Behind Enemy Lines (2 page)

The guy didn’t have a chance in the world of surviving, but on the off possibility that some higher power owed him a miracle, she planned to give him all the help she could.

Every few seconds a shudder passed into her hands from the helicopter’s control column as the body of the soldier beneath her hit another tree. She nearly moaned aloud as grisly images of his mangled form swam in her mind’s eye, shredding her self-control. It took every ounce of her self-discipline to force her mind to the business at hand.

“Status report, Rusty. What did that ground fire hit?”

“Your VHF radio’s out, the oil system’s leaking.”

“How bad?”

“It’ll take an hour or more to run dry.”

They could be back in St. George in forty minutes. Forty endless minutes for that man down there to bleed and suffer.

“The door window got knocked out, and the winch got hit,” Rusty continued. “Beyond that, we’ve got bullet holes here and there. Nothing major.”

Nothing major except a man dangling, dying, below her. A man who’d been counting on her to get him out alive.

The interior of the helicopter went silent, except for the steady scream of the engines and the deep pounding of the rotor blades beating the air.

Nine to one.

Nine lives for one life.

Nine devastated families or just one.

She talked to distract herself. “Frank, Arty, any suggestions on how I ought to set this guy down?”

“Yeah. Gently.”

Frank cut in. “Shut up, Arty. You might want to radio the embassy, ma’am, and have one of the duty marines guide you down from the ground. We don’t want to drop this guy hard.”

“While you’re at it, Captain, have them bring a cable cutter out to the pad.”

“Why, Arty?”

“That guy’s body is gonna be all tangled up in the cable. They’re gonna have to cut him out.”

Annie squeezed her eyes shut against the image his words called to mind.

“Right. Cable cutters. I’ll take care of it,” she choked out.

She took a quick glance over her shoulder at her passengers. They wore black close-fitting clothing devoid of any military markings. Special Forces, then.

“Arty, put one of our passengers up on headset, will you?”

“Okay, just a sec.” There was a brief pause. “He’s up.”

“What do you need, Captain?”

The voice was tired, gruff.

“Your buddy’s hanging under my helicopter and is no doubt, uhh, injured. I can proceed now to your planned drop-off point and leave him hanging. Or I can divert into St. George, which is about thirty minutes closer, and get medical treatment for him there. I don’t know anything about your team’s orders, so it’s your call.”

“Stand by.” After a brief silence, the voice came back up on the headset. “St. George.”

Man, he sure was talkative.

“I’ll have the embassy doctor meet us when we land. If anything can be done to help your buddy, I’ll personally make it happen.”

“He’s got a name, you know.”

The man’s abrupt flash of anger startled her. But then why wouldn’t the guy be mad? She’d killed his friend, after all.

She asked quietly, “What’s his name?”

“Major Thomas P. Folly.”

Tom’s whole existence could be summed up in one word.
Pain.

Grinding, unbearable pain ripping through his body. Just thinking about moving sent white starbursts of torture roaring through his brain. He’d have screamed if his throat muscles would cooperate, but they ignored his commands. He struggled against the sheer weight of the agony, fought for air, fought to open his eyes against the encroaching blackness.

He did his best to hold it off, but inch by anguishing inch, he gave way. He was almost grateful when the darkness closed over his head, blanking out the light, blanking out thought, blanking out all feeling.

He welcomed oblivion.

Light. Shining brightly in his eyes. Someone tugged at his eyelids and shone that damn light at him again.

Voices. Quiet, murmuring as if they stood beside a dead man.

“…patient’s progressing extremely well, given the extent of his injuries…will maintain regimen of painkillers and sedation for a few more days…”

Days?

That was bad. But why?

Think, you idiot. What’s so important about getting moving?

His men. That was it. They needed him. He was their leader. He was responsible for them. He had to get up, get moving, take care of them. They had to go.

Go where?

The answer refused to come.

A hand smoothed his brow with the infinite care of a mother’s touch. It soothed him deep down, in his soul. So long since he’d been touched like that. He fed on the caress, a starving man at a feast.

