Midnight Rainbow (11 page)

           
 
She muttered something unintelligible and
burrowed against him, hiding her face against his neck. He shifted gently to
his side, easing her onto the blanket. Her arms still hung around his neck, and
she tightened her grip as if afraid of falling. "Wait! Don't go," she
said urgently, and the sound of her own voice woke her. She opened her eyes,
blinking owlishly at him. "Oh. Is it morning?"

           
 
"Yes, it's morning. Do you think you
could let me up?"

           
 
Confused, she stared at him,
then
seemed to realize that she was still clinging around
his neck. She dropped her arms as if scalded, and though the light was too dim
for him to be certain, he thought that her cheeks darkened with a blush.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. He was free, yet oddly reluctant to
leave the small enclosure of the tent. His left arm was still under her neck,
pillowing her head. The need to touch her was overwhelming, guiding his hand
under the fabric of her shirt, which was actually his. He flattened his hand
against her bare stomach. His fingers and palm luxuriated in the warm silkiness
of her skin, tantalized by the knowledge that even richer tactile pleasures
waited both above and below where his hand now rested.

           
 
Jane felt her breathing hasten in rhythm, and
her heartbeat lurched from the slow, even tempo of sleep to an almost frantic
pace. "Grant?" she asked hesitantly. His hand simply rested on her
stomach, but she could feel her breasts tightening in anticipation, her nipples
puckering. A restless ache stirred to life inside her. It was the same empty
need that she'd felt when she'd stood almost naked in his arms, in the middle of
the stream, and let him touch her with a raw sensuality that she'd never before
experienced. She was a little afraid of that need, and a little afraid of the
man who created it with his touch, who leaned over her so intently.

           
 
Her only sexual experience had been with her
husband. The lack of success in that area of their marriage had severely
limited what she knew, leaving her almost completely
unawakened
,
even disinterested. Chris had given her no useful standard, for there was no
comparison at all between her ex-husband—a kind, cheerful man, slender and only
a few inches taller than she was—and this big, rough, muscular warrior. Chris
was totally civilized; Grant wasn't civilized at all. If he took her, would he
control his fearsome strength, or would he dominate her completely? Perhaps
that was what frightened her most of all, because the greatest struggle of her
life had been for independence: for freedom from fear, and from the over
protectiveness of her parents. She'd fought so hard and so long for control of
her life that it was scary now to realize that she was totally at Grant's
mercy. None of the training she'd had in self-defense was of any use against
him; she had no defense at all. All she could do was trust him.

           
 
"Don't be afraid," he said evenly.
"I'm not a rapist."

           
 
"I know."
A
killer, perhaps, but not a rapist.
"I trust you," she
whispered, and laid her hand against his
stubbled
jaw.

           
 
He gave a small, cynical laugh. "Don't
trust me too much, honey. I want you pretty badly, and waking up with you in my
arms is straining my good intentions to the limit." But he turned his head
and pressed a quick kiss into the tender palm of the hand that caressed his
cheek. "Come on, let's get moving. I feel like a sitting duck in this
tent, now that it's daylight."

           
 
He heaved himself into a sitting position and
reached for his boots, tugging them on and lacing them up with quick, expert
movements. Jane was slower to sit up, her entire body protesting. She yawned
and shoved her tangled hair back from her face, then put on her own boots.
Grant had already left the tent by the time she finished, and she crawled after
him. Once on her feet, she stretched her aching muscles, then touched her toes
several times to limber up. While she was doing that, Grant swiftly dismantled
the tent. He accomplished that in so short a time that she could only blink at
him in amazement. In only a moment the tent was once more folded into an
impossibly small bundle and stored in his backpack, with the thin blanket
rolled up beside it.

           
 
"Any more goodies in that bottomless pack
of yours?" he asked. "If not, we eat field rations."

           
 
"That
yukky
stuff you have?"

           
 
"That's right."

           
 
"Well, let's see. I know I don't have any
more orange juice—" She opened the pack and peered into it, then thrust
her hand into its depths. "Ah! Two more granola bars. Do you mind if I
have the one with coconut? I'm not that crazy about raisins."

           
 
"Sure," he agreed lazily.
"After all, they're yours." She gave him an irritated glance.
"They're
ours.
 
