Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior (13 page)

“Many men are not
right.
” She pointed to her breasts beneath the thin olive-green tank top she wore. Earlier, she’d taken off her bandoliers and hung them on a low branch nearby. “All they can do is stare here—” she jabbed at her breasts “—and slobber like dogs in heat. You would think they had never seen a woman’s breasts before! Their tongues hang out. It is disgusting! Yesterday, the soldiers stared at me when I walked into camp to challenge Colonel Marcellino.”

Raising his brows, Roan nodded. With the bandoliers of ammo set aside, he had to admit that the thin cotton did outline her small, firm breasts beautifully.

“I have watched you,” Inca said, slowly rising to her full height, the skewer in hand. “And not once have you stared at my breasts like they always do. Why not?”

Chuckling to himself, Roan reveled in Inca’s naive honesty. He watched as she walked over to her pack. There was an old, beat-up tin plate beside it. She squatted down and, sliding the huge knife from its scabbard at her hip, cut the meat into segments and removed them from the skewer. Putting the skewer aside, she picked up the plate and stood up.

“Well?” she demanded as she walked back to him, “why do you not stare at me like they do?”

Roan nodded his thanks as she set the tin plate between
them. Inca squatted nearby and quickly picked up a steaming hot chunk of meat with her fingers. There was such a natural grace to her. She was a wild thing, more animal than woman with that feral glint in her eyes.

Reaching for a piece of the roast white meat, he murmured, “Where I come from, it’s impolite to stare at a woman like that.”

“Impolite?” Inca exploded with laughter, her lips pulling away from her strong, white teeth. “Rude! Piglike! Even in nature—” she swept her arm dramatically around the jungle that enclosed them “—male pigs do not salivate like that over a female pig!”

Roan looked at her as he popped a piece of meat into his mouth. It tasted good, almost like chicken, he thought as he relaxed and watched the firelight lovingly caress her profile. Her hair was frayed and it softened the angularity of her thin, high cheekbones. She was more sinew and bone than flesh. There was no fat whatsoever on Inca. She was slender like a willow, and each hand or finger movement she made reminded him of a ballet dancer.

“So the men from your tribe do not stare at a woman’s breasts?”

He shook his head and took a second chunk of snake meat from the plate. “Let’s just say that men of my nation consider women their equals in every way. They aren’t…” he paused, searching for the right words “…sexual objects to be stared at, abused or hurt in any way.”

She gave him a sizzling sidelong look. “Pity that you cannot teach these Brazilian soldiers a thing or two! I would just as soon put a boot between their legs when
they stare and slobber like that, to remind them of the manners they do not possess.”

“Try and refrain from that,” Roan suggested dryly, hiding a grin desperately trying to tug at one corner of his mouth. “We need their cooperation. I can’t have you injuring them like that. We wouldn’t make twenty miles a day in this jungle if you did.”

Throwing back her head, Inca laughed deeply, the juice of the meat glistening along her lower lip. With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth clean. “These men, with kicks between their legs or not, will
never
make ten miles a day. They are out of shape. Unfit weaklings.”

Roan didn’t disagree. “You’re right. We’ll be lucky to make ten miles a day until they get their legs under them.”

With a snort, Inca wiped her long fingers across her jungle fatigues. “They are city boys. They are not hard. They cannot take this hill climbing and humidity. They pant like old dogs with weak, trembling hind legs.”

Chuckling, Roan motioned to the last piece of meat in the tin. “It’s yours. Eat it.”

Inca shook her head. “You have eaten too little today. You are larger and heavier than me. If you are to keep up with me again tomorrow, this will give you strength.” She jabbed with her finger. “Eat it.” Rising, she stretched fitfully. “You were the only one to keep my pace.” She eyed him with respect and acknowledged that although he towered over her, he was lean, tight and hard muscled. There was a litheness to him that reminded her of a jaguar fit for territorial combat. She liked the humor she saw glinting in his eyes as he took the last piece of meat and bit into it. Pleased that he would take directions from her,
Inca walked slowly around the fire as she peered out into the darkness that now surrounded them.

“So how does your tribe see women, then? I am curious.”

