Читать книгу Michael's Temptation - Eileen Wilks, Eileen Wilks - Страница 11

A.J. blinked. Maybe the vision of male beauty had taken a blow to the head? “I, ah, didn’t bring a ball.”

He grinned. “I must have swallowed more river water than I thought. No, I haven’t taken leave of my senses. I was thinking of your legs. I thought I’d lost you…” His grin faded as his mouth tightened. “The current was rough. I couldn’t get to you, and I didn’t think you’d be able to make it on your own, not after the run we’d just put in. But obviously you use those legs of yours for more than kneeling.”

“Oh.” She processed the sentence backward to his original question, and answered it. “Track in college, baseball for fun, running for exercise, swimming sometimes.”

“When you said you were fit, you meant it. Which relieves my mind considerably. We have a long walk ahead of us, Rev.”

Annoyance flicked a little more life back into her. She pulled her weary body upright. “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

“Yeah, I know. The thing is, if I stop calling you Reverend, I’m apt to start paying attention to the wrong things, like those world-class legs of yours. They look great wet, by the way.”

It occurred to her that her legs weren’t the only part of her that was soaked. She glanced down—and quickly pulled her shirt out so it didn’t plaster itself against her breasts. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Then you can call me Reverend Kelleher, and I’ll call you Lieutenant West.”

He shook his head. “I’ll do better to think of you as one of my men for the next few days. We don’t lean toward much formality on the team, so you need to be either Rev or Legs. I’m better off with Rev, I think.” He reached for a canvas kit that hung from his belt. “Especially since the next thing we have to do is take off our clothes.”

She stiffened. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re cute when your mouth gets all prim.”

“Refusing to strip for a man I don’t know isn’t prim. It’s common sense. And a man who would ask me to—”

“Whoa.” He held both hands up. “I might tease, but you’re completely, one hundred percent safe with me. No offense, but you’re the last type of woman I’d make a play for.”

“Good.” She might be superficial enough to react to his looks, but that was all it was—a silly, superficial reaction. It would fade. He was a man of war. Nothing like Dan.

He nodded and unhooked the kit. “Okay, now that we’ve got that straight…you’ll find that I don’t give a lot of orders. And never without a reason. When I do give one, though, you’d do well to follow it. And that was an order, Rev. Take off your shirt and pants.”

“I’m not jumping without an explanation this time.”

“Visual scan,” he said briskly. “We need to check each other out for scrapes, scratches, anyplace the skin is broken. After being tumbled around in the river, we might not notice a small scratch, and between infection and parasites, even the smallest cut is dangerous.”

She thought of Sister Maria Elena’s foot. He made sense…unfortunately. “You first.

“I can wait.”

She inhaled slowly and prayed for patience. It was not a virtue that came naturally to her. “What will happen to me if your misguided sense of chivalry kills you off before we get out of here?”

He didn’t respond at first. His eyes were dark, steady and unreadable. Finally he pulled a small first aid kit out of his kit and handed it to her. “Use the ointment—it’s antibacterial. You’d better take care of my leg first.”

“Your leg?”

He nodded and unfastened his belt.

She tried not to gawk as he levered his hips up so he could pull his pants down. She was a grown woman. A widow. She’d seen male legs before. And her reason for looking at this particular pair of legs was strictly medical, so— “Oh, dear Lord.”

“A bullet clipped me when I made my swan dive off the cliff.” He bent to look at the long, nasty gouge dug into the flesh of his upper thigh. It was still oozing blood. “Doesn’t look too bad. The way it’s been burning, I was a little worried.”

It looked bad enough to A.J. She dug out the tube of antibiotic cream. “I don’t see peroxide or rubbing alcohol to clean the wound.”

“Chances are it bled itself clean.”

They would have to hope so, it seemed. She uncapped the ointment and squeezed out a generous portion.

“Hey—be stingy with that. We don’t have any more.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Grimly she bent over his leg. “I have no patience with blind, stubborn machismo. I can’t believe you were going to let this wait while you looked for scratches I don’t have.”

“A man has to take his pleasures where…” His breath caught when she stroked ointment into the shallow end of the wound. “Where he finds them. I expect I’ll enjoy looking for your scratches more than what you’re doing now. I don’t suppose you were part of a medical mission?”

