On Thin Ice (10 page)

She wasn’t in the mood for fighting. “No questions,” she said, unbuttoning the shirt. They were in the shadows, and even in the steamy heat she had a chill, which the wet cotton wasn’t making any better, and she slipped it off her shoulders and handed it to him.

He caught her ankles in his hands, and they were warm against her icy skin. Her feet were pale in his tanned hands, vulnerable, and she turned her face away while he worked, swiftly and efficiently, binding her feet. Next he took her light sneakers, split them open with a wicked-looking knife, and managed to edge them back onto her swathed feet before falling back, eying his handiwork critically.

“That’ll have to do,” he said, rising. “Next time tell me before things get this bad.”

She looked up at him. “You want me complaining about every little twinge?”

He held out his hand to her, but she scrambled to her feet on her own, managing not to wince in pain. “I wouldn’t call those feet a minor twinge.”

“I didn’t think there was anything that could be done about it.”

“Do me a favor – try not to think.” His voice was terse, and under any other circumstances she would have snapped back. But this was his element, not hers.

“All right.”

He raised an eyebrow, then laughed shortly. “A submissive female? I didn’t think they still existed.”

“Hardly. These are unusual circumstances.”

“Glad you realize it. Dylan, what the hell are you doing?”

The teenager had lit up a joint the size of California and was smiling at them peacefully. “Just chilling, man.”

MacGowan snatched the blunt from his mouth and sent it spinning into the swirling river, ignoring Dylan’s howl of protest. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all I had left, honest. You’re a major buzz-kill. I was keeping up with you – what the fuck does it matter how stoned I was as long as I didn’t fall behind?”

MacGowan grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, shoved a hand inside his loose shirt and emerged with a faded cloth bag. He sniffed it, and tossed it after the joint, holding on to Dylan as he tried to go after it. “Suffer, dude,” he said. He glanced up at the sun overhead. “Another couple of hours and we can stop. That okay with you, Sister Beth?”

“You’re the boss,” she said wearily. “Just get me out of here.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, releasing Dylan. “You going after the weed, Junior, or are you going to come with us?”

Dylan just glared at him, not smart enough to realize MacGowan was their only hope, Beth thought. A moment later they were moving again, down the path that was growing steeper, and then she stopped thinking entirely, putting one foot in front of the other, just to keep moving.

It was pitch-black when he stopped next. There was no moonlight – thick clouds covered the night, and somewhere in the distance she could hear an ominous rumble. It either had to be gunfire or thunder and at the point she would have preferred gunfire. She’d gone beyond misery to a state of numbness that kept crumbling every time she stepped the wrong way, or the bandages rubbed against her feet, or her stomach growled. She was almost disappointed that it was only another fucking rainstorm, the third that day.

MacGowan shoved the two of them down in the bushes with a terse, Schwarzenegger-like “I’ll be back,” but even a tropical downpour couldn’t put a dent in Dylan’s stink, and his mood was even worse. So Beth simply curled in on herself, ducking her head and praying for it to be over.

She didn’t know how long he was gone and she didn’t care. At least she wasn’t walking. She heard his voice from a distance as the rain pounded down on her bowed head but she didn’t bother to move. He could go on without her. She was staying here, and if things got really bad she’d find an anaconda and feed herself to it. Enough was enough.

She was barely aware of his hands on her, and when he scooped her up in his arms she was too beaten down to react. Between their soaked bodies a faint trace of heat bloomed and blossomed, and she turned her face into his shoulder, hiding it from the pounding rain. She stopped thinking, she stopped feeling. She simply closed her eyes and let the night take her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MacGowan dumped the girl’s body down on the cot near the stove. She was a woman, not a girl, he reminded himself, remembering the unexpected feel of curves beneath his hands, and she was over thirty, wasn’t she? Still, she felt like a girl. Still innocent enough not to realize the way the big bad world worked.

Dylan trailed after him, sullen and exhausted, and collapsed on a pallet in the corner. He didn’t have enough energy to glare, he simply stretched out on the wood floor of the tiny house and immediately began snoring.

