Midnight Rainbow (7 page)

           
 
He felt pretty grim about the entire
operation. Their situation right now was little short of desperate, regardless
of the fact that they were, for the moment, rather secure. They had probably
managed to shake the soldiers, whoever they worked for, but
Turego
was a different story. The microfilm wasn't the only issue now.
Turego
had been operating without the sanction of the
government, and if Jane made it back and filed a complaint against him, the
repercussions would cost him his position, and possibly his freedom.

           
 
It was Grant's responsibility to get her out,
but it was no longer the simple in-and-out situation he'd planned. From the
moment he'd seen Pablo leaning so negligently against the helicopter, waiting
for them, he'd known that the deal had gone sour. Pablo wasn't the type to be
waiting for them so casually; in all the time Grant had know him, Pablo had
been tense, ready to move, always staying in the helicopter with the rotors
turning. The elaborate pose of relaxation had tipped Grant off as clearly as if
Pablo had hung a sign around his neck. Perhaps Pablo had been trying to warn
him. There was no way he'd ever know for certain.

           
 
Now he had to get her through the jungle, out
of the mountains, and south through a swamp, with
Turego
in hot pursuit. With luck, in a day or so, they'd find a village and be able to
hitch a ride, but even that depended on how close behind
Turego
was.

           
 
And on top of that, he couldn't trust her.
She'd disarmed that soldier far too casually, and hadn't turned a hair at
anything that had happened. She was far too matter-of-fact about the whole
situation. She wasn't what she seemed, and that made her dangerous.

           
 
He was wary of her, but at the same time he
found that he was unable to stop watching her. She was too damned sexy, as lush
and exotic as a jungle orchid. What would it be like to lie with her? Did she
use the rich curves of her body to make a man forget who he was? How many men
had been taken in by that fresh, open expression? Had
Turego
found himself off balance with her, wanting her, knowing that he could force
her at any time—but being eaten alive by the challenge of trying to win her, of
making her give herself freely? How else had she managed to control him? None
of it added up to what she should have been, unless she played with men as some
sort of ego trip, where the more dangerous the man, the greater the thrill at
controlling him.

           
 
Grant didn't want her to have that much
influence over him; she wasn't worth it. No matter how beguiling the expression
in her dark, slanted eyes, she simply wasn't worth it. He didn't need the sort
of complication she offered; he just wanted to get her out, collect his money
from her father, and get back to the solitude of the farm. Already he'd felt
the jungle pulling at him, the heated, almost sexual excitement of danger. The
rifle felt like an extension of his body, and the knife fit his palm as if he'd
never put it down. All the old moves, the old instincts, were still there, and
blackness rose in him as he wondered bitterly if he'd ever really be able to
put this life behind him. The blood lust had been there in him, and perhaps
he'd have killed that soldier if she hadn't kicked the rifle up when she had.
Was it part of the intoxication of battle that made him want to pull her
beneath him and drive himself into her body, until he was mindless with
intolerable pleasure? Part of it was, and yet part of it had been born hours
ago, on the floor of her bedroom, when he'd felt the soft, velvety roundness of
her breasts in his hands. Remembering that, he wanted to know what her breasts
looked like, if they thrust out conically or had a full lower slope, if her
nipples were small or large, pink or brown. Desire made him harden, and he
reminded himself caustically that it had been a while since he'd had a woman,
so it was only natural that he would be turned on. If nothing else, he should
be glad of the evidence that he could still function!

           
 
She yawned, and blinked her dark eyes at him
like a sleepy cat. "I'm going to take a nap," she announced, and
curled up on the ground. She rested her head on her arm, closed her eyes and yawned
again. He watched her, his eyes narrowed. This utter adaptability she displayed
was another piece of the puzzle that didn't fit. She should have been moaning
and bitching about how uncomfortable she was, rather than calmly curling up on
the ground for a nap. But a nap sounded pretty damned good right now, he
thought.

           
 
Grant looked around. The rain had become a
full-fledged downpour, pounding through the canopy and turning the jungle floor
into a river. The constant, torrential rains leeched the nutrients out of the
soil, making the jungle into a contradiction, where the world's greatest
variety of animal and plant life existed on some of the poorest soil. Right now
the rain also made it almost impossible for them to be found. They were safe
for the time being, and for the first time he allowed himself to feel the
weariness in his muscles. He might as well take a nap, too; he'd wake when the
rain stopped, alerted by the total cessation of noise.

