Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (8 page)

“Sweetheart, you had your chance and blew it.” Yanking the comforter off the end of the bed, she threw it at him and followed that with a pillow that hit him in the side of his head. “You can sleep on the floor.”

She plopped back against the pillow and waited, her breath lodged in her throat. Half of her hoped he'd accept the challenge and crawl into bed with her, while the other half wished he'd just leave her alone. She was tired of the push-me-pull-me game he had been playing.

Rip caught the blanket, his lips thinning. He didn't say a word as he settled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

So that was how he was going to play it?

Tracie turned her back on the man, punched her pillow, wishing it was him, and settled in for a restless night's sleep.

Tomorrow promised to be a long day. With Rip at her side, it would prove more difficult than it had to be.

Chapter Eight

Rip didn't know how long he lay staring up at the ceiling before he fell into a fitful doze. He'd slept on worse than the hard floor beneath him. One time he'd slept in a foxhole filled with cold water. By the time he'd gotten out of it, he thought for sure he'd sprouted webs between his toes.

Sure the hardwood floors were unforgiving on his back, but the discomfort came solely from the image seared into his mind of Tracie lying against the pillows in that...that...
holy hell
.

That teddy had him tied in knots. He could imagine tasting the rounded swells of her breasts all the way to the edge of the faux fur that would tickle his nose and force him to strip the garment from her body. Then where would they be?

She'd be nude and he'd forget the reason he couldn't allow himself to sleep with her. He slammed a fist into the pillow and turned on his side, the floor biting into his hipbone and shoulder.
Damn it to hell.
The woman was derailing him when he needed to be thinking solely about the mission.

As the gray light of predawn pushed through the blinds on the windows, Rip rose from the hardwood floor, tilting his head from side to side to work the kinks out of his neck. He draped the blanket and pillow on the end of the bed, careful not to disturb Tracie, and he entered the bathroom where he took a long cold shower before donning his disguise of the wealthy young entrepreneur.

The suit he chose was a lightweight gray linen but it was still a suit. He skipped the tie and opted for a black polo shirt. He'd carry the jacket and only wear it when he met with the plantation owner. As hot as it got in Honduras, he didn't want to wear any more clothes than he had to.

When he emerged from the shower, Tracie still lay in the bed her eyes closed.

His gaze lingered on her face. Her dark hair splayed out in a fan across the white pillowcase. If he was not mistaken, her eyelid jerked and lifted halfway before closing tightly.

He strode across the floor and swatted her hip. “You're not fooling me. You might as well get up.”

She opened her eyes, rolled onto her back and stretched her arms over her head. The movement edged the sheet down below her chest, making the faux fur of the teddy rise as her back arched.

Rip spun on his heels and marched toward the door. “I'll see you at the breakfast table.”

Her warm chuckle halted him as he reached for the door.

“Not a morning person, I take it?” she said.

Yes, he was a morning person. But he wanted to do more than just say good morning. She'd made it clear he'd missed his chance, and he wasn't willing to go back on his word, anyway. “We leave in forty-five minutes,” he said through clenched teeth and left the room.

Leaving Tracie in that sheer white teddy was harder to do than to storming an enemy position in the middle of a firefight. Every ounce of his being wanted to go right back into the bedroom and show her what lovemaking was all about. Whoever she'd been engaged to before had been a first-class idiot.

After their initial meeting, Rip knew that Tracie was a woman worth fighting for—it was worth taking it slowly and bringing her up to a point where she would be willing to commit to the possibility of a future. She wasn't a one-night stand kind of woman.

“Buenos dias, Señor Gideon.”
Hector sat at the dining table, buttering a soft tortilla. He pointed to the seat across from him. “Have a seat. My staff will get whatever you'd like to eat for breakfast.”

“I'd like coffee. Straight up, black, no cream or sugar.”

Hector nodded to a servant who hurried from the room and returned with a mug of steaming brew. The scent of freshly ground coffee cleared the cobwebs from Rip's mind and made a good start to getting him back on track.

Hector set his fork beside his plate and crossed his arms. “Senor Gideon, you strike me as someone who has been a member of the military.”

“My father was in the US Marine Corp,” he said, avoiding a direct lie.