“
Gracias, abuelita
,” he said to the old woman who’d shown them in. It had been blind luck stumbling on this ramshackle cabin on the edge of the jungle. He could see the distant lights of a small village a few miles in the distance, but even that seemed a little too crowded right now. He needed time to sit back and come up with a plan, a time without two civilians whining at him. Not that Sister Beth whined. She was as stalwart as any of the nuns who’d taught him in elementary school, if not as mean. Dylan more than made up for it, but even so, MacGowan was constantly aware of the woman, and it wasn’t simply because she was the first relatively available female he’d been around in years. He glanced over at her, passed out or asleep on the narrow, sagging bed, and tried to picture someone he wanted more. He couldn’t.

The old lady took the money he offered her, the grease-stained pesos part of the poker winnings he’d been amassing, and then disappeared, leaving the three of them alone in the rude hut. MacGowan pushed away the uneasiness that always stalked him. The years had taken their toll – he could no longer trust his instincts. Everyone seemed suspect, including the harmless old woman who’d disappeared into the night, tucking his money into her blouse. She’d taken one disapproving look at them, the disapproval fading as he brought out the money, and then she was gone.

The night air was cool, even down at these lower altitudes, and he grabbed an extra blanket from the bed and spread it over Dylan’s gangly figure. The kid was starting to sprout whiskers – maybe he was older than Finn had thought. He was still a brat.

He looked around the room. He’d slept on hard wood floors before - in truth, he was more used to it than Dylan would be. He’d slept on worse, and there was a quilt he could roll up in.

He wasn’t going to do it. None of his little chickens had eaten anything, and abuelita had left some savory mixture of meat and beans for them, with fresh tortillas to mop it up with, but he figured they needed their sleep more at this point.

So did he.

He closed and locked the flimsy door. Not that it would keep anyone out, not anyone determined to get in, but it might slow them down a few seconds. He doused the lights, so that only the glow of the cooking fire lit the shabby room. He shouldn’t do it, he knew he shouldn’t.

And he knew he was going to.

He kicked off his boots and went to the bed, lowering himself down beside her, pulling her into his arms as he settled into the narrow space. She was dead to the world, and he moved against her, surrounding her body with his. Even after falling into the river he figured he wasn’t smelling too sweet, but that was the least of their worries. For some damned reason he wanted to put his arms around her, bury his face in her blonde hair, and breathe in the pure animal smell of her.

He’d been too fucking long without a woman. And here she was, the antithesis of every woman he’d gotten near in the past few years. Blonde, pale, almost ethereal in her beauty. She’d be a trophy for anyone, and he’d never been the kind of man to collect trophies. His job was to get her safely back to her millionaire lifestyle, collecting a healthy reward in the bargain. Enough of a reward that he could take his time and find half a dozen blonde-haired gringas who wouldn’t react like a frightened virgin every time he came near her.

He almost might have thought Izzy and his friend had gotten to her, but he’d overheard their arguing and knew that no one had raped her. Yet. That was probably one reason he’d decided to bring her with them. And it all worked out for the best, didn’t it? Hans Froelich sold him out, and MacGowan’s reward went south with him. He could use the money the Pennington Foundation would pay him for the return of their precious heiress.

And he got to spend a few hours wrapped around a soft, female body. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smelled like the jungle, it smelled like flowers. He slept.

It was the pain and stiffness that woke her, and for a moment Beth didn’t move, disbelieving what her senses were telling her. She’d been dreaming for what seemed like hours. She had heard the soft rumble of MacGowan speaking in liquid Spanish, a woman’s voice answering him, and the smell of something divinely delicious on the air. Either she’d been dead or dreaming, and either way she wasn’t going to do anything to change things. She was lying on something soft, not the hard ground, and there was a roof over her head, and if anyone tried to drag her back into life she was going to kick and scream and fight them every inch.

“
Gracias, abuelita
,” MacGowan had murmured. Grandmother. The very word warmed her. Between MacGowan the soldier and the old lady, she would be safe. One to defend her, the other to comfort her. And she gave herself up to sleep once more.

