Playing for Keeps (2 page)

R
aven tried twenty doors before slamming open the one to a bedroom with a startled nurse who rose from her seat in alarm as he burst into the dimly-lit room. Ignoring both her wide-eyed fright and the army of soldiers behind him, Raven strode across the plush area rug and approached the bed.

He shut out the babble of voices behind him, his entire focus on the still form in the shadowy bed. Dani’s back was to him, her shoulder and hip making barely a bump in the covers. He stood over her, every muscle and tendon, every nerve and cell in his body needing to touch her. Driven to examine her for himself, he stroked a finger gently down her cool cheek when what he needed to do was grab her up, strip her bare and check her over and over again to make sure she was truly, one hundred percent okay.

She was asleep, curled on her side as usual, hand under her cheek. She’d wake up in the morning that way, sleeping on her left side. He slept on his right. In their three years of marriage, she’d been the last thing Raven had seen each night and his first image of the new day. A great life, he remembered. How had something so right gone so damned wrong? His chest squeezed tight as he sat beside her hip on the wide, king-sized bed and touched his palm to her silken shoulder.

Memories flooded him. They’d wake up staring into each other’s eyes. Then kiss lazily and make love. Slowly, as they both surfaced into full awareness. It had been a helluva fine way to start the day.

He missed her. Missed her even before that last, final good-bye.

Her lightly tanned skin was covered with pink insect bites and shiny with some sort of salve. Ah, sweetheart. Not only had she survived a crashed plane in the Everglades, but survived dinosaur bug bites too. And while he sat there, staring at her beautiful face, he asked himself again, what the hell happened to us? How could something so damn good turn to shit?

He slid the skinny lace strap of an unfamiliar white nightgown up her arm to her shoulder, fingers skimming her cool, satiny skin. “Dani, love,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

Long, dark lashes fluttered. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curved in a small smile. “Jon.” A whisper. A gift. Raven wanted to fall to his knees and bury his face in her silky black, Cleopatra hair, to smell the familiar gardenia fragrance of her skin. Damn it. He needed her to open those baby blues and give him hell.

He needed all the chattering people bunched behind him out of the damn room.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he said softly, brushing a wayward strand of hair from her cheek with shaking fingers. “I’m here to take you home.”

Danica moaned softly but didn’t so much as stir. The small sound and unnatural stillness sent an unexpected chill up Raven’s spine. If he was a dog, his hackles would be up, his ears would lie back, and he’d be growling low and deep in his throat.

Something was way out of whack here. “Danica,” he said, briskly, giving her butt a shake. “Wake up. Now.”

Five seconds response time. Nada. Keeping a possessive hand on her hip, he turned to the nurse hovering on the other side of the bed. Danica always slept hard—but not this hard. “What,” he asked the woman with lethal softness, “did you give her?”

The woman glanced toward the door. Translation from good old Ed, or permission to tell him—what?

“Save time.” Raven said in fluent Spanish to Villalba-Vera. “Drug and dosage. Now.” Moving his hand down the slope of her hip, he felt for Danica’s bruised wrist then rested two fingers lightly on her pulse. Slow. Too slow. And a breath shy of an even rhythm for a natural state of sleep.

Nothing, señor, Mr. Chief of Security in his six-hundred-dollar suit said in barely accented English as he cautiously approached the bed, shaking his head of thick black, razor-cut hair. “She sleeps a healing sleep, according to the specialist el presidente brought to tend to her.”

“Nothing, huh? Call el médico back. I wanna talk to him myself. Better yet, I want someone of my choosing to take a look at her.”

“But of course.” Edgardo Villalba-Vera inclined his head just enough to let his hair fall forward then shift back neatly into place when he straightened. Conceited dick. “Anytime you like.”

The guy was blowing smoke up his ass. It had taken Raven hours to get past the security at the gate, and he normally he could talk a mink out of her coat. “Get that doctor back here. Now. And while you’re at it, my bag’s in the rental out there. Get someone to bring it up while I’m waiting.”

Black brows rose. “Pardon me?”

“My bag. In the rental car. I’ll be staying with my wife until we leave.” And not letting her out of his sight for one second. Raven’s bullshit antenna was up. Way up. This situation was all wrong. For whatever reason, these people were lying. They had drugged Dani. After he found out with what, he wanted to know why.