“Did you follow your father's lead and enter the military?”

Rip was in midsip of his coffee and took the time to phrase his answer, wondering how he could respond without giving anything away.

He was saved by the appearance of one of Hector's male servants who entered the room and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. Rip could only catch a few of his words.

Hector's eyes narrowed and his brow inched downward as the man spoke.

The lead guard who'd met Rip at the airplane entered, his boots clomping across the smooth tile floor, a deep scowl across his forehead.

Hector glared at the man and pushed to his feet. “Pardon me, Senor Gideon. It seems we have had a breach in our security that I must deal with.”

“By all means. Security of your home takes priority.” Rip half stood and dropped back into his seat as Hector moved into the hallway and exchanged harsh words with the guard.

Rip understood Spanish and got by all right speaking it, but he was by no means fluent. Still, he picked up enough of Hector's conversation to get the gist of what had happened.

A truck had crashed into the concrete outer wall. Though it was full of explosive fertilizer, by some gift of fate it had not ignited. However, it had ripped a hole in the concrete that would need to be repaired. Until the repairs were complete, a guard would have to be posted at that point, as well.

Hector wanted to know who was responsible. Who had set the truck in motion to crash into his wall? And when he found that person, he wanted him brought to the compound where he would be made an example of.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rip witnessed his congenial host go from a well-mannered, soft-spoken and civilized man to the steel-edged commander of his little corner of the Honduras countryside.

If Rip was certain he could trust the man, he'd want him on his side not against him. When he finished breakfast, he didn't wait around, preferring to allow Tracie to eat on her own rather than face her after the lousy night's sleep he'd had.

As he left the dining room, Tracie descended the staircase.

Rip stood in the shadows of the dining room until she reached the bottom, enjoying the view. She wore a silky sundress in a soft butter yellow with narrow straps and a hip-hugging skirt. Low, matching heels showed off her trim ankles and well-toned calves. Her hair hung down around her shoulders and she carried a broad-brimmed hat with a sky-blue scarf tied to it.

Rip stepped through the door. “I trust you slept well, Mrs. Gideon?” He greeted her with a quick kiss on her lips.

Tracie's eyes widened at first and then her lips pushed up in a smile. “I did, Mr. Gideon.”

He suspected she was lying, playing the part. Makeup barely disguised the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“I'll see to the vehicles for our excursion while you find something to eat.”

“I'm ready to go.”

“Please, find something to eat. Things don't always go as planned and, for all we know, you might not get another meal today.”

Tracie's fists knotted and she stared into his eyes. “You think things will go that bad?”

“A number of scenarios could take place. It's best to go into a fight with fuel in your belly.”

“Fine. I'll find something to eat.”

“And I'll be outside mustering the troops.” He chucked her beneath the chin like a kid sister to keep from yanking her into his arms and crushing her with a kiss. “Now go. If you're not outside in fifteen minutes, I'll leave you here.”

“Like hell you will.” She spun on her pretty heels and hurried from the foyer, headed toward the dining room.

He liked her spunk but worried about her running in heels. Hopefully, they wouldn't be running today. They'd do their recon and save the running and covert ops for the cover of darkness.

Tracie bypassed the dining room, unwilling to wait for an order to be created and delivered and found her way to the hacienda's spacious, modern kitchen where she used her tenuous grasp on Spanish to ask for a piece of toast and a slice from a ham sitting in a roasting pan on top of the counter. She folded the ham into the toast, wrapped it in napkin, grabbed a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice and hurried outside.

She'd be damned if Rip left her behind now that the two SEALs had arrived. Hank had assigned her to this case. She was Rip's covert bride. They'd established the newlywed cover story, they had to see it through—SEALs or no SEALs. And she was every bit as qualified to go on this mission as they were.

When she arrived outside in her feminine sundress to find Hector's bodyguards dressed in camouflage uniforms and packing M4A1s, she almost turned around and ran back inside to change into slacks and combat boots.

“There you are.” Rip hooked her arm to keep her from changing her clothes. “You look so pretty today, I'm afraid I'll be beating the locals off with a stick.”

Falling into his story line, she smiled up at him. “I wanted to wear something nice. If we're going to the fiesta in Colinas Rocosa, I wanted to be dressed for dancing.”

