Desperado (4 page)

“I made your life a nightmare?” He cocked his head in surprise.

“Of course, you did. All that teasing—my old-fashioned values were out-of-date . . . the rules I followed were silly . . .
I was Daddy's girl . . . my appearance was prudish and drab. Did you enjoy putting me down? I never did anything to hurt you.”

“Helen, Helen, Helen. I thought you were smarter than that.” He made a clucking sound as if she were incredibly dense. “Talk about nightmares! Sweetheart, you made my heart skip a beat the first time I saw you at freshman registration. You were wearing a yellow sundress with tiny straps.” He drew two lines from his shoulders to his chest to demonstrate. “Your hair was pulled back on each side with gold barrettes. And your perfume smelled flowery, like . . .” His words trailed off as he realized how much he'd revealed with his words.

“You're making this up. I know you are.”

“Hah! Know this, babe—you were the center of every wet dream I had for four long years at Stonewall. And there were a lot of them.”

“How dare you! See what I mean about your vulgarity? Military insubordination aside, men don't say that to women they respect.”

“Maybe you've been running with the wrong men.” He put a hand on her arm to stop her from releasing her seat belt and getting up, as she intended. In a softer tone, he added, “I did make fun of you a lot, Prissy. But it was because I wanted you so damn much. I thought you knew that.”

Her mouth parted on an exhale of amazement—not that she really believed him. He'd probably learned all his smooth lines in “Hotshot Lawyer 101.” And the crude ones in “Sleazy Lawyer 102.”

“Didn't you ever wonder why I followed you around all the time?” he persisted.

Helen was too dumbstruck to answer at first. It was true. He had seemed to be practically everywhere she was during their four years at Stonewall. “But you never asked me out.”

“Would you have gone?”

Her silence spoke volumes, and he waved his hand in a curt “So there!” manner. Rafe's gaze held hers then, in challenge, and Helen detested the way he made her squirm.

Later, she would think about all he had said, but for now she sought desperately for some other subject, some way to rein in her roiling emotions and get back into her stoic military frame of mind. “I assume you're ready for this jump, Rafe. You have been keeping up on your skydiving practice, haven't you?”

He nodded, the twitch of mirth on his beautiful lips telling her he wasn't fooled by her change of subject.

“Did you serve in Iraq?”

“Nope. Got an emergency deferment.”

Her upper lip curled with distaste.

“I did serve in some disasters, though. Floods, hurricanes, riots. Even though that's not normal special forces duty.”

“What? Stealing televisions?” She rued her words at once, even before his eyes shot blue sparks at her.

“I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”

“I'm used to it. Once a greaser, always a greaser, right? A wetback in a suit is still a wetback.” He looked away, dismissing her, but Helen saw the hurt in his revealing eyes.

“Rafe, I
am
sorry. I was reacting to you, not your heritage.”

“Well, that makes me feel much better.”

“You bring out the worst in me.”

“Keep talking. You might draw blood soon.”

She groaned. “I apologized. What more do you want from me?”

“Not a damn thing.”

Intensely humiliated, Helen shifted and unhooked her seat belt. She was about to stand and walk away.

“Wait,” Rafe said, halting her. He leaned so close that she could feel his warm breath against her neck. His gruff voice promised revenge for her insult. “I lied. I do want something from you,” he whispered near her exposed ear. “If I had my
way, we would go behind that curtain there and engage in a world-class wall-banger. I'd wrap your legs around my waist and bury myself inside you. And I'd be kissing you the entire time to muffle your screams. Because, believe me, babe, you would definitely scream.”

Stunned, Helen just gaped at him.

“Don't forget your clipboard,” he reminded her with an infuriating grin.

She growled and came very, very close to bopping him with a left hook. And she could do it, too. Instead, she did what she should have done fifteen minutes earlier. She stood, her back rigid and her face scarlet with mortification, and walked away from the insufferable slimeball.

But the images he had painted in her mind lingered, just as he'd intended.