“Teaching.” She bit her lip. She’d had little experience with nursing, and not much aptitude for it. Too much empathy. Her hands were already a little shaky. “You might want to start praying. Or cursing. Whatever works.”

His muscles quivered when she pulled the torn flesh apart so she could get the dressing into the deepest part of the wound. His breath hissed out. But if he did any cursing or praying, he kept it to himself. “Nice hands. I don’t see a wedding ring.”

“I’m a widow.”

“Pity.”

What did he mean by that? “Okay. That’s the best I can do.” She sat back on her heels. “It needs to be bandaged, but the gauze is damp.”

“Damned kit’s supposed to be waterproof.” He grimaced. “So was my radio, but I lost it and my CAR 16 in the river. Use the gauze. It won’t be sterile, but it’s better than letting flies lay eggs in my leg.”

She bit her lip. “There’s this plant…the villagers I worked with called it bálsamo de Maria. Mary’s balm. I think it’s a mild antibiotic. I don’t see any nearby, but if I could find some, we could make a pad of the leaves.”

“We don’t have time to look for leaves.” He grabbed the first aid kit, pulled out the gauze and began winding it around his leg. His mouth was tight, bracketed by pain lines.

“Here, let me.”

Those dark eyes flicked to her. He handed her the roll of gauze.

His boots were on, and his pants were bunched up around his ankles. He should have looked silly. That he didn’t might have had something to do with his briefs, which were undoubtedly white when they weren’t soaked. At the moment they were more skin-toned. As she wound the gauze around his thigh, she could feel the heat from his body—and a slow, insidious heat in her own.

It was embarrassing but only natural, she told herself. She was a healthy woman with normal instincts. And he was so very male. “I think that will hold.” She tied off the gauze and hoped she didn’t sound breathless. “I’ll check out the back of your legs now. If you could stretch out on your side…?”

He was remarkably obedient, moving as she’d suggested. The gleam in his eyes suggested he’d picked up on her discomfort, though. And the reason for it.

Oh, he knew he was beautiful. “Peacock,” she muttered under her breath, and set herself to her task.

His legs were muscular, the hair dark and coarse. No cuts marred his calves, or the tender pocket behind his knees, or the stretch of skin over the strong muscles of his thighs. She did her best not to notice the curve of his buttocks, so poorly hidden by his shirttail and the wet cotton of his briefs.

Dan’s thighs had been thicker than this, she thought, the muscles more bunchy, not as sleek. Hairier, too. Oh, he’d been hairy all over, her big, red giant of a man. And his calves had been freckled from the days when he’d worn shorts and let the sun scatter spots on his pale Irish skin, not dark like this man’s was….

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Enjoying yourself?”

She jerked back. “I’m finished. No cuts.”

He rolled into a sitting position. Levering his hips off the ground, he pulled his pants up. If the movement hurt, it didn’t show. “Lighten up, Rev. I told you, you don’t have to worry about me jumping you.”

“I’m not.” Automatically reaching for comfort, she started to touch her cross. But it, like Dan, was gone.

His fingers unfastened the many-pocketed vest. His eyes stayed on her face. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Annoyed—with him for noticing, with herself for tripping once more over the past—she blinked back the dampness and the memories. “Do you have any idea what we do next?”

“Start walking.” He tossed the vest aside and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I scraped my shoulder. You’d better have a look.”

He was sleek all over. Not slim—his shoulders were broad, the skin a darker copper than on his legs—but sleek, like an otter or a cat. His stomach was a work of art, all washboard ripples, and his chest was smooth, the nipples very dark. Her mouth went dry.

She moved behind him. There was a scrape along his left shoulder blade, and in spite of the protection of his shirt, the skin was broken. “I’ll have to use some ointment.” She squeezed some onto her fingers. “Where do we walk?”

“Over the mountains, I’m afraid. To Honduras.”

“Honduras?” She frowned as she touched her fingertips to his lacerated skin, applying the ointment as gently as possible. “I haven’t known where I was since they took me and Sister Maria Elena out of La Paloma, but I thought we were closer to the coast.”

“The river we just body-surfed down is the Tampuru. I’m guessing we’re about forty miles upstream of the point where it joins the Rio Maño.”