“Hopefully our business arrangements won't take all day and we can enjoy the festivities.”

The two SEALs joined them dressed in jeans and loose-fitting guayabera shirts. When the wind picked up a little, the shirts pressed against their bellies, outlining suspicious lumps Tracie suspected were the pistols they had strapped beneath their clothing. From all outward appearances, they would blend into a festival crowd with their dark brown hair, bronze skin and fluent Spanish.

On one hand, Tracie was uneasy about Hector's paramilitary bodyguards following them on the trip. They could be a big fat sign to the guerillas that the people they were guarding might make good kidnapping targets. On the other hand, they looked big, bad and dangerous and might just scare off any unwanted attempts to steal the wealthy playboy and his bride to hold them for ransom.

Having been kidnapped once, Tracie had no desire to go through that again. She'd been lucky to get out alive. In cat terminology, she'd already used up one of her spare lives. Why tempt fate and use up another?

“Having second thoughts?” Rip whispered as he helped her into her seat in the Jeep. He tucked her skirt around her legs, his big fingers sending electrical shocks up her thighs and to her core as they brushed her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

Tracie had been around plenty of testosterone-fueled men, having gone through Quantico where women made up less than 20 percent of the trainees. But Rip was somehow more masculine and more dangerous than any man she'd ever known.

She responded with, “No second thoughts about the plan for the day.” Definitely second thoughts about the SEAL tucking her into the backseat of the Jeep. She could imagine those gentle hands sliding over her naked skin, stirring up so much passion she'd be lost, maybe even forget her vow to never trust a man again.

Julio slid in behind the steering wheel, Carlos rode shotgun, his hand resting lightly over the weapon beneath his shirt.

As Rip settled into the seat beside her, Tracie's pulse leaped. This was it. Up until this point, they'd been in a fairly safe environment having flown into a private airstrip to be met by armed guards and secluded behind a massive concrete and concertina-wire wall.

She sucked in a deep breath as they drove through heavy gates onto the public road. Rip gathered her hand in his and rested it on his thigh. The gesture made her pulse slow from its frantic beating. It also made her realize how much she'd grown to trust this SEAL in the very short time they'd been together, giving her the confidence to see this mission through. She hadn't realized how affected she'd been by her previous captivity at the hands of Mexican thugs.

Mexico had been much like Honduras. With drug cartels in charge of the country, whoever had the most or the biggest guns were in charge.

In Honduras the guerillas called the shots, undermining and manipulating the government.

Using GPS, Julio sped along the road slowing only for the occasional cattle or goats being herded by small, skinny children or teens. Nothing about the lush green countryside raised red flags. They could have been traveling tourists without a care in the world. Except they were in a guerilla-infested area of Honduras.

As they passed through Colinas Rocosa, Tracie made note of the town. Decorated with crepe-paper streamers, and a sign commemorating the town's patron saint, who they were celebrating, the streets were filled with vendors selling their wares. Most folks smiled and waved, happy to have something to rejoice—grasping at a chance to have fun in a land where danger lurked around every corner.

Tracie found herself peering into every vehicle they passed on the road, wondering if the occupants were part of the guerilla faction.

One particular truck sped toward them moving too fast for the narrow, people-filled streets.

A small child darted out into the middle of the road, directly into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

“Stop!” Tracie shouted.

Julio slammed on the brakes and the Jeep skidded to a halt.

Tracie leaped from the vehicle, snatched the boy from the middle of the road and stepped back as the truck barreled by, its driver barely glancing her way.

The boy clung to her and burst into tears.

Tracie held him against her breast, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words as she did so. A moment later, a woman's wail broke through the child's sobs and his mother ran out into the street, her eyes wide.

As soon as the boy heard his mother's voice, he struggled to break free Tracie's hold. She set him on the ground and he ran into his mother's arms, crying even louder.

The frightened mother scooped up her errant youngster and hugged him hard to her chest.
“Gracias, Señora. Muchas gracias.”
Then bowing and apologizing in Spanish, she hurried away, talking sternly to her little one.

A hand slipped around Tracie's waist and Rip pulled her against him. “That was close.”