Thrill Ride (8 page)

“Y-yeah, okay,” she said, heart beating a mile a minute.

“You gonna be all right in here by yourself?” She could hear the worry in his voice.

“Yes,” she was proud to say. Even prouder when she realized it was the truth. For years she’d lived in constant terror of a place and situation exactly like this, but all it’d taken was ten minutes of being subjected to Rock’s astonishing brand of psychoanalysis and she was, maybe not cured, but at the minimum drastically improved.

Of course, that didn’t do a thing to alleviate her terror for the safety of the man’s hide when he exited the hollow tree to begin silently covering the jaguar’s tracks. The whole time he was out there, exposed, images of the big cat launching itself from the nearest tree to sink razor-sharp fangs into Rock’s jugular played like a horror show inside her head. Over and over again, she saw it happening. Cat. Launch. Claws. Teeth. Blood. And just when she’d had enough, when she was going to have to go out there and see for herself that he was okay, the greenery at the mouth of the log rustled and the air thickened as Rock scooted inside.

“Is he…” she began but stopped when she discovered someone had dumped a bucket of sand down her throat. She swallowed, trying to work up some saliva to battle the dryness, and tried again. “Is he gone?”

“For now.” She closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer of thanks into the darkness. “And one good thing about his arrival: now we know the hit squad isn’t anywhere close. That cat wouldn’t come within a hundred yards of a big group of men like that.”

Okay, as far as silver linings went, she guessed that was a pretty good one. Blowing out a blustery breath, tilting her head from side-to-side to try to work out the kinks in her neck, she reached for him in the darkness. Now that they’d averted one crisis, it was time to deal with another. “So I guess it would be a good time to get a bandage on that cut before you bleed to death.”

Vanessa’s small hand landed on his forearm, and Rock tried and failed to ignore the fact that her palm was warm and smooth and sending little electrical jolts all through his body.

He should
not
have kissed her. And the last thing he should be thinking about right now was kissing her again. But that’s exactly what he was doing.

Thinking about kissing her. Kissing her and a whole hell of a lot more.

Mon
dieu
, but she’d been hot. A burning flame in his arms. Sexy and lusty and…
feminine.
She was soft in all the right places, firm in all the rest, and it boggled his goddamned mind that she’d even stop to give him the time of day.

Oh, not because he wasn’t used to getting attention from women, even beautiful women. He may not have Snake’s surfer-boy good looks or Ozzie’s movie-star profile, but he’d gotten more than his fair share of
les
jolies
filles
over the years
,
especially when he’d been with the Teams…

Oh, mama, had those ever been the days. When there’d been plenty of base bunnies only too happy to overlook his thick Cajun accent and lean, rangy body in order to say they’d bagged themselves an honest-to-goodness Navy SEAL.

But, unfortunately, since starting Black Knights Inc., his pace in the, uh,
bunny
department had slowed considerably. And more recently, ever since he’d been on the run—no, that wasn’t true; it was ever since they’d hired Vanessa—that pace had screeched to a full stop. Because every time he tried to take a woman home from the bar or local cantina, he was stopped by visions of long, inky-black hair, dark, flashing eyes, and an ass that didn’t know the meaning of the word
quit
.

And
that
scared him like a hound pissing peach pits. Because had that jaguar not showed up when it did, he’d likely be buried balls-deep in her sweet feminine warmth right at this very moment. And though the act would’ve undoubtedly been one of the most pleasurable experiences of his entire sorry life, it would’ve also been a mistake on too many levels to count…Because despite the fact that her actions had been screaming,
Ride
me, cowboy. Hard and fast
—which, wouldn’t you know, just happened to be his particular specialty—he was fully aware that, deep down inside, Vanessa was the “forever” type of girl. So if he’d given in to the lust that’d momentarily grabbed hold of them, he’d have given her hope there could be a future for the two of them when there absolutely could
not
.

He pulled away from her gentle touch, shaking his head even though she couldn’t see him. “The wound is nothin’,” he told her brusquely. Was that his voice that sounded like a rusty hinge? “The blood’s already drying.”

“Yes,” she dragged the
s
out on the end of the word. “But here in the jungle, the smallest cut can lead to massive infection. We need to get that thing cleaned, dried, and bandaged.”

She had a point. But if she put her hands on him again…Good Lord. He reckoned he’d be toast.

“All right, fine. But I’ll do it myself.”

She made a tsk-ing sound, and her hand landed on his forearm again only to start on a slow, agonizing journey up his bare arm. The erection he’d managed to beat back when the jaguar arrived on the scene swelled with new life.