Villalba-Vera shot a brief, speaking glance at him, hesitated a moment, then nodded to one of his men. “You are of course most welcome. I shall have a room prepare—”

“I’ll sleep right here beside my wife.” Where I belong, he added silently. Of course, when Danica woke to find him back in her bed she might have a thing to two to say about it, but until then he was staying put. “Right now, I want some private time with her. You can take Nurse Ratched with you. Have the doctor knock when he gets back.”

The minute the room cleared, Raven stood, stripped off his jacket, and walked around to sit down on the bed where he could see her face. “I’m here, sweetheart. Open your beautiful eyes and tell me how you feel.”

Her lashes fluttered. “Me—”

Frowning, he bent closer. “What, honey?”

“dica—”

Ah, hell, what was she trying to tell him?

“—ted.”

Me-dica-ted?

“Medicated? They’re keeping you doped up?”

“Mmm. . .”

Exactly as he thought. “Damn it to hell.” Scooping her up, he carried his wife to a nearby chair then sat down, cradling her on his lap. Had she always felt this light? This insubstantial? Her head flopped to his chest. “Stay with me, honey. Just stay with me. I’m here and I’m not leaving your side. Ever again.”

She moaned and her lashes fluttered, showing a glimpse of her pretty blue eyes. Yeah, thought that would get your attention. “Rise and shine so you can tell me to go to hell. Followed by clueing me in on what the hell’s going on around here.”

She tried. He could see the struggle to swim through the drug-induced fog. Raven stroked her cheek then gave it a few sharp taps with his fingertips. Hated to do it but damn it, she had to wake up long enough to give him a hint or something so he could help her.

Her lashes fluttered, lifted a little, and then fluttered some more as she struggled valiantly to open her eyes.

“You’re doing it. Keep going.” While she swam up to him, Raven slid his hand down her arm, turning her cool skin up so he could check for needle marks. Nothing on the left arm, other than dozens of bug bites. He checked the right. Same deal. Of course, there were other, less conspicuous places they could’ve— He felt sick to his stomach. They were in South America; hell, they could’ve pumped her full of anything. . . Question was, were the drugs something she actually required? Was she injured more than he’d been led to believe? Or had she been given some sort of illegal crap?

Because-why?

Because why, damn it?

Didn’t make sense. None of this made any kind of sense.

“P-p—”

“Pills?”

“Mmm. Sleep. . .”

Pills. Keeping her sedated. Again—why?

Her head nestled against his chest, silky black hair brushing his chin. The smell of her stirred his senses despite his concerns. Essence of Dani. The most powerful aphrodisiac in the world.

Having her nestled against him like this felt so familiar, so right, so much a part of him. He held her tighter, folding her limp, pliant body into his. What was the deal? Saving the son of the president of this godforsaken country bought a Good Samaritan a body full of controlled substances?

Not to mention they’d fucking kidnapped her from American soil.

His mind raced, poised between fury and gratitude at finding her alive. Finally, gratitude won. God, how had he lived without her for the last year? His arms tightened around Dani’s limp body. How would he ever have survived if she’d been one of the casualties in that swamp?

Surely, God wouldn’t save her life only to let them remain apart.

Standing, he carried her back to the wide bed with its fancy, white sheets embroidered with the presidential seal. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here, sweetheart. Then I’m coming back to find out what these bastards are up to.”

He got her settled, checked her pulse again, checked her pupils—slightly dilated—and pulled the sheet over her shoulders. She immediately rolled back onto her left side then started snoring softly. He bit back a smile. That’s my girl.

Raven acknowledged there was a possibility she’d needed sedation when she arrived. He acknowledged that he always had a knee-jerk reaction where Danica was concerned. He acknowledged that maybe he was overreacting.

Except that his gut—usually infallible—was telling him this was all a crock. The accident. The kidnapping. The drug-induced sleep. Something was out of whack here. Way out of whack.

No one was getting within ten feet of Danica. No one. Not without going through him first.

