A Baby for Mommy
Author
Sara Orwig
Reads
17,9K
Chapters
10
Chapter 1
Micah Drake gave a thumbs up sign to the pilot and slid open the door of the plane. Wind whipped against him as he looked below at the brilliant green canopy of treetops in the tiny country of Cruz in Central America. It was a bad place for a plane to go down. It was a damned bad place for him. He didn’t like this job or want it, but he needed the money. And he owed an old buddy from the military—Luke Webster had saved Micah’s life once in a clandestine operation in Saudi Arabia, and Micah was going to repay the favor now in a jungle in Central America.
Luke’s father, Atlee Webster, had put up the money for the search for his two daughters and his grandchildren. Luke had wheedled, bribed and finally reminded Micah that he owed him one. But the convincing offer had come when Luke had promised Micah double his usual fee plus paying Micah’s future medical bills for his mom.
Luke had come to his office, blond, cocky as ever, leaning against the desk as Micah had stood in front of the window. “Think of the money, Micah. You can take some time off to be with your mother.”
“I’m thinking about all the times you said your one sister was a bitch,” Micah said.
“Raffaela is. Wild, bitchy, impossible. She cheats on Hector. He cheats on her. But she’s my sister and she’s got two little girls. Look at their picture, Micah.”
Micah had looked, and they were beautiful smiling little faces. “You know I don’t have any resistance when it comes to kids,” he had grumbled.
“And Rachel’s shy and nice. As sweet as the girls. She won’t give you a minute’s trouble.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Think of the money. Your bills will be paid, and you won’t have to worry about the care for your mother. Think about it.”
Micah had thought about it for a moment and had agreed to try to find the Webster women and children and bring them back to Texas.
He still had mixed emotions about the task as he looked down at the solid canopy of green below him. The small government of Cruz had made no search of their own because revolutionaries took all the official attention and resources. The Granillo pilot had lost radio contact shortly before going down. He had been fifteen miles off course, and Micah had a general idea where to search.
That morning Micah had found the downed plane. As he sped over the treetops, he had looked at the smashed trees where the plane had crashed. He circled to fly over the site several times, thinking that if there were survivors, they would try to signal. But as the trees swayed in the slipstream of his plane, no one had appeared.
He had been hoping to find them, rescue them and then get right back to Texas. It wasn’t going to be that simple.
Returning to Agapito, the coastal capital, he had phoned Luke to say he had located the crash site and promised to go back. Within the hour he made arrangements to be flown to the site again.
Now wind beat against him as he braced himself in the open door of the plane and double-checked his parachute harness. Eduardo circled the plane above the wreckage. As Micah looked down at the burned rubble, he thought about the passengers. Even though he hadn’t known any of them, he felt a wave of sickness at the loss. What hurt most was the thought of the little girls, Sophie and Angelica. He didn’t want to have to go back to Texas and tell Luke the little girls wouldn’t be coming home.
They approached the crash site the second time. Micah waved to Eduardo and received a salute in return. He saw the slash in the trees coming up. He jumped, dropping through the air, green treetops that looked as solid as the ground rushing up to meet him.
When he pulled the rip cord, the chute ballooned up behind him, yanking him up, and then he began to float toward the trees. Pulling the steering toggles on the risers, he guided his descent, watching the gash in the trees as it grew larger. The scorched ground and burned bits of plane loomed into view, and he couldn’t imagine survivors. Unless they had gotten out before the plane went up in flames or had been thrown clear.
For just an instant his stomach knotted as he thought of Shawna and the car wreck. He blanked out his thoughts, clamping his jaw closed grimly as he tried to angle down to where the plane had cut through the trees. He landed on his feet only yards from the wreckage and in seconds was out of the chute. He turned to look around him, listening as the sounds of the forest brought back memories of his years in the U.S. Army Special Forces. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten his survival skills, because he was on his own in a corner of the world that was swarming with rebel insurgents and gun smugglers. Tomorrow at noon Eduardo would return. If Micah found survivors before then, they could all get out by chopper. If he discovered all had been killed, he would have to get the bodies out. But if he couldn’t account for everyone on the plane, he was going to have to hunt for them on foot and get them back to civilization the best way he could.