Wait—here's a can of…" She pulled the can
out and read the label, then grinned triumphantly.
"Smoked
salmon!
And some crackers.
Please take a seat,
sir, and we'll have breakfast."

           
 
He obediently sat, then took his knife from
his belt and reached for the can of salmon. Jane drew it back, her brows lifted
haughtily. "I'll have you know that this is a high class eating
establishment. We do not open our cans with knives!"

           
 
"We don't? What do we use, our
teeth?"

           
 
She lifted her chin at him and searched in the
backpack again, finally extracting a can opener. "Listen," she said,
giving the opener to him, "when I escape, I do it in style." Taking
the opener, he began to open the can of salmon. "So I see. How did you
manage to get all of this stuff? I can just see you putting in an order with
Turego
, collecting what you wanted for an escape."
Jane chuckled, a rich, husky sound that made him lift his dark gold head from
his task. Those piercing yellow eyes lit on her face, watching her as if
examining a treasure. She was busy fishing crackers out of the backpack, so she
missed the fleeting expression. "It was almost like that. I kept getting
these 'cravings,' though I seldom mentioned them to
Turego
.
I'd just have a word with the cook, and he generally came up with what I
wanted. I raided the kitchen or the soldiers' quarters for a little something
almost every night."

           
 
"Like that pack?" he queried, eyeing
the object in question. She patted it fondly. "Nice one, isn't it?"

           
 
He didn't reply, but there was a faint
crinkling at the corners of his eyes, as if he were thinking of smiling. They
ate the salmon and crackers in companionable silence, with the food washed down
by water from Grant's canteen. He ate his granola bar, but Jane decided to save
hers for later. Squatting beside the pack, she took her brush and restored
order to her tangled mane of hair, then cleaned her face and hands with a
premoistened
towelette
.
"Would you like one?" she asked Grant politely, offering him one of
the small packets.

           
 
He had been watching her with a stunned sort
of amazement, but he took the packet from her hand and tore it open. The small,
wet paper had a crisp smell to it, and he felt fresher, cooler, after cleaning
his face with it. To his surprise, some of the face black he'd put on before
going in after Jane had remained on his skin; he'd probably looked like a devil
out of hell, with those streaks on his face. A familiar sound caught his
attention and he turned to look at Jane. A tube of toothpaste lay on the ground
beside her, and she was industriously brushing her teeth. As he watched, she
spat out the toothpaste, then took a small bottle and tilted it to her mouth,
swishing the liquid around,
then
spitting it out, too.
His stunned gaze identified the bottle. For five whole seconds he could only
gape at her; then he sat back and began to laugh helplessly. Jane was rinsing
her mouth with Perrier water.

           
 
Jane pouted for a moment, but it was so good
to hear him laugh that after a few seconds she sat back on her heels and simply
watched him, smiling a little
herself
.
When he laughed that harsh, scarred face became younger, even
beautiful, as the shadows left his eyes.
Something caught in her chest,
something that hurt and made a curious melting feeling. She wanted to go over
and hold him, to make sure that the shadows never touched him again. She
scoffed at herself for her absurd sense of protectiveness. If anyone could take
care of himself, it was Grant Sullivan. Nor would he welcome any gesture of
caring; he'd probably take it as a sexual invitation.

           
 
To hide the way she felt, she put her things
back into her pack,
then
turned to eye him
questioningly.

           
 
"Unless you want to use the
toothpaste?" she offered.

           
 
He was still chuckling. "
Thanks,
honey, but I have tooth powder and I'll use the
water in the canteen. God!
Perrier water!"

           
 
"Well, I had to have water, but I wasn't
able to snitch a canteen," she explained reasonably. "Believe me, I'd
much rather have had a canteen. I had to wrap all the bottles in cloth so they
wouldn't clink against each other or break."

           
 
It seemed completely logical to her, but it
set him off again. He sat with his shoulders hunched and shaking, holding his
head between his hands and laughing until tears streamed down his face. After
he had stopped, he brushed his own teeth, but he kept making little choking
noises that told Jane he was still finding the situation extremely funny. She
was lighthearted, happy that she had made him laugh. She felt her blouse and
found it stiff, but dry. "You can have your shirt back," she told
him, turning her back to take it off. "Thanks for the loan."