She should have been livid. She should have been offended.

Instead, she was tempted.

I
t takes mistaken identity to a whole other level . . .

R
afe watched stonily as one after another of the soldiers completed their passes out into space. Helen, the jump master, stood at the exit door, expertly overseeing the jumps. The special forces unit in the guard were among the few servicemen permitted to do HALO, or high altitude–low opening, jumps.

Because of the engine and wind noise, it was almost impossible to hear a verbal command. But that didn't matter because, in this type of exercise, it was the pilot who checked the wind drift and drop-zone location, and, when the time was right, the continual red light would change to green—a signal to go.

They'd already donned their nylon jumpsuits. Just before springing out into space, they hooked on their Kevlar helmets.

Helen avoided eye contact with him, and with good cause. He'd behaved like a bastard back there a little while ago. But, hell, she brought out the worst in him. He was thirty-four years
old, but she made him feel all jittery and clumsy, like an adolescent with hormones oozing out his pores.

He'd reacted as he always had as a kid in the L.A. barrio—defensively. Hit before he got hit. Cut the enemy off at the knees before he cut off your balls.

But when did Helen become my enemy?

Maybe he should apologize.

Probably he wouldn't.

With a grimace, Rafe watched the female soldier in front, an Ohio college professor and linguistics expert, listen to some final instructions from Helen, then step out into the blue sky. She drifted in a freefall for the recommended several seconds' delay before her parachute swooped open above her with a snap, changing shape like an enormous jellyfish.

The next jumper—a hotdog race car driver from Atlanta whose mechanical skills were renowned in the munitions field—gave a loud whoop before diving headfirst out into the open sky—a lumpout. Within seconds, he'd “fallen stable” into a high-speed delta position—straight legs, arms held back at an angle from the sides of the body. No flopping around for this experienced skydiver. Rafe thought he heard him yell, “Ooo-ee, baby!” as he went down.

Helen frowned with disapproval at the antics and made a mark in her logbook. The hotdog was on Helen's shit list.

It was Rafe's turn.

A familiar spiral of excitement began to unfurl in his gut, sort of like the beginning stages of sexual arousal. He'd always enjoyed the danger and exhilaration of skydiving. Did Helen feel the same? Damn, he had to stop thinking of her in that way, or these two weeks would be even more hellish than he already expected.

He approached the doorway, adjusted his harness straps, and was about to put on his helmet. Suddenly the plane pitched, hitting a particularly violent patch of turbulence. The aircraft seemed to veer slightly off course to the right,
heading toward a canyon. The jump signal was now a steady red.

But then he noticed that the jerking motion of the plane had caused Helen to fall back against a sharp projection, catching her harness. When she righted herself, the back portion of her harness ripped on the cutting metal, the shoulder straps flapping in the wind. And she had veered dangerously close to the open exit.

“Helen!” he shouted in warning, even though he was only a few feet away. “Your harness!”

Her head snapped to the right to look at him, her brown eyes wide with confusion. At the same time, he dropped his helmet and lurched forward to grab her by the waist and pull her back. Unfortunately, the plane made a sharp correction again, throwing them both off balance. And out the open doorway . . . free-falling through space. Luckily, Rafe had his arms wrapped tightly around Helen's waist.

Holy hell!

“You stupid ass! Let go of me,” she shrieked, attempting to shove him away. They were falling fast. The pins flew out of the bun at her neck, and her long hair flew in his face, blinding him momentarily.

He spit out a clump of her hair that had landed in his open mouth. “Ouch!” Her knee had just hit him in the groin. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he shouted above the whooshing air and his pounding heartbeat.

“Not on your life, buster!”

They had about three minutes until landing—
if
their chutes opened properly,
if
he could hold onto Helen's squirming body,
if
he didn't have a heart attack. And he damn well couldn't waste time arguing with a stubborn, born-to-boss female.

“Helen, your harness is broken. We're dropping like lead weights,” he roared. “You can't take a chance. No time.”