Steamy heat made his body damp with sweat within minutes after dropping to earth. He could smell the earthy, rotting vegetation on the forest floor. Judging from the looks of the plane, there were no survivors. Micah poked through the wreckage, and five minutes later he changed his assessment. He couldn’t find any bodies in the burned metal.
He moved away from the charred rubble and circled it. Something caught his attention. Frowning, he crossed the clearing. A mound was covered with brush and branches and a couple of smaller tree trunks had been dragged over it. He knew he was looking at a hasty burial site before he began to clear away the brush.
He had seen many dead bodies on military assignments in hot spots in different places of the world. Some had been civilians, most had been soldiers. None had been a beautiful woman from Texas and he drew a deep breath, his stomach knotting as he finished clearing away the makeshift grave. He fished out the pictures Luke had given him.
Raffaela was a married socialite. He could remember Luke’s deep voice listing her jewelry with as much certainty as if he had presented her with each piece: an eight-carat engagement ring, a six-carat ring their father had given her, a diamond-studded gold wedding band, a ruby pendant with gold filigree, diamond stud earrings. This body bore none of the above. Rachel, the twin, seldom wore jewelry. She owned a diamond ring their father had given her upon her graduation from college, but she wore it only on special occasions.
So, Micah decided, he was looking at the body of Rachel Webster.
He thumbed through the six pictures, holding Rachel’s picture next to Raffaela’s picture. With makeup and different hairstyles, it was easy to tell one from the other. But if they had the same hair arrangement and no makeup, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Now—because of the wreck, the heat, and time that had passed—the quickest way to identify which twin had died was jewelry or lack of it.
“Just great,” he mumbled cynically. “If the other one is still alive, I get to save the bitch.... Focus on the little girls,” he reminded himself aloud.
Pocketing the pictures, he tossed the branches back over the body. In a few more minutes he found the pilot’s partially decomposed body.
For the next hour Micah went over every inch of the crash site, walking in ever-widening circles until he was in thick brush and trees. Lianas draped over branches and hung to the ground. Where an occasional patch of sunlight broke through the forest canopy, the vines were covered with green leaves. Butterflies looped and circled lazily, and scarlet macaws perched high in trees like bright red blossoms.
It took Micah another hour before he found a hair ribbon caught on a fern. He could detect where someone had moved through the brush, and he followed their tracks. He swore softly because they were headed deeper inland. If they had gone west, they would have had a better chance of reaching a town. Any direction they had taken, they could easily be caught in the middle of guerrilla warfare.
He prayed he could keep on their trail until he found them. He could detect where leaves were disturbed, palmetto pushed aside. In minutes he spotted a red thread caught on a frond.
An hour later he discovered where they had stopped to rest beside a murky stream. Once he realized they’d followed the stream, he could track faster. Unfortunately they were headed up the stream and by late afternoon the stream ended and their tracks moved away in the bush.
In the lush forest, night would come all at once. Keeping an eye on his watch, Micah stopped his search. After the quiet during the steamy midday heat, the trees came alive with the sounds of animals and birds. He slid off his pack, taking a long drink from his canteen. In the last light of day, he fished out the pictures again and looked at the two women, pulling up the picture of the socialite. The Bolivian industrialist had a beautiful Texan wife. Judging from the the tracks, which were growing fresher, he figured he would catch up with her tomorrow.
“I’m hungry,” the smallest girl cried.
A thick auburn braid of hair fell forward as the woman bent over and retrieved bananas to hand to each child. Two days ago they had come upon banana trees. Starving, they had picked bananas and eaten them. After they had rested, she had picked all the bananas she could carry, making a pack out of the large leaves from one of the trees. They were living on the bananas and the last of the baby formula that had survived the explosion. The carry-on had burned, but cans of formula and bottles had been salvageable and she had placed what she could in the children’s large bag.