           
 
Reaching out, he shook her shoulder, and she
roused to stare at him sleepily. "Get against the back of the
lean-to," he ordered. "Give me a little room to stretch out,
too." She crawled around as he'd instructed and stretched out full length,
sighing in ecstasy. He pushed their backpacks to one side,
then
lay down beside her, his big body between her and the rain. He lay on his back,
one brawny arm thrown behind his head. There was no twitching around,
no
yawning or sighing, for him. He simply lay down, closed
his eyes and went to sleep. Jane watched him sleepily, her gaze lingering on
the
hawklike
line of his profile, noting the scar
that ran along his left cheekbone. How had he gotten it? His jaw was blurred
with several days' growth of beard, and she noticed that his beard was much
darker than his hair. His eyebrows and lashes were dark, too, and that made his
amber eyes seem even
brighter
, almost as yellow as an
eagle's.

           
 
The rain made her feel a little chilled after
the intense heat of the day; instinctively she inched closer to the heat she
could feel emanating from his body. He was so warm… and she felt so safe… safer
than she'd felt since she was nine years old. With one more little sigh, she
slept. Sometime later the rain ceased abruptly, and Grant woke immediately,
like a light switch being flipped on. His senses were instantly alert, wary. He
started to surge to his feet, only to realize that she was lying curled against
his side, with her head pillowed on his arm and her hand lying on his chest.
Disbelief made him rigid. How could she have gotten that close to him without
waking him? He'd always slept like a cat, alert to the smallest noise or
movement—but this damned woman had practically crawled all over him and he
hadn't even stirred. She must've been disappointed, he thought furiously. The
fury was directed as much at himself as at her, because the incident told him
how slack he had become in the past year. That slackness might cost them their
lives.

           
 
He lay still, aware of the fullness of her
breasts against his side. She was soft and lush, and one of her legs was thrown
up over his thigh. All he had to do was roll over and he'd be between her legs.
The mental image made moisture break out on his forehead. God! She'd be hot and
tight, and he clenched his teeth at the heavy surge in his loins. She was no
lady, but she was all
woman
, and he wanted her naked
and writhing beneath him with an intensity that tied his guts into knots. He
had to move, or he'd be taking her right there on the rocky ground. Disgusted
at himself for letting her get to him the way she had, he eased his arm from
beneath her head, then shook her shoulder. "Let's get moving," he
said curtly.

           
 
She muttered something, her forehead puckering,
but she didn't open her eyes, and in a moment her forehead smoothed as she
lapsed back into deep sleep. Impatiently, Grant shook her again. "Hey,
wake up."

           
 
She rolled over on her stomach and sighed
deeply, burrowing her head against her folded arm as she sought a more
comfortable position. "Come on, we've got to get going," he said,
shaking her more vigorously. "Wake up!" She aimed a drowsy swat at
him, as if he were a pesky fly, brushing his hand aside. Exasperated, Grant caught
her shoulders and pulled her to a sitting position, shaking her once again.
"Damn it, would you get up? On your feet, honey; we've got some walking to
do." Her eyes finally opened, and she blinked at him groggily, but she
made no move to get up. Swearing under his breath, Grant hauled her to her
feet. "Just stand over there, out of the way," he said, turning her
around and starting her on her way with a swat on her bottom before he turned
his attention to taking down their shelter.

           
 
Jane stopped, her hand going to her bottom.
Awakened now, and irritated by his light, casual slap, she turned. "You
didn't have to do that!"

           
 
"Do what?" he asked with total
disinterest, already busy removing the tarp from the top of the lean-to and
rolling it up to replace it in his backpack.

           
 
"Hit me! A simple 'wake-up' would have
sufficed!"

           
 
Grant looked at her in disbelief. "Well,
pardon me all to hell," he drawled in a sarcastic tone that made her want
to strangle him. "Let me start over. Excuse me, Priscilla, but nappy time
is over, and we really do have to—hey! Damn it!" He ducked in time,
throwing his arm up to catch the force of her fist. Swiftly he twisted his arm
to lock his fingers around her wrist, then caught her other arm before she
could swing at him with it. She'd exploded into fury, hurling herself at him
like a cat pouncing. Her fist had hit his arm with enough strength that she
might have broken his nose if the blow had landed on target. "Woman, what
in
hell
is wrong with you?"

           
 
"I told you not to call me that!"
Jane raged at him, spitting the words out in her fury. She struggled wildly,
trying to free her arm so she could hit him again.

           
 
Panting, Grant wrestled her to the ground and
sat astride her, holding her hands above her head, and this time making damned
certain that her knee wouldn't come anywhere near him. She kept wriggling and
heaving, and he felt as if he
were
trying to hold an
octopus, but finally he had her subdued. Glaring at her, he said, "You
told me not to call you
Pris
."