Merde. This woman’s gonna be the death of me!

He grabbed her hand and tossed it away, trying to ignore her surprised hiss. “I’m serious.” His harsh tone declared the topic closed for discussion. “I’ll do it myself.”

The resounding silence following that statement let him know more clearly than words ever could that he’d gone and hurt her feelings.

Well,
bon
. If she considered him a prick of legendary proportions, she’d be only too happy to see the backside of him once he returned her pretty ass to the Knights. And it was better to suffer some hurt feelings now than all-out heartbreak later on.

“Suit yourself,” she finally huffed, and he figured it was mission accomplished on the whole getting-her-to-think-he-was-a-prick front. A rustling sound alerted him that she’d picked up his pack, but he was still caught off guard when it slammed into the center of the chest. The breath shot out of him in a harsh
oof
and, despite himself, he felt a smile curve his lips.

Mon
dieu
, he liked her. Considered her damn near perfect, in fact. Because along with being tough and beautiful and lusty, she was also spunky as hell. The combination was Kryptonite to his Superman. Which was just one more reason why he had to make sure he didn’t encourage any more bouts of tongue wrestling—
Lord
have
mercy, can that woman ever kiss
! He was already too far gone where she was concerned.

“Thanks,” he wheezed, digging into his pack, fishing for the antibiotic wipes and self-adhesive bandages he’d packed.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.” The sneer on her face was apparent in her tone, and it occurred to him, as he broke open a pack of wipes, that since she was already pissed, it was probably a good time to go all in.

“And about that kiss,” he said, hissing when he wiped the antibiotic cloth across his cut. It burned like the fires of hell.

Appropriate, considering that’s probably where he was headed someday.

“Yeah? What about it?”

For a moment, he was too busy blinking back tears of pain to speak. Glad, for once, for the complete darkness inside the log lest she realize what a goddamned sissy he really was.
Zut!
Just
give
me
some
bubble
bath
and
a
tampon. I think I’m officially part of the estrogen party.

Then he managed, “It can’t happen again.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she snapped. “The way you’re acting right now, not only do I have no plans to kiss you again, but you’ll be lucky if I don’t suffocate you in your sleep.”

He smiled.

Funny. He’d forgotten to add that to his list of reasons why he thought she was perfect. Tough and beautiful, lusty and spunky…and funny.

Goddamnit!

“I’m serious.” He had to work hard to keep his voice stern.

“So am I,” she shot back without missing a beat.

“Vanessa,” he warned.

“Richard,” she mimicked his tone, but the sound of his given name on her lips had his stomach turning a fast, dizzying somersault.

No one called him Richard. Not anymore. Not after his parents. Not after Lacy…

Words abandoned him, so he busied himself with the bandage’s adhesive strips. Carefully peeling them away, he found the outer edges of the cut on his neck and centered the dressing over the top of it. Pressing the medicated pad in place, he wondered what she was doing. She was awfully quiet over there. Too quiet.

What’s she thinking?

Of course, when she opened her mouth, he decided he’d have preferred it if she kept her thoughts to herself. “Just out of curiosity,
why
can’t we do that again?”

He knew what she was after, but he still asked, “Do what?”

“Kiss.”

And just the word, spoken from those heart-shaped lips of hers, felt like an intimacy, like a single finger running up the length of his dick, like a wet tongue sliding—

Jesus!
He was a lost cause.

“Because we’re coworkers,” he said and wished he could call the excuse back the moment it left his mouth. It was so lame it only opened up an avenue of argument. And,
oui
, just as he expected…

“That’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “Just look at Boss and Becky. And, last I checked, we aren’t coworkers anymore. You haven’t drawn a BKI paycheck in months.”

She had him there. So that left…the truth. Even though he knew it was going to hurt.

“Well, then, we can’t do it again because you’ve got orange blossoms in your eyes,
chere
. And since I’m not the kind of man who would take advantage of a woman, it’s best we just keep our hands, and everything else, to ourselves.”

“Who says you’d be taking advantage?”

She was like a goddamned dog with a bone. The stubborn, willful,
wonderful
woman.

“I do,” he insisted. “I’m not likely to make it out of this mess alive and—”

“Pfft,” she cut him off. “Don’t be ridiculous.
Of
course
, you’re going to make it out of this thing alive. Now that we’ve found you, we’ll all help you clear your name. And once that’s done—”

“What makes you so sure my name
can
be cleared?” He made sure his tone was unmistakable.

For a long moment, silence echoed more loudly than a gunshot through the hollow log.

