Morgan's Rescue (7 page)

     
With a sigh, Culver crossed his arms over his chest. It was agony to be here. God knew
,
he'd fought Jake about this assignment. He wanted no part of teaming up with Pilar—not after what had happened. How could he trust her? His heart certainly couldn't. After he'd nearly died in that hospital, he'd tried many times to contact her. And to what end? Hector would merely say Pilar was undercover and couldn't be contacted, and eventually Culver had gotten the message. After all, even undercover agents came off the job to rest once in a while.

     
Pilar's canary yellow breeches showed off hips and long legs as slender as he remembered. At this distance, he couldn't see her face clearly, but the outline of her form was unmistakable, and unwillingly he acknowledged the tightening in his lower body at the memory of her. Culver drew in a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. How he'd tried to forget the feel of her warm, sleek body against his. Forget her small, delicate hands restlessly roaming his chest, his shoulders, eliciting firestorms as she caressed him, her eyes big in wonderment. . . .

     
"Stop it!" he snarled aloud. He turned, hoping no one had heard him, but the breezeway was empty. An old, limping dog approached him, wagging its tail. Angry at himself for allowing the vault of memories to spill out from beneath his steel control, Culver leaned over and patted the dog's head absently.

     
He had no time to waste. He had to let her know he was here. It was the last thing Culver wanted to do—face the sight of rejection in her eyes. He'd never really cared what anyone thought of him until Pilar came along. She was different, exotic—like the heady fragrance of the orchids that laced the jungle trees. And when she'd opened to him, he'd believed he'd met the woman who could fulfill him on every conceivable level. Like an orchid stretched fully into bloom, she had given herself to him, allowing him to inhale her dizzying fragrance.

     
To this day, Pilar haunted his dreams. He still had torrid, sensual dreams about her touch, the way she looked at him, that caressing smile that shot through him like hot sunlight, letting him know he was the center of her world. Well, it wasn't so. He'd stupidly made the assumption that Pilar felt about him the way he did about her. Culver had never fallen in love with anyone before Pilar—or since. Maybe that's why she was always in his heated, humid, jungle-like dreams like some ethereal fog that would reach out, tease him, and yet as he tried to grab it and embrace it, would dissolve upon his contact.
Or, maybe the silent, dangerous jaguar who owned the jungle.

     
Anxiety riffled through him.
Humiliation.
Desire.
He felt all those things as he decided to step from his hiding place and walk to the pipe fence where Pilar could see him. How would she look at him? Hector had said she knew he'd been assigned as her partner for this highly dangerous mission.

     
As he pushed away from the beam and straightened, Culver felt the weight of worry press down on his broad shoulders. A terrible anxiety was building in his chest. No matter how angry or hurt he was about how Pilar had treated him, he didn't want her placed in a situation where she could be killed. As he stepped out of the breezeway into the sunlight, Culver knew in the depths of his aching heart that he would still step between her and an oncoming bullet—as he had once before. He walked slowly toward the arena.

     
He felt a certain satisfaction in knowing she didn't realize he was here. Pilar was at the other end of the arena, having just finished a series of jumps. She had brought the thoroughbred from a canter to a walk. As Culver placed one booted foot on the fence's lowest railing, he saw her dismount. Frowning, he watched her intently. At five foot three, she was short next to the giant horse she rode. He laughed to himself, remembering their height difference. The first time Pilar had seen him, her dark eyes had widened enormously and she'd said in Spanish, "You must be a giant from a special place on earth."

     
Her low, breathless voice had sent tingles through him. Pilar had never met someone from
Scotland
, and the awe combined with curiosity in her gaze had made him feel special and powerful. At the time, Culver had been expecting to work with a hardened veteran woman agent. Instead, he'd found this wild, exotic orchid bud preparing to burst open to the world at large, and he'd wanted to be the one to watch each of her beautiful petals unfold, to reveal the honeyed depths of her womanhood.

     
Culver shook his head. In the eight years since, he'd waited for the memory of Pilar to disappear. But as he stood at the fence, watching her pat the thoroughbred, he realized with a terrible, sinking feeling that every emotion he'd had eight years ago was just as brilliantly alive within him today, burning fiercely and without apology. Running his fingers through his short dark hair, he wondered what he would say to her. Blazing anger paralleled an aching need.

     
Something happened. Culver felt it before he actually saw Pilar react. She had been petting the horse, praising it, when suddenly she turned on her booted heel and looked down the length of the arena—toward him. His heart thudded once in his chest to underscore, even at this distance, the intensity of her gaze. How he wished he could see her expression. Culver shook his head. To hell with it; the time had come. Bending down, he climbed between the rails. Sand and sawdust covered the arena, and his rough-out boots sank into the mixture as he straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders.

     
Pilar gasped, her hand contracting on the reins. She had to be seeing things! But she wasn't. Her eyes widened as she realized Culver Lachlan was walking down the arena—toward her. Her heart skipped a beat as panic set in. Her breathing became ragged.
Culver!
The word shot through her like an arrow—striking straight to her soul. An ache began to pool in her lower body with memories of Culver's strength and incredible tenderness as he moved deeply within her, branding her his for all time.

     
Tears raced into her eyes, but just as quickly, Pilar forced them away. Culver must not see her cry. He must not know how she really felt. Her hands grew sweaty as she stood by the horse, rigid with an unsettling mix of anticipation, fear and need. As he walked slowly toward her, so much came careening back to her.
The sound of his laugh, low and deep, like the reverberation of a medicine drum.
His pale, sky blue gaze, which sent heat jagging through her like bolts of lightning teasing the jungle canopy above her village during a storm.