And then the fingers slid into his hair. The touch was still light, but different somehow. It evolved into something sensual. Seductive. Female. A sudden, driving need tortured him. He wanted those hands all over him more than he wanted to draw another breath in this world.

He opened his eyes to beg for his heart’s desire, and a fuzzy vision of a golden-haired woman swam before him. He couldn’t make out her face. Had he died? Was she an angel?

Him in Heaven? No way. Not unless some celestial paper pusher up above had screwed up.

His angel’s voice was throaty. Sexy. It flowed over him, hot and sweet. His body’s most primal reaction kicked in with a vengeance, a pulsing, throbbing need that made him rock hard.

Surely people in Heaven weren’t allowed to lust after angels. He must not be dead, after all. He’d never been so grateful for the discomfort of an arousal in his life.

Who was she?

“I’ve given you another dose of morphine. The pain will go away soon. Don’t fight it.”

His gut clenched at the sinful promise of her voice. He shook his head in the negative. Boy, was he weak. His head wobbled like a newborn baby’s. He tried to lift his hand, to get the tube out of his mouth so he could tell her about his men, about his need to leave. About his need to have her touch him. His arm was so blasted heavy.

She subdued him easily, pushing his arm back down to the mattress. Her hands kneaded the unused muscles of his shoulder, sending a melting warmth coursing through him. He could lie here forever if she’d just keep doing that to him.

Something niggled at the back of his consciousness. He pushed it aside, but it kept intruding on the bliss of his angelic massage. Finally, reluctantly, he let the thought surface in his consciousness. There was something he was supposed to do…somewhere he had to go…

It came back to him vaguely. He was supposed to lead his men out of the country. To safety.

Man, her hands felt good.

He closed his eyes and let the pleasure break over him like warm waves lapping upon a sunny beach.

He awoke with a start. Something was different. He lay quietly and took inventory of his body. The respirator tube. It wasn’t taped over his mouth.

He swallowed. His throat grated like sandpaper.

“Thirsty.” It came out a croak, but at least his vocal cords worked.

The blond angel of his hallucinations appeared like magic at his side. He was learning to love the sight of her.

“Hi, there, handsome. How are you feeling today?”

Her smile lit up the room and sent warmth seeping through him. Not the demanding lust from before, but just as beguiling.

“Thirsty,” he repeated.

She disappeared from his field of vision and came back carrying a glass with a plastic, flexible straw sticking out of it. She put its end between his teeth.

He sucked and cool water flooded his mouth. It slid down his throat. Soothing. Every time he saw this woman she brought him relief.

“Where am I?”

“In a hospital in St. George, Gavarone.”

Gavarone. A jumble of images flooded his head almost too fast to process. Rebels. Revolution. Reconnaissance. The jungle. His guys. A helicopter.

“Where are my men?”

“They’re safe. They come to visit you when they can.”

“They’re still in-country? Why didn’t they get out?” He frowned, trying to fill in the blanks. “I remember a helicopter…”

A shadow crossed the face of his angel.

“It was supposed to take us out. Fly us to—” He broke off. Good grief. They must really have him drugged up. He’d almost divulged classified information.

He lurched, or at least tried to lurch, upright. What if this woman worked for the Gavronese government? He’d just compromised his team. Holy smokes.

“How did I get here?”

“I drove you here in my car.”

“No. I mean, what happened to me?”

“What do you remember?”

Dangerous question. She might be probing for information.

“Not much,” he answered cautiously.

He did remember standing in a clearing in some of the thickest jungle he’d ever crawled through. He was watching his guys ride up a steel cable into a helicopter. Somebody was chasing them. No, a lot of people were chasing them. The memory stopped.

The blond angel was giving him a funny look. He’d better distract her.

“What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

“You have a number of broken bones. Three cracked ribs, both your legs fractured, your left arm broken. That was your most serious break. They had to do surgery to set it. Both bones in your forearm had to be pinned. Your jaw was fractured, your right collarbone broken. You had cuts and scrapes all over the place, but they’re mostly healed. A number of your wounds needed stitches. I insisted on a good plastic surgeon to stitch you up. You shouldn’t get too many new scars out of it.”