At the sound of voices, she whirled around, her gaze searching through strangler figs, bromeliads and palms while her heart pounded in fear.
Two men appeared, their gaze raking over her boldly. Terrified, she stared at them. There was no mistaking the lust that gleamed in their dark eyes. Each man wore a holster with a pistol on his hip.
“Buenos dias,” she said, worrying about the girls. “Girls, get behind me.”
“Buenos dias, señorita,” the shortest one said. Their clothes were almost as unkempt as hers. Both wore rumpled black uniforms with boots. Muscles bulged in their arms, and she knew her strength would be no match for either of them.
“My husband will return shortly,” she said. “He is searching for game. Our plane went down,” she said in fluent Spanish.
When they grinned at her, she knew they didn’t believe her, and she wasn’t surprised.
“We have food and a house where you and your husband and children can stay,” one replied as both of them edged toward her.
There was nowhere to run, and she was terrified for the girls. If she told the girls to run and they got away, they couldn’t survive on their own in this wild land. Her mind raced for a way to get the children to safety.
The men grinned at her as they approached. She watched the stocky one who looked the stronger. She slipped the bag off her shoulder, gathering the strap in her hand. All she could think of to use for a weapon was the bag that still held cans of formula.
“I no want the pretty lady’s money,” he said, his eyes filled with lust while he watched her and moved closer. As he reached for her, she swung the bag with all her strength, holding the straps with both hands.
“Run!” she yelled to the girls.
The bag smashed against his head, sent him staggering into the other man and toppled them both to the ground.
“What the devil is going on?” came a deep voice, speaking very clear English.
Stunned, she looked around to see a dark-haired man wearing combat fatigues and boots. A pistol was in a holster on his right hip and a machete hung from his belt on his left side. In his hands was an automatic weapon that he carried with a nonchalance that said he was familiar with its use. He was only a few feet away, coming toward her.
Stepping forward, she swung the satchel again, striking him and sending him staggering back. He swore and raised his weapon as the two men fled into the trees.
Gasping for breath, she faced the man over the barrel of his rifle. Blood oozed from a cut on his temple where the bag had struck him, and he reached up, wincing as he touched his head.
“Damnation. You’re lethal, lady! You don’t need me.”
She stared at him in uncertainty. Was he a threat or would he help them? Tall and broad shouldered, he had a stubble of beard; his dark hair was pulled back and tied behind his head. There was a menacing air of command and strength about him. From his last remark, she guessed he must not have been with the other men, but still she didn’t trust him.
“Who are you?”
“Micah Drake. And you must be Raffaela Granillo,” he said while he pulled out a handkerchief, twisting it to tie it around his bloody head. His gaze rested on the ruby pendant at her throat, and she touched it hesitantly.
The girls came close behind her to tug on her slacks and peer around her at him.
“I don’t know you.” She knew her voice sounded frightened, and she took a deep breath and looked into eyes that were such a dark brown they appeared as black as their pupils. She trembled and gripped the bag, ready to swing again if she had to.
“I own Drake Security. Your brother hired me to find you and your children and your sister and get you back to Texas. Your husband is in Paris on business and he’ll meet you in Texas,” Micah explained, more gruffly than necessary, his thoughts on her. Even with her rumpled state, her torn clothes, smudges of dirt on her face and throat, she was an attractive woman with an earthy sensual air about her. Her actions confirmed that she was not the shy sister. His head pounded. And the ruby pendant confirmed her identity as Raffaela.
He looked around. “Where’s the bodyguard?” As if she needed one.
A puzzled frown furrowed her brow while she shook her head. “There’s no one else with us.”
To Micah she looked as if she didn’t know he was talking about Brogan. And she also looked as if she didn’t trust him or believe anything he had said to her. Why wasn’t she welcoming him as her rescuer? Instead, she appeared frightened and on the verge of swinging at him again.