Roan nearly choked on the meat as he looked up at her. She stood proudly, her shoulders thrown back, the thick braid lying across one shoulder, her chin lifted at an imperious, confident angle once again. Her green eyes glimmered as her gaze caught and held him captive. Her hands rested comfortably on her hips as she stared down at him waiting for him to answer. Swallowing the meat, he rasped, “We see a woman like a fruit tree filled with gifts of beauty and bounty.”

“Fruit tree?” Inca saw the sudden seriousness in his eyes and knew he was not joking with her. Why was he so different? And intriguing? Allowing her hands to slip gracefully from her hips, she moved back to where he remained in a squatting position. Taking a seat on a nearby log, she held her hands out toward the fire and savored the heat from it.

Wiping his hands on his fatigues, Roan twisted to look in Inca’s direction. He saw that she was genuinely interested and that made him feel good. He hungered for deep, searching conversation with her and about her. “All life comes from Mother Earth,” he began, and he patted the damp, fallen leaves on the soil next to where he was crouching. “We see women as a natural extension of Mother Earth. They are the only ones who are fertile, who can carry and birth a baby. I was taught a long time ago that a fruit tree, which can bear blossoms, be impregnated by a honeybee and then bear fruit, is a good symbol for women. Women are the fruit of our earth. For me, as a
man, a woman is a gift. I do not assume that a fruit tree or a woman wants to share her fruit with me. We always give a gift and then ask if the tree—or the woman—wants to share her bounty with us. If she or the tree says yes, then that’s fine. If she says no, that’s fine, also.”

Inca rested her chin on her closed hands. She planted her elbows on her thighs and pondered his explanation. “Women and trees being one and the same…”

“Symbolically speaking, yes.” Roan saw the pensive expression on her face, the pouting of her lower lip as she considered his words. The firelight danced and flickered across her smooth, golden features, highlighting her cheekbones and wrinkled brow. She was part child, part wise woman, part animal. And at any given moment, any one of those facets could emerge to speak with him. He found her exciting and had to contain the thrill he felt. But, Roan also felt her hatred and distrust of the Brazilian military, and he couldn’t blame her at all for her defensive stance around them. After all, they had a high bounty on her head—dead or alive.

As she stared into the fire, lost in thought, Roan tore his gaze from Inca. She was too easy to savor, as if she were a priceless, rare flower. Too easy to emotionally gorge himself. If he took too much, it would destroy her pristine, one-of-a-kind beauty. Besides, he knew Inca did not like to be stared at; but then again, he didn’t like it either. He wondered if it was their Indian blood that made them feel that their energy was being stolen when someone stared. Anglos certainly didn’t get it, but he understood Inca’s unhappiness. Still, she was incredibly beautiful and there wasn’t a man in that military contingent that wasn’t smitten by her drop-dead-gorgeous looks. Inca
was as natural and wild as the rain forest that surrounded them with its humid embrace. Roan had seen more than a few looks of lust in those soldiers’ eyes today as they marched and talked animatedly about her dramatic entrance to their camp the night before. And he knew Inca sensed their lust and was completely disgusted by it.

Inca’s husky voice intruded upon his reverie.

“Then, if you see women as fruit trees—” she turned and stared at him fully “—how do you see their breasts?”

She asked the damnedest questions. Roan understood it was innocent curiosity, her obvious nïveté of men and the world outside this rain forest. Opening his hands, he said, “I can only speak for myself on this, Inca.”

“Yes?” she demanded, goading him impatiently.

“A woman’s breasts remind me of warm, sun-ripe peaches.”

Her brows knitted. “Peaches? What is a peach? Do they grow here in South America?”

Shrugging, he said, “I don’t know. They do where I live.”

“Tell me about this peach. Describe it. Does it look like a breast?”

A slight smile curved his mouth. Staring into the fire in order not to make the mistake of looking at her too long, he murmured, “A peach is about the size of my palm,” and he held it up for her to look at. “It’s an incredible fruit. It’s round in shape and when you lean close and smell it, well, it has the sweetest fragrance. When it’s ripe, it’s firm and has a soft fine fuzz all over it. The colors take your breath away. It’s often a clear pinkish gold, but that graduates into red-orange, and orange, or to apricot or a bright sun-gold.” He closed his eyes, picturing the
fruit. “When I see a ripe, sun-warmed peach on the branch of a tree, all I want to do is reach out and cup my fingers around it, feel those soft, nubby hairs sliding against my fingertips. I want to test the firmness, the roundness and the heat of it as I continue to encircle it….”