Eyes widening with alarm, she looked at her torn shoulder
straps and reacted instinctively. Wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck. Holding his breath, he arched his back and threw his arms out. Once their suspension lines were taut, the parachutes automatically unfurled above them in a cloud, slowing their descent.

Thank God!

He put his right palm under her buttocks and his left hand behind the nape of her neck, and smiled. The sexual high he always felt in skydiving blossomed into a full-blown erection. He wondered idly if a couple had ever done it while free-falling through space. Knowing some of the crazies who did skydiving stunts, he wouldn't be surprised.

He arranged Helen's body so the vee of her legs pressed flush against his arousal.

She bit his ear, hissing, “Don't even think it.”

Rafe chuckled and countered by nipping her neck. “Is this as good for you as it is for me?”

“I'm going to kill you the second we hit the ground,” she screeched. “I swear, if we survive this crazy maneuver of yours, you are dead meat.”

Her hair was swirling around crazily like some picture he'd seen once of a Greek goddess with snakes coming out of her head. He didn't think he would share that information with her. “Now, now. It wasn't my fault, Prissy.” He couldn't believe he was carrying on a conversation while he floated through the air, dovetailed to his commanding officer.

“Shut up!”

“I love it when you talk rough to me, baby.”

“Aaaarrgh! You're going to kill us. Concentrate on what you're doing.”

“If I concentrate any more, we're going to have space sex.”

As he moved himself against her inadvertently, he heard a soft kittenish whimper deep in her throat. He would have
ragged her about her involuntary reaction, but his breath was caught by a wave of desire. His hard-on felt like it could drill through concrete.

They passed the cliff on the edge of the plateau that should have been their destination. The fine hairs stood out all over his body as they swerved dangerously close to the sharp edges of rock near the outcropping. Maneuvering the cords on both chutes as he'd been trained, aided by a slight wind, he avoided disaster, and they approached the grassy canyon floor.

“Hold on tight. This is it,” Rafe warned as the ground came up to meet them. He braced himself. With a loud thump, they fell to the hard earth and rolled, settling with Helen flat on her back, spread-eagled, and him on top of her, both of them covered by the parachutes.

For several long minutes, he lay, unmoving, trying to regain his breath.
Hot damn! This will be an experience to tell my grandkids about someday. Not that I ever intend to have any brats of my own, but . . . wow!
“Are you okay?” he finally asked, raising himself slightly on outstretched arms after flicking the fabric off their heads.

“No, I'm not okay, you imbecile. You are going to be court-martialed for this, soldier.”

“Hey, I saved your life,” he said with affront.

“Saved my life? Captain, you caused me to fall out of that freakin' airplane,” she raged irrationally, her face turning a decided shade of purple.

“Tsk, tsk. Watch your language,
Major
.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .” she stammered heatedly, no doubt searching for the right adjective to describe him. “You're going to be in the stockade for a year. I'm going to sue you for assault. I'm making it my personal mission to see that you pay for this debacle for the rest of your worthless life.”

“Is that all?” he asked, grinning down at her. He'd just realized that a certain part of his body hadn't understood that
the
uplifting
thrill of free-falling was over, and it was time for some
downlifting
.

Helen's mouth forced a delicious little “o” of surprise as she made the same discovery. Her windblown hair looked like she'd been pulled through a keyhole, backward, and freckles stood out like tobacco juice on her pale skin. But she was damned near irresistible, in Rafe's estimation.

He adjusted his hips against hers and whispered, “There's something I've always wanted to do, Helen. From the first time we met.”

“That's all you ever think about,” she choked out indignantly, but her thick lashes fluttered traitorously.

“Not
that,
Prissy,” he said with a husky laugh, chucking her under the chin. “
This
.” He lowered his face toward hers slowly, giving her the chance to protest, but hoping against hope that she wouldn't. “Just a kiss. That's all. Just one kiss.”

“No,” she said on a soft moan, but she was already raising her parted lips toward his.