           
 
"Well, don't call me Priscilla,
either!" she fumed, glaring right back.

           
 
"Look, I'm not a mind reader! What am I
supposed to call you?"

           
 
"Jane!" she shouted at him. "My
name is Jane!
Nobody
has
ever
called me Priscilla!"

           
 
"All right!
All
you had to do was tell me! I'm getting damned tired of you snapping at my
ankles, understand? I may hurt you before I can stop myself, so you'd better
think twice before you attack again. Now, if I let you up, are you going to
behave?"

           
 
Jane still glared at him, but the weight of
his knees on her bruised arms was excruciating. "All right," she said
sullenly, and he slowly got up,
then
surprised her by
offering his hand to help her up. She surprised herself by taking it.

           
 
A sudden twinkle lit the dark gold of his
eyes. "Jane, huh?" he asked reflectively, looking at the surrounding
jungle.

           
 
She gave him a threatening look. "No 'Me
Tarzan, you Jane' stuff," she warned. "I've heard it since grade school."
She paused,
then
said grudgingly, "But it's still
better than Priscilla." He grunted in agreement and turned away to finish
dismantling their shelter, and after a moment Jane began helping. He glanced at
her, but said nothing. He wasn't much of a talker, she'd noticed, and he didn't
improve any on closer acquaintance. But he'd risked his own life to help her,
and he hadn't left her behind, even though Jane knew he could have moved a lot
faster, and with a lot less risk to himself, on his own. And there was
something in his eyes, an expression that was weary and cynical and a little
empty, as if he'd seen far too much to have any faith or trust left.
That made Jane want
to put her arms around him and shield
him. Lowering her head so he wouldn't be able to read her expression, she
chided herself for feeling protective of a man who was so obviously capable of
handling himself. There had been a time in her own life when she had been
afraid to trust anyone except her parents, and it had been a horrible, lonely
time. She knew what fear was, and loneliness, and she ached for him. All signs
of their shelter obliterated, he swung his backpack up and buckled it on, then
slung the rifle over his shoulder, while Jane stuffed her hair up under her
cap. He leaned down to pick up her pack for her, and a look of astonishment
crossed his face; then his dark brows snapped together. "What the—"
he muttered. "What all do you have in this damned thing? It weighs a good
twenty pounds more than my pack!"

           
 
"Whatever I thought I'd need," Jane
replied, taking the pack from him and hooking her arm through the one good
shoulder strap, then buckling the waist strap to secure it as well as she
could.

           
 
"Like what?"

           
 
"Things," she said stubbornly. Maybe
her provisions weren't exactly proper by military standards, but she'd take her
peanut butter sandwiches over his canned whatever any time. She thought he
would order her to dump the pack on the ground for him to sort through and
decide what to keep, and she was determined not to allow it. She set her jaw
and looked at him.

           
 
He put his hands on his hips and surveyed her
funny, exotic face, her lower lip pouting out in a mutinous expression, her
delicate jaw set. She looked ready to light into him again, and he sighed in
resignation. Damned if she wasn't the
stubbornest
,
scrappiest woman he'd ever met. "Take it off," he growled, unbuckling
his own pack. "I'll carry yours, and you can carry mine." If
anything, the jaw went higher. "I'm doing okay with my own."

           
 
"Stop wasting time arguing. That extra
weight will slow you down, and you're already tired. Hand it over, and I'll fix
that strap before we start out."

           
 
Reluctantly she slipped the straps off and
gave him the pack, ready to jump him if he showed any sign of dumping it. But
he took a small folder from his own pack, opened it to extract a needle and
thread, and deftly began to sew the two ends of the broken strap together.

           
 
Astounded, Jane watched his lean, calloused
hands wielding the small needle with a dexterity that she had to envy.
Reattaching a button was the limit of her sewing skill, and she usually managed
to prick her finger doing that. "Do they teach sewing in the military
now?" she asked, crowding in to get a better look. He gave her another one
of his glances of dismissal. "I'm not in the military."

           
 
"Maybe not now," she conceded.
"But you were, weren't you?"

           
 
"A long time ago."

           
 
"Where did you learn how to sew?"

           
 
"I just picked it up. It comes in
handy." He bit the thread off,
then
replaced the
needle in its package.

           
 
"Let's get moving; we've wasted too much
time as it is."