She wasn’t as familiar with the mountainous middle and north of the country as she was with the south. Still… “Shouldn’t we follow the river downstream, then? The government is in control of the lowlands, and Santo Pedro is on the Rio Maño.” Santo Pedro was a district capital, so it must be a fair-sized city. Telephones, she thought. Water you didn’t have to boil. And doctors, for his wound.

“Too much risk of running into El Jefe’s troops. Last I heard, there was fighting around Santo Pedro. If the government is successful—and I think it will be—the rebels will be pushed back. They’re likely to retreat this way.”

She shivered. “And if the government isn’t successful, we can’t wander into Santo Pedro looking for help.” At least she couldn’t. He might be able to, though. “You could probably pass for a native. None of the soldiers saw your face, and from what I heard, your Spanish is good.”

“Wrong accent.” He shrugged back into his wet shirt. “As soon as I opened my mouth I’d blend in about as well as an Aussie in Alabama. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

She sighed. “I’m sure we’ll run across a village sooner or later. This area is primitive but not uninhabited.”

“We probably will, but we can’t stop at any of them.”

“But we don’t have any food! No tent, no blankets—nothing!”

“We’ll eat. Not well, but I can keep us from starving. We can’t risk being seen. Some villagers will be loyal to El Jefe. Most are afraid of him. Someone might carry word of our presence to him.”

“Even if they did, why would he care? He has better things to do than chase us. Especially if his campaign is going badly.”

“If it is, he and his ragtag army may be headed this way. And he won’t be in a good mood. Do you want to risk having him punish a whole village for helping us?”

That silenced her.

“Your turn. Take off your shirt, Rev.”

Her lips tightened. “If you want me to follow orders like a good little soldier, you’re going to have to call me by name. And my name is not Rev.”

Unexpectedly, he grinned—a crooked, very human grin that broke the beautiful symmetry of his face into something less perfect. And a good deal more dangerous. “Stubborn, aren’t you? All right, A.J. Strip.”

There was a path away from the river. It wasn’t much, just an animal trail, and not meant to accommodate six feet of human male, but it was the only way into the dense growth near the river. Michael found a sturdy branch he could use as a walking stick—and to knock bugs or snakes from overhanging greenery.

At first, neither of them spoke. It took too much energy to shove their way through the brush and branches. Soon they were moving slowly up a steep, tangled slope.

A machete would have been nice, Michael thought as he bent to fit through a green, brambled tunnel. Hacking his way with one of those long blades couldn’t have been much noisier than the progress they made without one. He had his knife, but it was too short for trail-blazing. It was also too important to their survival for him to risk dulling the edge, so he made do with his walking stick.

His leg hurt like the devil.

He’d really done it this time, hadn’t he? He should never have complicated the operation in order to rescue a native. Even if she was a nun.

But Michael remembered the round, wrinkled face smiling up at him, and sighed. Stupid or not, there was no way he could have left Sister Maria Elena in the hands of a madman who made war on innocents.

His white-knight complex had put him in one hell of a bad spot, though. He hadn’t exaggerated the danger of seeking help in a village. They wouldn’t have to encounter El Jefe himself to be in big trouble. This area was smack dab in the middle of the easiest line of retreat for El Jefe’s troops if the action at Santo Pedro went against them, and soldiers on the losing side of a war were notoriously apt to turn vicious. The rebels already had a name for brutality. If El Jefe was defeated, his control over the worst of his men would be gone, leaving only one thing standing between the pretty minister and rape, probably followed by death: Michael.

And he was wounded.

He pushed a vine aside, set the end of his stick into the spongy ground and kept moving. Already he was leaning more heavily on the stick than when they’d first set out.

His lips tightened. Pain could slow him down, but it wasn’t a major problem. The real worry was infection, and there was damned little he could do about it. When the Reverend had made a fuss about treating him first he’d let her have her way, but that had been for her sake. She needed to feel useful, to feel in control of something. The few minutes’ difference in getting his leg treated wouldn’t have mattered. Not after his long soak in the river.

“Watch out for the branch,” he said, ducking beneath an overhanging limb.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” said a disgruntled voice behind him. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

In spite of his mood, Michael felt a grin tug at his mouth. He knew why he’d been demoted to a title. Her legs had looked every bit as delicious bare as he’d hoped. Better. He’d enjoyed looking them over—enjoyed it enough to make the first part of their hike uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with his leg.