She said that like she’d seen his old scars.

“Anything else busted up?”

“One of your kidneys was badly bruised, but it’s stopped hemorrhaging. The doctors say it’s all right, now. I think you broke a couple fingers, too, but I lost track.”

Geez. Maybe she should just list the things that weren’t broken.

“How long have I been here?”

“Forty-five days.”

“What?” Disorientation swirled about him. Six and a half weeks? All he remembered were a few snatches here and there. Mostly of this woman standing watch over him and promising to make the pain go away. She’d always kept her word, too.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Going on where?”

“In Gavarone.”

She smiled. “Why don’t you get a little more of your strength back before you dive into Gavronese politics?”

“Is there war?”

Her features tightened, grew serious. “Not yet.”

“But it’s close.”

“Very close.”

He nodded. “Then you’re right. I will need my strength. By the way. Is there something to eat around here? I’m starving.”

She laughed. “I’ll go see what I can find. I’m sure I can scrounge up something.”

Scrounge. An imminently American slang word. And her accent. Not to mention she was the only true, Kansas-wheat blond he’d seen in this godforsaken place. She had to be American. Relief washed over him.

He tried to stay awake until she returned, but the drugs still coursing through his system called to him. He drifted off, cursing himself for his weakness as he fell asleep.

He hoped she was there when he woke up.

She was. Sleeping in the chair beside his bed. The room was mostly dark. A single small lamp burned on the table beside his head.

He smiled at the picture she made, curled up like a little girl, her feet tucked up on the seat, her head resting on her arm. Even in her sleep, she was alluring.

He caught sight of the water glass and tried to reach for it. He noticed for the first time that his arm was encased in a plaster cast. No wonder it felt so heavy.

His angel awoke with a jerk. She looked around for a second, trying to place where she was. He knew the feeling. A person with a job like his woke up that way a lot.

Her smile, when she noticed he was awake, was sleepy and sexy as heck.

“Hi, Tom.”

Warning lights flashed wildly and alarm bells clanged in his head. How in the world did she know his name?

“Who are you, lady?”

She murmured under her breath, “My name’s Ann O’Donnell. Most people call me Annie. I’m here to take care of you. To make sure the hospital does right by you, to translate if a non-English-speaking doctor needs information, that kind of stuff…”

She was babbling at him. Why was she so nervous? And why was she whispering? He stared at her speculatively.

“How did you know my name?”

She did an odd thing. She laughed.

“What a ridiculous…oh, I get it. Stop teasing me, darling.”

His brows slammed together, and he opened his mouth, but she frantically gestured him to silence before he could speak. He watched, frowning, as she went to the door and opened it a crack, peeking out into the hallway. Then she went into the bathroom and did something to the toilet. It flushed, and continued to run.

Background noise. She was creating interference in case the room was bugged.

Who in the hell was she?

She came back to the bed and leaned close. Her golden hair swung down over her shoulder and brushed his cheek. It felt like corn silk, slippery and soft. And it smelled good. Like a field of wildflowers. His heart pounded all of a sudden. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman. A very long time.

She pushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ear.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Who are you?” he whispered back.

“I’m your cover. You had to have hospital care, but you couldn’t exactly be admitted under your own name.”

Now that was an understatement. In Gavarone, he was as illegal an alien as they came.

“The American Embassy worked up papers for you, saying you’re my husband, and backdated a visa placing you in Gavarone before you got hurt. We told the authorities you fell in a rock-climbing accident.”

“They bought your story?”

“So far. But with the rebels getting more aggressive by the day, the government’s getting pretty paranoid. There’ve been some questions asked about you. I’m glad you’re getting better, because we may have to move you soon.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Who
are
you?”

She jerked at the sharp tone of command in his voice. “Captain Ann O’Donnell, U.S. Air Force, Assistant Air Attaché, American Embassy in St. George to the principality of Gavarone. Do you want my serial number and date of birth, too?”