“What the hell are you packing there?”
It took her a moment to realize what he was asking, but then she followed his glance to her bag, still dangling from her hand. She slipped it over her shoulder and lifted the baby into her arms. The child clung tightly, burrowing against her neck.
“I’m carrying cans of formula.”
He rolled his eyes as he pulled off his backpack, rummaged in it and handed her insect repellant. “I’m glad you didn’t take my head off. We’ll talk later. Use the repellant quickly and we’ll get going. Those two might have friends or change their minds and return. Also, I brought fresh socks for all of you. Clothes that get wet in this moisture just stay wet.”
Thankful for the dry socks, she helped the girls change. As she used the repellant, he opened a canteen and drank, then offered it to her. She gave the girls a drink, waiting and wondering whether to trust him and go with him or try to get away.
Was he who he said? she wondered. He was rugged and fierce. The girls were silent, and she knew they were as frightened by him as she was. Yet could she get all three of them away from him safely? While uncertainty plagued her, she saw little choice. As he watched the trees beyond her, she drank, feeling rejuvenated by the tepid water. His gaze raked over her. “Any bad injuries before we get underway? Any broken bones?”
“I have some cuts and my head hurts. I’m bruised, but I don’t have any broken bones.”
“What about the girls? Sophie? Or the baby, Angelica?”
“They have cuts and bruises, but otherwise we’re all okay.”
Replacing his canteen and repellant, he jerked his head and put the rifle in the sling on his back. “Let’s go.”
Hesitating, tempted to try to run from him, she didn’t move.
He glanced around and scowled. “Are you coming?”
Picking up the small bundle of leaves that held the remaining bananas, she shifted the baby, Angelica, and took Sophie’s hand to follow him. He strode ahead without glancing back, as if he didn’t question that she would follow and could keep up with him. He swung a machete, cutting away vines, and she heaved a sigh of relief because it looked as if he had been telling the truth.
“Mr. Drake—”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Micah. We’re going to be together a lot, Raffaela.”
“You’ll have to slow your pace,” she said to him.
He fell back and knelt down to look at Sophie.
“Will you let me carry you?” His voice was gentle, a change from the brusqueness he had shown before. Sophie’s eyes were wide with fear that Raffaela understood too well. Sophie looked up at her, and she nodded.
“Yes, sir,” Sophie whispered.
“That’s a good girl.” He swung her up in his arms and strode ahead.
In an hour he was still moving steadily through the moist, dense undergrowth. In agony Raffaela—she’d decided that name would do—straggled behind him. Angelica had fallen asleep in her arms and her deadweight was becoming a dreadful burden. With each step, searing pain raked along a gash on the back of her right thigh. The steamy heat of the tropics was suffocating. The first day she had switched to her charred sneakers and tossed away her low-heeled sandals. She had bruises that made her ache with each jolting step, and a blinding headache added to her misery. She had cuts on her shoulders and back and the backs of her legs, but it was the cut on her thigh that was hampering her walking.
She wanted to keep up with him. And she suspected if she suggested halting, she might have an argument on her hands. She looked at his broad shoulders that tapered to slender hips and long legs. His stride was as steady as it had been the moment they started. With his long hair, the bloody bandage and all his weapons, he looked like a fierce warrior in spite of Sophie asleep in his arms with her head on his shoulder. In addition to Sophie he carried a pack and the pistol on his hip and his rifle—all of which had to be heavy. In this heat she would think he would be ready for a rest.
As time passed, her leg throbbed unbearably until she knew she had to stop. Clutching Angelica, Raffaela tried to catch up with him.
“When will we stop?” She blurted out the words and wished she had said something first so she didn’t sound so desperate.
He paused and turned to look at her. She gazed into his dark eyes, feeling a fluttering inside.
“Are you hurting?”