Inca felt her breasts tighten and she sat up, surprised. What was going on? She gave him a disgruntled look. Roan sat there, his hands clasped between his opened thighs, his head lifted slightly and his eyes closed. What would it be like to feel him slide those long, large-knuckled, work-worn fingers around her breasts? Instantly, her skin tingled wildly. She felt her nipples harden and pucker beneath her shirt. A wonderful, molten ache began to pool through her lower body as she continued to stare at his hard, angular profile. It was as if her body had a life of its own! And worse, it was responding on its own to his husky, melting words, which seemed to reach out and caress her like a lover.

Scowling, Inca sat there. She’d never had a lover. She couldn’t describe what having one was like. Yet his deep, rumbling words continued to touch her almost physically. Her breasts felt hot, felt achy, and she wanted Roan to reach out and caress them! The thought was so foreign to her that Inca gasped.

Roan opened his eyes and slowly turned his head in Inca’s direction. He saw a pink stain on her cheeks. He saw her startled expression, and the way her lips parted provocatively, looking so very, very damn kissable. What would it be like to kiss that wild, untamed mouth of hers? How would she feel beneath his mouth? Hot? Strong? Fierce? Hungry? Or starving, like he felt for her? As Inca turned to meet and hold his gaze, Roan sensed her cha
grin, her embarrassment and—something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he wasn’t mistaken, the gold flecks in her willow-green eyes hinted of desire—for him. The impression he received from her was that she wanted him to reach out with his fingers, touch the sides of her breasts, caress them and…With a shake of his head, he wondered what the hell was happening.

It was as if he was reading Inca’s thoughts and feelings in her wide, vulnerable-looking eyes during that fragile moment. He saw that her nipples were pressed urgently against the material of her shirt and he could see the outline of the proud, firm breasts that he ached to encircle, tease and then suckle until she twisted with utterly, wanton pleasure in his arms. Roan wanted to be the man to introduce Inca to the realm of love. It was a molten thought. She had never been touched by any man, he knew. A virgin in her mid-twenties, she was a wild woman who would never entertain the touch of a mere mortal, that was for sure.

Inca tore her gaze from Roan’s dark, hooded stare. She felt a lush, provocative heat radiating from him toward her. Because she was of the Jaguar Clan, her six senses were acutely honed. For a moment, she’d allowed her mind and heart to touch his. When it had, she’d seen the flare of surprise and then his smoldering, very male look in return. Inca understood in that split second that Roan could touch her in a way she’d never before experienced…and the sensation was galvanizing, aching, filled with promise—yet it scared her.

Heart palpitating wildly in her chest, Inca stared, disgruntled, into the fire. Suddenly breathless beneath that glittering look in his blue eyes—one that reminded her of
lightning striking the earth—she was at a loss for words. Her skin tightened deliciously around her breasts. She felt needy. She felt hungry for
his
touch. A man’s touch. Of all things! Inca could not reconcile that within herself. Her mind railed against it. Her heart was wide-open, crying out for the intimate touch he promised her in that one look, in that one touch with his mind and heart. Closing her eyes, she hid her face in her hands momentarily.

“I am tired,” she muttered. “I must sleep now.” Getting up quickly, she moved around the massive root to where she had placed her hammock.

Roan heard the turmoil in her tone. He sat very still because she appeared to be poised like a wild horse ready to spook and hightail it. What had happened? He swore he’d felt her very real presence inside his head—and even more so, in his expanding heart. For an instant, Inca had been
in
him, somehow—attached to or connected to his thoughts and feelings as if…Stymied, Roan wished he could talk to Houston about this experience.

Something
had happened, because when Inca had lifted her face and her hands fell away, he’d seen the fear in her eyes. Fear and…did he dare put the name desire to it, also? Was that smoldering, banked desire in her cloudy gaze aimed at him? Very unsure, Roan muttered, “Yeah, we both need to turn in and get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a rough day.”

In more ways than one,
he thought as he rose to his feet.
In more ways than one…