           
 
Jane took his backpack and fell into step
behind him; all she had to do was follow him. Her gaze drifted over the width
of his shoulders, then eased downward. Had she ever known anyone as physically
strong as this man? She didn't think so. He seemed to be immune to weariness,
and he ignored the steamy humidity that drained her strength and drenched her
clothes in perspiration. His long, powerful legs moved in an effortless stride,
the flexing of his thigh muscles pulling the fabric of his pants tight across
them. Jane found herself watching his legs and matching her own stride to his.
He took a step, and she took a step automatically. It was easier that way; she
could separate her mind from her body, and in doing so ignore her protesting
muscles.

           
 
He stopped once and took a long drink from the
canteen, then passed it to Jane without comment. Also without comment, and
without wiping the mouth of the canteen, she tipped it up and drank thirstily.
Why worry about drinking after him? Catching cold was the least of her
concerns. After capping the canteen, she handed it back to him, and they began
walking again.

           
 
There was madness to his method, or so it
seemed to her. If there was a choice between two paths, he invariably chose the
more difficult one. The route he took was through the roughest terrain, the
thickest vegetation, up the highest, most rugged slope. Jane tore her pants
sliding down a bluff, that looked like pure suicide from the top, and not much
better than that from the bottom, but she followed without complaining. It
wasn't that she didn't think of plenty of complaints, but that she was too
tired to voice them. The benefits of her short nap had long since been
dissipated. Her legs ached, her back ached, her bruised arms were so painful
she could barely move them, and her eyes felt as if they were burning out of
their sockets. But she didn't ask him to stop. Even if the pace killed her, she
wasn't going to slow him down any more than she already had, because she had no
doubt that he could travel much faster without her. The easy movements of his
long legs told her that his stamina was far greater than hers; he could
probably walk all night long again without a noticeable slowing of his stride.
She felt a quiet awe of that sort of strength and conditioning, something that
had been completely outside her experience before she'd met him. He wasn't like
other men; it was evident in his superb body, in the awesome competence with
which he handled everything, in the piercing gold of his eyes.

           
 
As if alerted by her thoughts, he stopped and
looked back at her, assessing her condition with that sharp gaze that missed
nothing. "Can you make it for another mile or so?" On her own, she
couldn't have, but when she met his eyes she knew there was no way she'd admit
to that. Her chin lifted, and she ignored the increasingly heavy ache in her
legs as she said, "Yes." A flicker of expression crossed his face so
swiftly that she couldn't read it. "Let me have that pack," he
growled, coming back to her and jerking the straps free of the buckles, then
slipping the pack from her shoulders.

           
 
"I'm handling it okay," she
protested fiercely, grabbing for the pack and wrapping both arms around it.
"I haven't complained, have I?"

           
 
His level dark brows drawing together in a
frown, he forcefully removed the pack from her grasp. "Use your
head," he snapped. "If you collapse from exhaustion, then I'll have
to carry you, too." The logic of that silenced her. Without another word
he turned and started walking again. She was better able to keep up with him
without the weight of the pack, but she felt frustrated with herself for not
being in better shape, for being a burden to him. Jane had fought fiercely for
her independence, knowing that her very life depended on it. She'd never been
one to sit and wait for someone else to do things for her. She'd charged at
life head-on, relishing the challenges that came her way because they
reaffirmed her acute sense of the wonder of life. She'd shared the joys, but
handled the problems on her own, and it unsettled her now to have to rely on
someone else.

           
 
They came to another stream, no wider than the
first one they had crossed, but deeper. It might rise to her knees in places.
The water rushing over the rocks sounded cool, and she thought of how heavenly
it would be to refresh her sweaty body in the stream. Looking longingly at it,
she stumbled over a root and reached out to catch her balance. Her palm came
down hard against a tree trunk, and something squished beneath her fingers.

           
 
"Oh,
yuk
!"
she moaned, trying to wipe the dead insect off with a leaf. Grant stopped.
"What is it?"

           
 
"I smashed a bug with my hand." The
leaf didn't clean too well; a smear still stained her hand, and she looked at
Grant with disgust showing plainly on her face. "Is it all right if I wash
my hand in the stream?"

           
 
He looked around, his amber eyes examining
both sides of the stream. "Okay. Come over here."

           
 
"I can get down here," she said. The
bank was only a few feet high, and the underbrush wasn't that thick. She
carefully picked her way over the roots of an enormous tree, bracing her hand
against its trunk to steady herself as she started to descend to the stream.

           
 
"Watch out!" Grant said sharply, and
Jane froze in her tracks, turning her head to look askance at him. Suddenly
something incredibly heavy dropped onto her shoulders, something long and thick
and alive, and she gave a stifled scream as it began to coil around her body.
She was more startled than frightened, thinking a big vine had fallen; then she
saw the movement of a large triangular head and she gave another gasping cry.
"Grant! Grant,
help
me
!"