“I don’t believe what they’re saying about you,” she finally whispered. But he could hear the note of hesitation in her voice. Good. As long as she had the slightest hint of a doubt, letting him go once he got her back to San Jose would be just that much easier. “And you’re trying to change the subject.” Um, busted. “We were discussing the reason why we can’t act on this…this
thing
that’s between us.”

Thing.

Sweet Lord have mercy! It was more than a
thing
for him. It was a goddamned
obsession
. He couldn’t shake it. Because every other thought in his head seemed to circle back to the fact that he wanted to know her body.

Every detail of it…

The shape of her hips. The smoothness of the skin behind her knees. The taste of her desire on his lips when he kissed her where she was hot and wet. He wanted to know the way she responded when she was being loved. How she breathed when he kissed her nipples. How she arched when he entered her body. How she moved beneath him, above him. He wanted to know her. It. All of it. All of her…

Which was why he had to nip this thing in the bud. For her sake
and
for his own. It was time, as his dear ol’ daddy used to say, to deliver the coup de grâce.

“Okay, let me make it very clear to you,
chere
,” he said, his heart pounding for the pain he knew he was going to inflict. But that’s the thing about the truth. It hurt. “You have some romantic notion in your head that we could act on this
thing
, as you call it, and then it would grow into something more from there. But I can assure you it won’t.”

“Why?” The word wasn’t timid; it was demanding. The woman had the heart of a lion and he wished, oh how he wished, things could be different.

“Because while I have no doubt I could give you the thrill ride of your life, I can guarantee that’s all it’ll be. You see,
ma
belle
, no matter what, you can’t let yourself fall in love with me.”

“Why?” That one word again.

“Because I’ll never fall in love with you.”

***

“They’ve lost contact with the targets.”

It was not the news Rwanda Don had hoped to hear upon answering the phone. Squeezing the untraceable device in an angry fist caused the cheap plastic casing to crackle warningly.

“What do you mean? What happened to the RFD on Miss Cordero?”

“It was found attached to a stone some sixty yards from Babineaux’s tree house,” the CIA agent relayed. “He obviously discovered the thing and disposed of it. And, while the teams were busy following the device’s signal, he and Cordero managed to slip away.”

Slip
away.

Indeed. Just as R.D. suspected might happen.

Goddamn Rock! The man was too smart for his own good. Definitely too smart for R.D.’s peace of mind.

“Any idea where they’re headed?”

“Tracks lead into the river, but the teams have found no point of exit. It’s suspected Babineaux and Cordero rode the sucker all the way back into Santa Elena…or else they drowned. Parts of that river are very dangerous.”

“No.” R.D. wasn’t sure of many things, but the impossibility of Richard “Rock” Babineaux, all-star ex–Navy SEAL, drowning was one of them. “You know as well as I do, there’s no way he drowned. He’s still there. Somewhere.”

“Mmph,” the agent made a noncommittal sound before continuing. “They’ve called in a backup team to search Santa Elena, and the other two teams are tearing the jungle apart. Don’t worry. If Babineaux and Cordero are still alive, they’ll find them. We’ve got three more hours until daybreak in those parts, and they can’t hide forever.”

R.D. was beginning to have doubts in that respect.

Beginning?
What a joke. There’d
always
been doubts that Rock could be caught. The man was too well-equipped and too well-trained. To put it simply, he was
good
in
the
woods
. Which was the military’s cutesy way of saying he was a veritable prodigy when it came to jungle recon, battle, and survival.

As a rule, R.D. didn’t have much respect for the armed services. They were too loud, too extravagant, fighting all-out wars when a few well-placed bullets in the heads of very specific people could accomplish the same task. But, occasionally, Uncle Sam popped out a specimen of inordinate intelligence and skill.

Unfortunately for R.D. and the CIA agent who’d personally helped pursue The Project after The Company decided to put the kibosh on it, Rock Babineaux happened to be one of those…

“There’s more,” the agent went on. “Inside Rock’s tree house was a shit-load of intel.”

The small seed of fear that’d taken root in R.D.’s stomach upon hearing the initial news that not only was Rock alive and well, but he’d had managed to disappear like a goddamned ghost, bloomed into an ugly flower of chill-inducing terror.

“Wh—” Grabbing a glass of water from the edge of the desk, R.D. took a quick swallow and tried again, “What sort of intel?”

“Reams of information on his targets,” the agent declared, discomfort in every word. “I’m talking thousands of documents with red strings connecting this piece of information to that. It looked like
A
Beautiful
Mind
in that place. Very concerning.”