     
The color photo of Culver she'd studied was no match for the real thing. He was still a giant to her, built sturdily, of good strong bone, as he used to say. How many times had she lain against him? Felt the weight of him upon her like a warm, secure blanket? No feeling in the world matched that of Culver on top of her, his body a shield. He always felt more stable, more solid than she. Pilar gulped as each step brought him closer. What was she going to say to him? What
could
she say? He'd never understand nor forgive her for what she'd done. Worse, if he knew the whole truth, he might try to take from her the one thing that mattered most in the world.

     
Culver was not conventionally handsome. He'd once said that his face was carved from the rugged granite cliffs of his Scottish home. But Pilar adored those craggy features. Now crow's-feet marked the corners of his eyes, and slashes on either side of his mouth gave new depth to his face. His cheekbones were high,
like her own,
but his face was square, with a hawklike nose that reminded her of the harpy eagle, a huge aggressive white eagle that plummeted like a dive-bomber through the Peruvian jungle to snatch a monkey for its dinner.

     
Pilar tried to steady herself, but it was impossible. Already she could feel strength ebbing from her with each wild heartbeat. Culver's eyes looked merciless. Pilar knew from experience that a deep, dark blue meant he was angry, while they became lighter with happiness. Right now they were
a stormy
cobalt, and the set of his mouth frightened her. How warm, exploring yet powerful that his mouth had once been against hers. As big as he was, when Culver kissed her, he'd taken her gently, inviting her to surrender herself to him. Then his kiss would deepen, becoming hotter and more frantic, until their mouths clung together with passion.

     
Shakily, Pilar removed her hard hat, and the black hair she'd coiled on top of her head spilled in a cascade about her shoulders. It was nowhere near the length it had been when she'd been Culver's lover. But right now, it seemed as if the eight long years between then and now had not occurred at all. Pilar felt pinned by his gaze as he moved ever closer. She trembled inwardly with a violence that frightened her. Oh, to be touched by him in that special way once more! How many nights over the years had she tossed and turned, aching to feel his strong hands caressing her damp skin as if she were a high-strung thoroughbred in need of a gentle touch to soothe her fractiousness?

     
Pilar's mouth grew very dry as Culver closed the distance. Only belatedly did she realize he was wearing Levi's, rough-out boots and a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt that outlined his magnificent chest and shoulders. There was nothing weak about Culver. He was macho in a way few men would ever be, in Pilar's opinion. As always, his skin was darkly bronzed, a tough shield, seemingly capable of challenging any harshness the world had to offer. A lock of dark hair tumbled across his lined brow, which was covered by a light sheen of perspiration in the summer heat.

     
One of the many things Pilar had come to love about Culver was his loose, elastic gait. His athletic build was his heritage, he'd told her. He came from a line of warriors who'd repeatedly challenged the kings of
England
. So many nuances from past conversations jammed Pilar's spinning senses as Culver came to a halt no more than six feet away. She felt the hot, angry rake of his gaze, like a wildfire burning from her black leather boots up across her thighs and abdomen, over the gentle curves of her breasts. Then his eyes locked with hers, and Pilar felt her lips part as she stared back at him, seeing the good and the bad, his weaknesses and strengths. Culver wasn't perfect by any means, and he had a nasty temper when things didn't go his way. She strove to shield herself from that anger now, fairly boiling in his dangerously darkened eyes.

     
"You're early," Pilar heard herself say faintly. Honey moved restively, as if sensing her confusion and anxiety, and she turned and placed her gloved hand on the mare's sweaty neck to soothe her.

     
Culver stared at Pilar, struggling to hold on to his anger. When she'd removed her hard hat, her delicious hair had showered around her, blue black as a raven's wing. The straight, shining strands framed her small, oval face to perfection, while Pilar's dark eyebrows reminded him of the thin crescent of the waning moon, accenting her luminous eyes framed by thick lashes. Her nose was fine and thin, and he knew it came from her father's side of the family—the Castilian aristocracy. But her slightly parted mouth was his undoing. Without a speck of lipstick, it was like a ripe, exquisite fruit begging to be picked.

     
Culver gathered his raging feelings. "I wanted our meeting to be private," he growled. How he ached to step forward, reach out and caress her highly flushed cheek. Pilar's skin had a golden, dusky tone, heightened by the blush in her cheeks, which gave her an endearingly helpless look. But she was far from helpless, as he knew all too well. She was a government agent and a damn good one. If not for her quick thinking, tough mind and ability to focus, he wouldn't be standing here today. Pilar's face appeared soft and vulnerable on the surface, every expression there for the reading, but he knew she was hard beneath that exterior.
Hard and cruel.
Selfish.
Self-serving.

     
The short-sleeved white blouse she wore outlined her curves to perfection. Culver wondered just how many lovers Pilar had had since he'd taken her virginity. Plenty, he told himself angrily. She was petite, slender and even more graceful in her movements than he remembered. Instead of being an equestrian, she should have been a ballet dancer, though her height might have been a detriment to that career.

     
Nervously, Pilar pulled off her leather gloves. "I was to meet you at seven," she protested weakly. Inwardly, she cringed. If she didn't do something, she feared she would burst into tears—or
throw
herself into his arms. And the expression on his face spoke not of forgiveness, but of bitterness and anger.

     
Culver deliberately placed his hands on his hips and slowly looked around. "Yeah, I know." Dammit, why did she have to look at him like that? He could see hurt reflected in her eyes—hurt and…desire? Yes, desire of all things.
After what she'd done to him.
"You might as well know up front, Pilar, I didn't want to work with you."