He checked her pulse again. Steady. Then he got down to business, doing a visual search for cameras first, since if they were there, someone was watching him right now. He searched the room and adjoining bathroom thoroughly. Nothing. He checked for bugs, listening devices, any sort of recording equipment. Nothing he could detect. Didn’t mean they weren’t there, however. He checked again. And then a third time. Nothing.

He picked up the girlie, gold-and-white phone beside the bed. Hit zero. Buenas tardes, Señor Raven,” a polite female voice answered. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

“When will the doctor be here?”

There was a pause. I do not know this, señor. I will inquire for you.

“You do that. Have someone check to see what’s keeping my bag and send up a large pot of black coffee. Make that a couple of pots. And a pile of sandwiches. Thanks.”

Certainly, señor. Right away.

It would be a really nice bonus if his weapons remained in the specially designed compartment of his carry-on, but that wasn’t going to be the case. Nope, not a prayer. If they were keeping their little heroine drugged, they were smart enough to pick over his bags like vultures on road kill. He hadn’t had any trouble getting them onto the plane, even in this day and age state-of-the-art beat antiquated X-ray machines every time. He’d arrived armed to the teeth, but here in the presidential palace of San Shitabol, he’d be lucky if the little guy with the pretty hair left him his airport-purchased toothbrush.

“Know what my gut tells me, sweetheart?” Raven whispered as he paced the room, searching—again. “It tells me that before this is over, I’m gonna need a fistful of weapons and a shitload of ammo.”

N
o more,” Danica protested, as Jon tried to force her to drink yet another cup of far-too-strong Colombian coffee. The stuff not only looked nasty, it was thick as syrup, tasted vile as sin, and was strong enough to grow hair on her chest.

She vaguely remembered the procession of white-jacketed staff bringing in the carts with the coffee urn and platters of food. Jon had hurried them out of the room and locked the door behind them. The picture started coming clearer as she stalled for time, feebly pushing away the cup.

Jon had poured some of the steaming coffee into a cup, sniffed it, and taken a sip; my God, she thought, he was checking for. . .what? More drugs? Poison? When he was satisfied, he’d crossed back to the bed with a determined look that she’d recognized all too well. Then he started the coffee torture.

“Last one.” He stood over her, cup poised at her lips. “Promise.”

“Which means there’s another gallon,” Danica said tiredly, rubbing, not scratching, a bite behind her ear. There wasn’t a muscle, a bone, a joint, or a cell in her body that didn’t hurt or itch. “Hello? Tea drinker, remember?”

Of course he didn’t. Jon Raven had always been one hundred percent focused on what Jon Raven wanted to the exclusion of all else. Oh, she knew he cared about her in his self-possessed, it’s-all-about-me way. Jon was around when he wanted to be. When his schedule permitted. She was little more than a footnote in his action-packed life.

Well, she wanted more than the few crumbs he tossed her way when it suited him. Not that Jon’s crumb tossing had been anything to sneer at. Five minutes of his undivided attention equaled a year with a lesser man.

And that was the problem.

It thrilled her and annoyed her in like amounts. When he made time for her-for them-it was nothing short of spectacular. Especially in bed. In bed, they’d been- Danica dragged her already soggy brain away from that minefield. Sex had never been a problem with them.

Everything else. But never sex.

He took her hand, wrapping her fingers around the cup, and pushed it inexorably toward her mouth. His dark hair had grown since she’d seen him last-twelve months, one week, and three days ago, not that she was counting-and now brushed his collar. His eyes, blue as Mediterranean waters, looked bruised and intense. And his mouth-God, his mouth. The mouth that used to take her to places of intense delight was now narrowed with poorly veiled. . .what? Anger? Annoyance?

Fear?

No way. Jon Raven wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Buck up and drink,” he said tightly. Using a finger to lift the cup to her mouth. “These bastards have been drugging you. You have to wake up and get with the program.”

Because he wasn’t giving her multiple choices, and because she knew the caffeine would clear her brain, Danica chugged the coffee like bad medicine-worse now that it was lukewarm-and thrust the cup back at him. Making sure this time to avoid any skin contact. “I understand the principle. Stop bullying me.”

“I’m not bullying you, I’m saving you.”

“Well, don’t save me so loudly, okay?”