           
 
"Is yours dry?"

           
 
"Completely."
She pulled his shirt off and dropped it on her backpack, and hurriedly began to
put her blouse on. She had one arm in a sleeve when he swore violently. She
jumped, startled, and looked over her shoulder at him.

           
 
His face was grim as he strode rapidly over to
her. His expression had been bright with laughter only a moment before, but now
he looked like a thundercloud. "What happened to your arm?" he
snapped, catching her elbow and holding her bruised arm out for his inspection.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd hurt yourself?"

           
 
Jane tried to grab the blouse and hold it over
her bare breasts with her free arm, feeling horribly vulnerable and exposed.
She had been trying for a nonchalant manner while changing, but her fragile
poise was shattered by his closeness and his utter disregard for her modesty.
Her cheeks reddened, and in self-defense she looked down at her badly bruised
arm.

           
 
"Stop being so modest," he growled
irritably when she fumbled with the blouse. "I told you, I've already seen
you without any clothes." That was embarrassingly true, but it didn't
help. She stood very still, her face burning, while he gently examined her arm.

           
 
"That's a hell of a bruise, honey. How
does your arm feel?"

           
 
"It hurts, but I can use it," she
said stiffly.

           
 
"How did it happen?"

           
 
"In a variety of ways," she said,
trying to hide her embarrassment behind a bright manner. "This bruise
right here is where you hit me on the arm after sneaking into my bedroom and
scaring me half to death. The big, multicolored one is from falling down that
bluff yesterday morning. This little interesting welt is where a limb swung
back and caught me—"

           
 
"Okay, I get the idea." He thrust
his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry I bruised you, but I didn't know
who you were. I'd say we were more than even on that score, anyway, after that
kick you gave me." Jane's dark chocolate eyes widened with remorse.
"I didn't mean to, not really. It was just a reflex. I'd done it before I
thought. Are you okay? I mean, I didn't do any permanent damage, did I?" A
small, unwilling grin tugged at his lips as he remembered the torment of
arousal he'd been enduring on her account. "No, everything's in working
order," he assured her. His gaze dropped to where she clutched her blouse
to her chest, and his clear amber eyes darkened to a color like melted gold.

           
 
"Couldn't you tell that when we were
standing in the stream kissing?" Jane looked down automatically,
then
jerked her gaze back up in consternation when she
realized where she was looking. "Oh," she said blankly.

           
 
Grant slowly shook his head, staring at her.
She was a constant paradox, an unpredictable blend of innocence and
contrariness, of surprising prudery and amazing boldness. In no way was she
what he'd expected. He was beginning to enjoy every moment he spent with her,
but acknowledging that made him wary. It was his responsibility to get her out
of
Costa Rica
, but he would compromise his own
effectiveness if he allowed himself to become involved with her. Worrying over
her could cloud his judgment. But, damn, how much could a man stand? He wanted
her, and the wanting increased with every moment. In some curious way he felt
lighter, happier. She certainly kept him on his toes! He was either laughing at
her or contemplating beating her, but he was never bored or impatient in her company.
Funny, but he couldn't remember ever laughing with a woman before. Laughter,
especially during the past few years, had been in short supply in his life.

           
 
A chattering monkey caught his attention, and
he looked up. The spots of sunlight darting through the shifting layers of
trees reminded him that they were losing traveling time. "Get your blouse
on," he said tersely, swinging away from her to sling his backpack on. He
buckled it into place,
then
swung her pack onto his
right shoulder. The rifle was slung over his left shoulder. By that time, Jane
had jerked her blouse on and buttoned it up. Rather than stuffing it in her
pants, she tied the tails in a knot at her waist as she had with Grant's shirt.
He was already starting off through the jungle.

           
 
"Grant! Wait!" she called to his
back, hurrying after him.

           
 
"You'll have to stay with me," he
said unfeelingly, not slackening his pace. Well, did he think she couldn't?
Jane fumed, panting along in his path. She'd show him! And he could darn well
act macho and carry both packs if he wanted; she wasn't going to offer to help!
But he wasn't acting macho, she realized, and that deflated some of her
indignation. He actually was that strong and indefatigable.