“Yes, my leg hurts,” she replied, looking at the blood-soaked kerchief around his head. How much damage had she inflicted on him?
He set Sophie on her feet. “Show me what hurts.”
She set Angelica on the ground next to a still-sleepy Sophie, then turned around.
He swore. “You should have told me sooner how badly you’re cut. We’ll stop now.”
Still waking up, the girls mumbled quietly to themselves.
“I have a first-aid kit,” he said. “If I treat their cuts, will they start screaming?”
“Not if you’re gentle.”
“I can’t guarantee the stuff won’t sting. I don’t want a lot of noise, and I don’t want to attract attention. We’re not as far from those men as I’d like to be. There’s guerrilla fighting all through this country.”
“I can try to keep the girls quiet, or we can try to go on, but my leg hurts badly.”
“You need attention before we go farther. I’ll treat the girls’ cuts now. Just keep them quiet.”
“You just remember to be gentle,” she snapped. He looked too tough to give much thought to pain.
One dark eyebrow arched. “I’ll remember to be gentle,” he said softly, and suddenly she had a feeling he was not referring to the girls. Nodding, she called to them. “Mr. Drake is going to put some medicine on our cuts to make them better,” she said.
“I have a first-aid kit,” he explained to the girls, motioning them to come closer. “Let me get some antiseptic on your scratches, so we don’t have any infections.” He spread a canvas ground cover. “Who is going to be the big brave girl and go first?”
“Angelica, let’s start with you,” Raffaela said cheerfully, sitting on the cover. As she sat down, she groaned, biting her lip when it hurt to bend her leg. She took the child on her lap as Micah opened the metal box. Sophie came close to watch, her fingers resting on Raffaela’s arm.
“Are you a doctor?” Sophie asked him.
“No, I’m not. But I learned something about caring for wounds when I was a soldier.”
“I’ll tell you about the three bears that lived deep in the woods,” Raffaela said, trying to distract Angelica.
While she talked, Angelica never noticed the ointment Mr. Drake put on her cuts. When he finished, he touched the tip of her tiny nose with his finger. “You were a very brave patient,” he said in a tone warm enough to melt ice. Raffaela felt a fluttering response, watching him while he brushed a kiss across Angelica’s forehead.
Angelica smiled up at him and moved away cheerfully while Raffaela praised her.
“Now, Sophie,” he remarked matter-of-factly, “it’s your turn. Let’s see where the cuts are.”
“You won’t hurt me?”
“Angelica didn’t cry, did she?”
“No. But I don’t want to hurt.”
“I will try my very best not to hurt you,” he promised gently. She nodded, watching him with round, solemn eyes.
Barely listening to Raffaela’s story about three billy goats, Sophie clung tightly to Raffaela and started to cry when the antiseptic was sprayed on a cut. Raffaela’s soft voice soothed her, and in seconds Sophie was listening to the story.
As Raffaela talked to the girls about billy goats, she, herself, was barely aware of what she was saying. Micah Drake’s head was bent, only inches away as he leaned over Sophie. Dark stubble covered his jaw and throat. His sexy black lashes were thick. She looked at his dark skin, the black hair pulled behind his head.
“Good girl! We’re all through,” Micah announced, turning his head a fraction to look into Raffaela’s eyes, and her breath caught as she gazed back at him. She forgot time or place or circumstances, feeling caught in dark mysterious depths that almost seemed to hold animosity. Yet why would he dislike her?
His attention swung back to Sophie. “You were a very brave patient, too.” He leaned down to brush a kiss on her forehead. “You were a big girl.”
She smiled at him and moved away to play with Angelica while he looked at Raffaela. “Next patient. Where do we begin?”
“Before you start on my cuts, do you have anything for a headache? I took my last pill yesterday.”
He rummaged in the pack again and shook out a pill to give to her. His hand brushed hers, and his eyes narrowed. He reached out to take her hands and turn them over in his.