When she woke again it was pitch black, even the dim light of the fire was out, and yet she felt safe, warm, wonderful. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake, she wanted to stay there forever in the safety of his . . .

Her eyes flew open in the darkness and she tensed. She was lying in his arms, and she had no doubt as to who
he
was. She could feel his long beard at the back of her neck, the strong arms wrapped around her, holding her against his body. Not that he had any choice in the narrow little bed – it was scarcely big enough for one. His body was curled around hers, and she realized with sudden panic that he was hard. There was no mistaking the feel of it beneath her butt, and for a moment she thought of Carlos and his hands, his eyes.

A child, and he was dead. She wanted to weep, and would have, if she hadn’t remembered the vicious cruelty in his touch, his words.

“Go back to sleep, Sister Beth.” His voice was only a breath of sound in her ear, but for some reason it calmed her. She had no illusions about Finn MacGowan – he could be fully as dangerous as any of the men who’d kidnapped her. Perhaps even more so. So why was she feeling safe?

“Stop calling me that.” Her voice wasn’t any louder than his. “And what are you doing in bed with me?”

“Didn’t fancy the floor, love,” he replied, using the Irish to try to cajole her. It didn’t work.

“You’ve slept worse places.”

She heard him laugh. “How right you are. But not by choice. If there’s a hard floor and a soft bed I’ll go for the soft bed anytime.”

“It was already occupied,” she said, starting to pull away from him. “I don’t mind the floor.”

She was hauled back against him, his hands making her struggle useless. “Stop being a baby about it. I’m hardly going to fuck you in full view of young Dylan, who doubtless would be more than happy to watch. Your virtue is entirely safe with me. I just want warmth. And the feel of someone by my side. No ulterior motives, saintly one. I just need someone to hold on to.”

For a moment she said nothing, remembering the dead men in the last few days. The men MacGowan had killed. After so much carnage it was little wonder he needed to hold on to something. Someone.

“All right,” she said. “But does it require your hands on my breasts?”

She could feel the soft rumble of laughter in the chest pressed up against her back, and his hands slipped down to wrap around her waist. “Three years, remember?”

“There’s only so long you’re going to be able to coast on that, MacGowan. It’s getting old.”

The vibration of laughter increased, and for some reason it did even more to warm her than the heat from his big, strong body. “You know, Sister Beth, you’re a dangerous woman.”

“You said that before, and I assume you’re being sarcastic.” She was too sleepy to come up with a real argument, too warm and safe for the first time in days to bestir herself. “I can’t imagine anyone more pathetically weak than I am. What could I possibly do to you?”

“Sweetheart, you could make me fall in love, and that’s fatal.”

His voice was soft and cajoling in her ear, and she didn’t bother responding to his absurdity. “Go back to sleep.”

Again that warming laugh. “Just tell me one thing, Sister Beth. If you’re so uninterested in the lure of the flesh, why were your nipples hard in my hands?”

“I was dreaming about Brad Pitt.”

“Woman, you are truly evil.”

“I thought I was a nun.”

“You forget, I grew up in Catholic schools. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Are we going to keep chatting or are you going to let me sleep? We’ve been running for our lives for the last forty-eight hours, and I wasn’t any too comfortable before that.” Determinedly she shut out the vision of Father Pascal, his hand still clutching his rosary. “If you want to talk, go curl up with Dylan.”

“And you seemed so meek and mild when I first saw you.” His voice was faintly mocking. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll watch over you.”

She should have protested, kicked him off the cot. She couldn’t. She felt too safe. “I am meek and mild,” she said firmly. “Just not when people are trying to kill me.”

“That works.”

She wouldn’t have thought he could get any closer, but he did, his body so close he was almost inside her, his body heat radiating into her. “You’re too bony,” she complained, settling back against him, unconsciously aiding him.

“The Guiding Light doesn’t believe in generous rations for prisoners.” He must have felt her laugh. “That amuses you?”

“I can’t help it. What self-respecting rebel group takes their name from an American soap opera?”