your body.”

She stared at him out of wide eyes. “You said I fuck like a virgin,” she said.

“I said a lot of things, and most of them were lies. There’s only one truth between you and me, and that’s sex. Take off your pants, or I swear to God I’ll rip them off you.”

She reached down for the zipper, shucking out of them quickly, staring up into his wild wolf’s eyes. He put his hand between her legs, and she knew she was wet with longing, and she arched up as he slid a finger into her, then two, and she shattered so quickly, so unexpectedly that she cried out.

And then he was lying on top of her, stretched over her, kissing her, his cock pressed between them, and she reached down to touch him, marveling at the feel of him. The skin was silky smooth around the iron-hard erection, and she let her fingertips trace the veins, the size of him.

He kissed her mouth, slowly, deliberately, his tongue making lazy swirls inside her mouth, his teeth biting down on her lower lip, his hand sliding down her stomach to touch her once more, and she could feel the excitement building almost instantly, and she wanted him, so, so badly.

“I need you,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I need you inside me.”

“Then take me in your mouth.”

She should have been shocked at his words. Instead, they sent a thrill of forbidden desire through her at the very thought, and she pushed at him until he rolled onto his back.

He was beautiful, that part of him that was so unfamiliar to her. She reached out her tongue and ran it over the top, tasting the sticky, sweet fluid, and then she put her mouth over him, taking him inside her, sucking on him with a fierce delight. She wanted this, she wanted him, she wanted him to come in her mouth, she wanted him around her and over her and inside her. The feel of him inside her mouth was strange and hypnotic, and she moved up and down on him, trying to take more and more of him inside her, but he was too big, and she was going to choke and she didn’t care, she needed all of him.

And then he plucked her off him, pulling her free, and she cried out in protest. “No!” she said. “I want more . . .”

“I’ll give you more,” he said, and flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up to meet his as she felt the broad head of his cock at her slick entrance. He began to push inside, and the sensation was so powerful she began to contract around him, but he just kept pushing, so deep, so deep she could almost taste him, and she slammed her head down on the mattress, holding on as he pounded into her, each thrust pushing her further, until he reached between her legs and caught her clitoris between his fingers, pinching lightly, and she screamed as her body was flooded with sensation, and she was lost in it, drowning in it, dying in it.

A moment later he followed her, shoving his cock in so deep that the tiny pinch of pain only added to her pleasure as she felt him flood her, and his arms came around her stomach, holding her against him, as his own climax joined hers.

When he pulled out she almost cried, expecting him to move away from her, but instead he simply sank down on the bed and brought her with him, tucking her against his sweating, shaking body. She knew she should do something, say something, but she was beyond rational thought. All she wanted to do was bury herself against him, let go of all the sorrow and pain that had tied her in knots. She loved him. He was an ornery son of a bitch with a nasty tongue and she loved him, and it would do her no good at all. He’d saved her life, over and over again, he’d held her when she wept, he’d taunted her into fighting back, he’d treated her like an equal, and whether it made sense or not she felt tied to him, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. He was going to destroy her brother, and she had no choice but to watch him do it. Even destroying the cell phone couldn’t stop him.

She couldn’t imagine a future with him. First off, he wouldn’t want one. And how could she live with a man who destroyed her baby brother, even if he richly deserved it. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was right now, and she pressed her face against his sweat-damp skin and gave up. For now it was the best she could do.