That kind of discomfort he didn’t mind. “I’m looking for high ground so I can figure out where we are and plan a route.”

“How?”

“I’ve got eyes, a map, a compass and a GPS device.” If he had to be saddled with a civilian, at least he’d drawn one with guts and stamina. She didn’t complain, didn’t insist on meaningless reassurances. She just kept going.

Couldn’t ask for more than that. “What does A.J. stand for?”

“Alyssa Jean. I’m not fluent in acronym. What does GPS mean?”

“Global Positioning System.” His brother Jacob had given him the gadget for his birthday, saying that this way Michael would know where he was, even if no one else did. “It talks to satellites and fixes my location on a digital map.”

“Is that the thing you were fiddling with back at the river?”

“Yeah.” He’d set the first waypoint after checking her out for scratches. He smiled. Man, those were great legs.

“I hope it’s more watertight than your first aid kit.”

“Seems to be. Why do you go by A.J.? Alyssa’s a pretty name.”

“First-grade trauma,” she said, her voice wry and slightly winded, “combined with stubbornness. There were three Alyssas in my class. I didn’t want to share my name, so I became A.J. It suited me. I was something of a tomboy as a kid.”

“How does a tomboy end up a minister?” A minister with long, silky legs and small, high breasts…and blue eyes. That had surprised him. Somehow he’d thought they’d be brown, a gentle, sensible color. But they were blue. Sunny-sky blue.

“Same way anyone else does, I guess. I felt called to the ministry, so after college I enrolled in seminary.” There was a scuffling sound, and what sounded suspiciously like a muffled curse. He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

She was climbing to her feet. “A root got me. Maybe I need a stick like yours.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for one.” They were near the top of the hill. Maybe he would let himself rest for a few minutes while he plugged in the new waypoint. His thigh was throbbing like a mother.

“How’s your leg?”

“Not bad.” He ducked under a hanging vine, grabbed the limb of a small tree to pull himself up a particularly steep section, straightened—and froze, his breath catching.

A small, scared whisper came from behind him. “What is it?”

In answer, he moved aside, gesturing for her to come up beside him.

The pocket-size clearing in front of them was coated in blue. Fluttering blue, brighter-than-sky blue, bits of sunny ocean floating free, their wings sorting air currents lazily.

Butterflies. What seemed like hundreds of butterflies flooded the little clearing, many with wingspans as large as his two hands.

A.J.’s shoulder brushed his. A second later, the butterflies rose—a dipping, curling cloud of blue swimming up, up through the air, lifting above the surrounding trees. Then gone.

“Ooh…”

Her soft exclamation was filled with all the wordless awe he felt. He turned to look at her. “Yeah,” he said, because he had no words for what they’d just seen…or what he saw now in her shining eyes.

Blue eyes. Not as bright as the butterfly cloud, maybe, but clear and lovely.

A smile broke over her face, big as dawn. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

He hadn’t, either. A child’s delight on a woman’s face…was there anything more lovely? Without thinking, he touched her cheek. “You’ve got a spot of dried mud here.”

Her smiled faded. “I’ve got dried mud in a lot of places.”

“Brown’s a good color on you.” He rubbed lightly at the spot on her cheek. Surely the butterflies’ wings couldn’t have been any softer than her skin. His fingers spread to cup her face, and rested there while he looked for something in her eyes. Permission, maybe.

“Michael…” Her throat moved in a nervous swallow.

“I’m going to kiss you.” At that moment, it sounded wholly reasonable to him. “Just a kiss, no big deal.”

“Bad idea.” Her eyes were wide and wary. “Very bad idea.” But she didn’t move away.

“Don’t worry. I don’t let my—ah, my body do my thinking for me.” He bent closer to her pretty lips.

One kiss couldn’t hurt, could it?

He kept it simple, the most basic of connections—no more than the gentle press of one mouth to another. No big deal. Her lips were smooth and warm, her taste was salt and subtle spice. Her eyes stayed open. So did his.

And his hand trembled.

He straightened. The hand that had cupped her cheek dropped to his side. He stared down into eyes as wide with shock as his own.

What had he done? What the hell had he just done to himself?