She was aware of the warmth of his hands. His fingers were blunt and well shaped, so much larger than hers. He leaned closer, his dark eyes studying her, and once again she felt caught in a current of tension that vibrated between them.
“Where are your wedding rings?”
She looked at her bare fingers and shook her head, biting her lips in uncertainty and glancing at the girls. “Can we talk later when they’re asleep?” she asked.
He nodded as he passed her his canteen. She gulped down the pill and handed back the canteen, watching as he took a pill and washed it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed.
“Your head hurts from my hitting you, doesn’t it?” she asked.
“It’s nothing.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and replaced the canteen. “What do I treat first?”
She held out her arm where a long cut ran from her wrist to her elbow. His hand closed gently around her wrist. The moment he touched her, he paused to flick another glance at her, his dark gaze unfathomable. He sprayed the cut and bandaged it.
“Now we’ll do the ones on your back and legs. You can use one of my shirts to cover you, but you need to strip out of those slacks for me to tend your leg. That’s a nasty gash,” Micah said calmly as he fished things out of his pack. He handed her a khaki shirt and spread his bedroll.
“I’ll turn my back. Tell me when you’re ready,” he said. Raffaela nodded and watched as he turned his back and moved a few feet away, fiddling with supplies he had in the first-aid kit. She pulled off the slacks, her breath catching as they came free where they had stuck to her torn skin. She shed her blouse and pulled on his shirt, the long tail hanging almost to her knees.
She lay down on his bedroll, stretching out on her stomach and pulling his shirt over her bottom, tugging it down as much as possible.
“Micah.”
Micah turned around to meet her gaze, which had lost all its coolness. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, and he felt a twinge of amusement.
“Relax, Raffaela,” he said as he knelt beside her. “I’ve seen women’s backsides before, and I’m not seeing nearly as much as I would if we were on a beach.”
She turned her head away from him, and as Micah’s gaze roamed down over her, his insides clenched. He drew a deep breath. He had seen plenty of women’s legs and bottoms. And he had been on plenty of beaches, but the long shapely legs stretched beside him now made his pulse jump. And even though her bottom was covered completely with the tail of his shirt, his imagination was running riot.
The backs of her legs were covered with numerous small cuts, blue-black bruises and one ugly gash on her right thigh. The gash was deep and nasty and Micah thought legs and skin like hers should not have cuts and bruises. “You must have been out of the plane when it exploded and the pieces hit you,” he said, aware a hoarse note had come into his voice.
The girls came to stand on the other side of Raffaela and watch him. Sophie held Angelica’s hand as their wide eyes were fixed on Raffaela.
“Does it hurt?” Angelica asked, kneeling down beside Raffaela.
“Not much,” Raffaela answered brightly, and he knew she was lying through her teeth.
“Raffaela,” he said, hating what ought to be done, but knowing she would have a worse scar if he didn’t. “You have a gash here that needs stitches. I can spray something on it that will numb it slightly, but it will still hurt some if I take stitches. If I don’t, you’ll have more of a scar.”
She turned her head, twisting around and partially raising herself up on her elbows. The thick braid was over her shoulder, and suddenly he imagined her without his shirt, and with all that auburn hair tumbling loose. His mouth went dry, and he tried to focus on what she was saying. She frowned.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about your cut.” Now he was lying. “What did you just say to me?”
“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
“I’ve done it before.”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey in my pack. Want a drink?”
She shook her head. “Just go on and get it done.” The tail of his shirt covered the top of the cut. “I have to move the shirt up slightly.”
“Do what you have to.”
Sophie knelt down beside Raffaela, and she turned away from him. “Mama, Aunt Rachel,” she said, promptly correcting herself, “do you want me to hold your hand? I’ll tell you a story, if you’d like,” she offered.
“You tell me a story, Sophie,” she answered.
Micah paused when Sophie used both Mama and Aunt Rachel. Was there a possibility this wasn’t Raffaela? He thought it was more likely that Sophie was confused. This woman wasn’t shy. His throbbing head attested to that. And even though she had removed her wedding rings, she wore the ruby pendant.