At first, he merely brushed his lips across hers, but a spark of electricity ignited, so powerful his heart slammed against his chest walls and his skin tingled all over. “Sweet. So sweet,” he murmured against her dewy lips.

Then he opened his mouth over hers. Kissing her deeply, he shifted and slanted until their lips fit together perfectly. If this was going to be the only kiss he ever got from Helen, he planned to make it memorable. A kiss for all time.

Helen knew she should push Rafe away. Kissing him was a big mistake. He was doing wicked, downright sinful things to her senses—nibbling at her bottom lip, easing his tongue into her mouth, teasing her with sensuous, mind-shattering strokes that had her yearning for more.

“Look!” a voice exclaimed. “Over there.
El hombre y la muchacha
.”

At the unexpected intrusion, Rafe tensed and stopped
kissing her. They both listened alertly, unable to see anything yet.

“Cuidado!”
another male voice cautioned, seeming to move closer, then swore, “
Ay, mierda!
I think it ees
El
Ángel Bandido
.”

A chorus of muttered curses followed.

Helen started to push Rafe off her and demand an explanation, but he put a forefinger to her lips, signaling silence.

“
Sí
, you are right, Pablo. It does look like the Angel. Cover me while I move closer to check.”

“
Bueno,
Ignacio. But does it not seem that
El Ángel
ees doing enough covering on his own . . . of
la señorita
? Heh, heh, heh.”

Everyone chortled at the risqué joke.

“Who are they?” Helen whispered.

“I don't know. Maybe they'll go away if we ignore them,” Rafe answered.

A sudden gasp echoed in the still air. “If he ees truly
El Ángel
, do you think . . . Could this possibly be Elena?” one of them asked.

“Elena?” the others echoed incredulously.

“Son of a bitch! She mus' be Elena,” one voice said.

“Do you think she's doing
el corcho tornillo
on him under that tent?” another, younger voice asked.

“Sí,”
still another voice remarked hopefully. “She mus' be doing the corkscrew. Did you not hear
El
Ángel
moaning and groaning with all the pleasuring she was giving him?”

“
Maldito!
Do you think she weel take us on next?” the young voice squeaked out.

There was a resounding
“Sí”
from the other men.

“I ain't never had the corkscrew done on me,” the young voice said wistfully.

“Hell, you ain't never had nothin' done on you, Pablo,” an older voice remarked, and everyone laughed.

While this odd conversation took place in a matter of minutes,
Rafe and Helen continued to lie stiffly in each other's arms, stunned by the amazing scene unfolding around them. The parachute still covered them up to their waists.

The only thing Helen could make out was that the discussion centered on some woman named Elena. She figured this Elena must be someone pretty special to evoke such awe.

Rafe slowly eased himself off her and sat up. His eyes were still misty with passion, and his lips were swollen from her kisses.

Oh, Lord
.

Flicking the rest of the parachutes off their bodies, he stood in one fluid motion, pulling Helen up beside him. He proceeded to take off his cumbersome harness and jumpsuit, and she did likewise.

Three disreputable-looking men, dressed like old-time western bandits, sat on horses above them. Unshaven and filthy, the dark-skinned men raised guns from holsters at their sides, aiming them, unbelievably, at Helen and Rafe.

Helen flushed as she realized that they'd been watching her writhing under Rafe's scorching kiss moments ago. But then she saw the danger of the lethal weapons staring them in the face. Relying on years of military training, Helen forced herself to calm down and assess the situation.

Okay, the make-believe bandits were clearly Mexican. Maybe they were friends of Rafe's playing a joke on him. Or her, if Rafe was in cahoots with them.

“What's up, guys?
Que es la problema?
” Rafe asked with steely calm, pushing Helen behind him protectively. “Lookin' for trouble?”

“Don't antagonize them,” Helen advised, stepping around him. “Besides, I'm the officer in charge here.”

He shot her a glare of utter disbelief. “Listen up, G.I. Barbie, don't tell me what to do. I've been facing these kinds of hoods all my life.”