She felt at a distinct disadvantage as he loomed above her. Still a tad foggy on the details, she remembered being dragged up, positioned against a mound of pillows and him holding a cup to her lips. A quick glance down to see what the hell she was wearing, revealed the crumpled sheets bunched in her lap, leaving her torso revealed, clad in a too flimsy, unfamiliar white nightie.

Jon’s repositioning had pulled the thin silk taut so it now strained against her like a second skin. As armor went, the nightie was useless. The lacy cups meant to conceal her breasts-sort of-were low enough that the areola of each nipple showed. A fact made crystal clear as she felt his gaze drop to admire the view.

Not even attempting to be subtle, she pulled at the stretchy lace so it at least covered her nipples. She wanted to yank the sheet up too, but he was sitting on it. Danica hated that despite suffering the trauma of a plane crash and being drugged for God knew how long, Jon don’t-you-dare-smile-at-me-that-way Raven had only to look at her to inspire that sudden rush of need inside her. He was warm and solid, and smelled of Lever 2000 soap, a heady, aphrodisiacal fragrance reminding Danica of long steamy showers and hot sex.

Sadly, she knew that when she was ninety, in a wheelchair and half blind, a mere flash of his attention would still have the same effect on her.

He glanced; she melted. Nothing changed.

But she could cover up. She had to if she wanted to protect her dignity. Not physical dignity-she liked her body just fine. Emotional dignity. She didn’t want Jon to see that even in her weakened state she still responded to him in the same old way.

Nerve endings sat up and begged for attention.

Girl parts melted.

Rational thought took a vacation.

Damn him!

All her parts shrieked as Danica moved, and she couldn’t help a moan of pain. Jon reacted as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs in agony.

Gentle hands shot out to grip her shoulders as he searched her face with eyes glowing like the hot coals of hell. “Where does it hurt?”

Everywhere. But body aches were overshadowed, in spades, by the ache in her heart caused by seeing him again. She realized that she’d been a whole hell of a lot more immune when he wasn’t in the same geographical area as she was. Clenching her teeth, Danica put up a hand in a wait-a-second motion. “I’m okay.”

Of course, she was okay. Pain meant she was alive. She gritted her teeth and tried to push herself higher on the pillows. “A few muscle relaxants are druggi—Hey! What are y—” He slid his palms under her arms to help her sit up straighter, then held her carefully by bracing a hard, muscled arm across her chest as he leaned her forward, readjusting the pillows behind her back.

She closed her eyes, trying not to breathe in the achingly familiar scent of him. They were close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, close enough for his breath to wash over her upturned face. She felt the memory imprint of his fingers skimming the sides of her breasts. Her nipples grew tighter and harder. She fought it for all she was worth. No. No. No.

Jon lifted his head. With just scant inches between them, his eyes held hers. And asked a question.

Yes. God, yes. “Forget it,” she told him flatly.

He straightened, his mouth curved slightly in a slappably smug smile. He, better than anyone, knew her body. Generally, better than she did herself. He knew how much his touch affected her. Knew that breathing against her ear would force a moan from her lips. Knew how, when, and why her breath caught.

He indicated the pillows behind her. “Comfortable?”

“With the pillows? Yes. With you looming over me? No. Mind giving me some room to breathe here?” She kept both her gaze and tone steady.

He rose, hands up in surrender-as if-and took an elaborate step back. “Good enough?”

“You’ve been dealing with the wrong kind of people too long,” she told him. “The pills were to help me sleep so I can heal. I might not have broken anything, but every muscle and tendon was traumatized by the—the—” Spiraling out of control, heart stopping— “crash.” Her stomach lurched as her memory filled in the sounds of screaming, the hideous rending noise as the body of the craft ripped and twisted in the air like tinfoil. The stench of jet fuel. . .the screams.

“Yeah?” Her ex looked furious as he raked his fingers through his too-long, dark hair and stalked around the room like a caged panther. “Well, my every muscle and tendon was traumatized when I heard about the crash as well. And until I get you back stateside, have you looked at by every conceivable specialist, I’m going to make damn sure you don’t get near anything that’s going to hurt you.”

“Yeah? Guess you’d better leave then, huh?” She didn’t say it with as much heat as usual. Despite her every mental protest, she was overwhelmingly happy to have him here in South America with her. Besides, she wanted to go home. Even if it meant being escorted by her surly almost ex. “News flash, buddy,” she added, working up a bit more heat. “This is about me. Not about you.”