Returning his attention to Raffaela, Micah scooted the shirt higher and felt sweat pop out on his forehead. It was steamy hot in the forest, but he knew that wasn’t what was causing his temperature to jump. It was sexy as hell to have this woman stretched out beside him, wearing only his shirt and her underclothes.
He tried to focus on her injuries. He didn’t want to hurt her. When he had taken stitches before, it had been in tough men who had been fighting with him. Not in a beautiful woman with the longest, shapeliest pair of legs he had ever had the privilege to touch.
Silently swearing, he went to work. He saw her fingers clench, but she was quiet. The woman was gutsy. He had to touch her thigh to hold the edges of the cut together. His fingers moved deftly on her smooth, warm skin, and all the time he was too aware of where his hands were. Finally he finished bandaging the large gash and then began to disinfect the smaller ones.
“You hurt?” Angelica asked in her high voice, bending down and looking at Raffaela.
“I’m all right, sweetie.”
“The worst is over,” he said. “Unless you have any more deep cuts beneath that shirt.” He tugged the shirttail down, aware every time his fingers brushed against the backs of her thighs.
She sat up carefully. She looked pale as she faced him.
“Okay?” he asked softly, hunkering down to be at her eye level. Her luminous eyes were deep pools of green that held his gaze.
“I’m okay.”
“Good.”
“You didn’t give her a kiss,” Sophie said solemnly. “You gave us a kiss.”
“You were a brave patient,” he said quietly, and squeezed Raffaela’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you kiss her?”
“Sophie, he doesn’t have to kiss everyone he takes care of,” Raffaela answered, her face flushing. “He just does that for little girls.”
“Why? You always say everyone needs a kiss, including grown-ups.”
Amused. Micah caught her chin with his finger and turned her face to him. He leaned forward and brushed the faintest kiss on her cheek. “You were a fine patient.” He winked at her and then looked beyond her at Sophie. “Now, I have kissed all my patients.”
The girls smiled and moved away while he stood and reached down to pull Raffaela to her feet. She grimaced as she stood.
“Maybe I should have explained to them that their daddy wouldn’t like me kissing Mommy,” he said, knowing he should leave it alone, but unable to resist.
“They’ve forgotten about it now. If you had said that, they would be full of questions.”
“Hurt?” he asked, aware he stood too close, knowing he should put space between them. He released her at once, but he wanted to keep holding her arm and touching her.
Without looking at him, she nodded. “Thanks.” Her gaze was everywhere except meeting his.
“Now I’ll turn around. You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll disinfect the cuts on your back.”
The pink returned to her cheeks and she nodded, shooting a worried glance at him, and he felt his body tighten. She was aware of the tension snapping between them as much as he was. She is the married twin, he reminded himself, wondering if he was going to have to tell himself that every few minutes until they reached civilization.
He turned and waited, his imagination promptly running wild, envisioning her shedding his shirt. He inhaled and tried to shift his thoughts, listening to sounds around them. An army of men could have slipped up on him a few minutes ago, and he’d been so lost looking into her big green eyes that he wouldn’t have heard them until too late.
“All right,” she said quietly.
He turned and his pulse jumped. She was seated with her legs straight out in front of her. She wore her slacks again, and she held his shirt beneath her arms and in front of her, leaving her back bare. She was slender, her bones looked delicate, and he inhaled, his body reacting to the sight of her.
Trying to get himself under control, he moved closer, his gaze drifting down to her waist where the deepest cut disappeared beneath her slacks. Cuts were dark lines across her back, but none were deep enough to require stitches or as bad as the gash on the back of her thigh.
His gaze ran over her, and he leaned closer, noticing where her hair was matted with blood. “You’ve had a blow to your head. I’ll try to be gentle, but I think I should look at it.”
“Will you please unfasten this necklace? I’ll put it in my bag.”