           
 
Compared to the harrowing day before, the hours
passed quietly, without sight of another human being. She followed right on his
heels, never complaining about the punishing pace he set, though the heat and
humidity were even worse than the day before, if that were possible. There
wasn't any hint of a breeze under the thick, smothering canopy. The air was
still and heavy, steamy with an almost palpable thickness. She perspired
freely, soaking her clothes and making her long for a real bath. That dousing
in the stream the day before had felt refreshing, but didn't really qualify as
bathing. Her nose wrinkled. She probably smelled like a goat.

           
 
Well, so what, she told herself. If she did,
then so did he. In the jungle it was probably required to sweat.

           
 
They stopped about midmorning for a break, and
Jane tiredly accepted the canteen from him. "Do you have any salt
tablets?" she asked. "I think I need one."

           
 
"You don't need salt, honey, you need
water. Drink up."

           
 
She drank,
then
passed the canteen back to him. "It's nearly empty. Let's pour the Perrier
into it and chuck the empty bottles."

           
 
He nodded, and they were able to discard three
bottles. As he got ready to start out again, Jane asked,

           
 
"Why are you in such a hurry? Do you
think we're being followed?"

           
 
"Not followed," he said tersely.
"But they're looking for us, and the slower we move, the better chance
they have of finding us."

           
 
"In this?"
Jane joked, waving her hand to indicate the enclosing forest. It was difficult
to see ten feet in any direction.

           
 
"We can't stay in here forever. Don't
underrate
Turego
; he can mobilize a small army to
search for us. The minute we show our faces, he'll know it."

           
 
"Something should be done about
him," Jane said strongly. "Surely he's not operating with the
sanction of the government?"

           
 
"No. Extortion and terrorism are
his own
little sidelines. We've known about him, of course,
and occasionally fed him what we wanted him to know."

           
 
"We?"
Jane
asked casually.

           
 
His face was immediately shuttered, as cold
and blank as a wall.
"A figure of speech."
Mentally, he swore at himself for being so careless. She was too sharp to miss
anything. Before she could ask any more questions, he began walking again. He
didn't want to talk about his past, about what he had been. He wanted to forget
it all, even in his dreams.

           
 
About
noon
they stopped to eat, and this time they had
to resort to the field rations. After a quick glance at what she was eating,
Jane didn't look at it at all, just put it in her mouth and swallowed without
allowing
herself
to taste it too much. It wasn't
really that bad; it was just so awfully bland. They each drank a bottle of
Perrier, and Jane insisted that they take another yeast pill. A roll of thunder
announced the daily downpour, so Grant quickly found them shelter under a rocky
outcropping. The opening was partially blocked by bushes, making it a snug
little haven.

           
 
They sat watching the deluge for a few
minutes; then Grant stretched out his long legs, leaning back to prop himself
on his elbow. "Explain this business of how your father disinherited you
as a form of protection."

           
 
Jane watched a small brown spider pick its way
across the ground. "It's very simple," she said absently.

           
 
"I wouldn't live with around-the-clock
protection the way he wanted, so the next best thing was to remove the
incentive for any kidnappers."

           
 
"That sounds a little paranoid, seeing
kidnappers behind every tree."

           
 
"Yes," she agreed, still watching
the spider. It finally minced into a crevice in the rock, out of sight, and she
sighed. "He is paranoid about it, because he's afraid that next tune he
wouldn't get me back alive again."

           
 
"Again?"
Grant
asked sharply, seizing on the implication of her words. "You've been
kidnapped before?" She nodded.
"When I was nine
years old."

           
 
She made no other comment and he sensed that
she wasn't going to elaborate, if given a choice. He wasn't going to allow her
that choice. He wanted to know more about her, learn what went on in that
unconventional brain. It was new to him, this overwhelming curiosity about a
woman; it was almost a compulsion. Despite his relaxed position, tension had
tightened his muscles. She was being very matter-of-fact about it, but instinct
told him that the kidnapping had played a large part in the formation of the
woman she was now. He was on the verge of discovering the hidden layers of her
psyche.

           
 
"What happened?" he probed, keeping
his voice casual.