“No shit, it’s about you, Dani.” He shoved both hands through his hair again, stalked to the window on the far wall, then spun around and came back again. “I heard about the crash, and all I could think about was finding you.”

She refused to be moved. Refused to be touched. “You found me. I’m alive.”

“Yeah, and you’re gonna stay that way. So get used to me sticking to you like Super Glue. Until I’ve got you home and medically cleared, I’m your goddamn shadow.”

She’d take his help. She’d even take his concern, because she knew that once life was back to normal, Jon would fade away again, disappearing back into his life on the edge. She’d go back to her life alone, but at least this time, she had a life to go back to.

Her chest ached with unshed tears. All those people-damn it, her friend Angie-why had they been dealt the death card, and she and Rigo hadn’t? And here was Jon. Big and strong. Solid and familiar. She needed, craved, the feel of his arms around her. Need to hear the steady beat of his heart. Needed to feel alive.

As she knew only too well, it was good to want things, but that didn’t mean the things she wanted were good for her. Before her stood six feet three inches of sexually charged male to prove it.

Waking up to find herself not only in a strange bed but also in a strange country had been discombobulating enough. Waking to find her almost-ex-husband standing over her, with an unreadable expression on his handsome face that she had never seen before, had almost finished off what the accident hadn’t.

While he force-fed her coffee to get rid of her mental fog, he told her how he’d heard about the accident and flown directly from DC to Miami, then chartered a plane to come to San Cristóbal. Most of his words drifted inside her like smoke on a hazy day. All Danica cared about was that she needed him, and for once, he was there.

Jon Raven was her drug, and she’d been addicted to him from the moment they met.

Going off him cold turkey-moving from DC to Florida-resulted in nothing more than severe withdrawal pain. Seeing him again, without the buffer of a conference table and two suited lawyers, brought the clawing desire to the forefront. When she was near the man, every sensible, self-preservation instinct flew out the window.

So, she’d let him escort her home. Politely thank him. Not touch him. And say good-bye. The sooner the better. “Oh, shoot—”

He scowled. “What?”

“They’re giving me the keys to the city on Saturday.”

“Two days from now?” He gave her an are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind look. “Forget it. You don’t need the keys to this city.”

She lifted a brow, unnoticed under her bangs. “Hello? Who made you the boss of me? The president wants to honor me for bringing his son home safely. He’s already tried offering me more money than I’d see in a lifetime.” The conversation was hazy at best. But that had been the gist of it.

She kicked back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, then had to rest a minute as her body protested and the room did a weird dip and sway before settling again. Eyes downcast she wondered who’d undressed and redressed her and shuddered, rubbing the chill from her arms.

“Damn it, Dani, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

She lifted her eyes to his taut features. “Yeah, me too.” She absently straightened her bangs with her fingertips. “Probably because of the crash and all.”

He glowered at her.

“Jon.” His name came on a sigh. “The president wants to thank me for his son’s life. The least I can do is stand there and be thanked.”

He gave her a dark look. “Be thanked long distance. I’m telling you, something’s not right here. Trust me.”

Her hair brushed her bare shoulders as she shook her head. The movement made her woozy again and she had to brace a hand on the mattress. “Oh, that’s good, coming from you.”

“Fine. Don’t trust me. But trust my instincts.”

She was a little taken aback by his fervor. Jon was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an alarmist. His instincts had always been good. Who was she not to pay attention now? “I don’t have any clothes. I can’t very well walk out of here in my borrowed, virgin-slut nightie.”

His expression softened slightly. “I threw some stuff together for you at the airport. I figured you’d need clothes at some point.”

When did her Jon take notice of such things? But he wasn’t her Jon. Not anymore. “You did?” She stood unsteadily.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, stuffing his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans when she shot him a back-off look. “Doing laps?” he inquired mildly. “Or are you heading for the chair over there?”

“Right now I just need to stand. Right here.” She wanted to pace off the rest of the lethargy, because Jon was right. She needed to get her brain clear and her stiff and sore muscles working again before she tried boarding another plane. If she could board another plane.