He caught the delicate clasp in his fingers, his knuckles brushing her nape lightly. He inhaled, wondering why he was having reactions to every tiny contact with her.
The necklace came loose, and he dropped it into her open palm. His fingers brushed her neck as he moved his hand.
She sat quietly while he looked at the cut and disinfected it. She had a bump on her head, and he tried to avoid hurting her.
“Now your back.” He began to disinfect and clean her wounds, working silently, too aware of the bare nape of her neck—pale and smooth.
He swore, and she slanted him a glance over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I just hate hurting you,” he lied. He had not had this reaction to a woman since Shawna’s death a year and a half ago. And this was a damn poor time to come back to life. He had been numb and hurting over her loss for so long now, it had seemed to be a permanent way of life.
He was on his knees, and he sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you stretch out? You have a cut below your waist that I should disinfect.”
“Can I do it?” she asked, turning slightly, her cheeks flushing a fiery pink this time.
“I don’t think so. Look, I’m not making a play. We can’t travel if you get infected. Out here in this jungle and heat, you can get all kinds of things.”
She nodded and moved cautiously. He didn’t know whether she was being so careful because of her thigh or because she was trying to ensure that his shirt did not slip. She unfastened her slacks and then lay down on her stomach carefully. “I’m ready.”
He took a deep breath and tugged her slacks down as far as the cut went. And it went down over the small of her back across the rise of her bottom. He gritted his teeth. His body was reacting swiftly, and he couldn’t take his gaze from her and had to fight the idiotic urge to let his hand drift over her smooth skin. He ached to push those slacks down and bare the rest of her enticing bottom. As he looked at her, he wanted to sink himself into her softness.
Swearing silently, he worked quickly and stood. “I’m through.” His voice was hoarse, and he turned, walking away from her and trying to get his body under control.
“Thank you,” she said after a few moments. He glanced over his shoulder at her and then walked back. Moments later, she was dressed again and held out his shirt. He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers lightly.
“What about your head?” she asked.
“It’s all right.”
“I remember something to the effect that cuts can get infected easily here, in this climate.”
He sighed and unfastened the handkerchief. He was cut and had a lump that was turning a dark blue. She inhaled, swamped with regret. “I’m sorry! You have a big knot—”
“Forget it.” He grinned. Her breath caught in her throat as the smile transformed him from a formidable warrior into a charming male, and again she felt a strange stirring of awareness. He said she was married—if so, why was she having this reaction to Micah Drake? “You pack a mean wallop,” he said.
“I thought you were with those men. I didn’t know.”
He chuckled. “You got one of them full force. His head is probably about to come off about now. I’ve got a hard head.”
“I can well imagine,” she answered with amusement, and saw his brow arch. “You’re too tall. Sit down somewhere so I can reach your head.”
He handed her the first-aid kit and sat on the ground. She knelt beside him and began cleaning the wound. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Don’t apologize. That was gutsy to lead into a guy with a gun. Three guys with guns actually. Ouch!”
“Sorry.”
He turned to look at her, and the moment shifted and changed, tension sparking between them. She reached down to touch his jaw lightly, aware of each tactile sensation that should have been insignificant because they were slight. The bristles on his jaw prickled her fingertip mildly. His skin was warm. He was close, so close, his dark eyes taking her breath. She tingled, the reaction stirring a warmth in her body. She turned his face away from her and continued working on the cut.
She bandaged it and braced her hand on his shoulder as she stood up. He came to his feet easily and took the first-aid kit from her. “Thanks. Can you keep going?”
“Yes,” she answered, shouldering her bag.
He took it from her. “I can carry that bag better than you can. You should have told me about your injuries. You have a lot of bruises.”
“I figure we’re lucky to be alive.”
He nodded and swung his pack on his back along with his rifle. “Angelica, let me carry you,” he said, lifting her up in his arms.
“Do you have a little girl?” Sophie asked him from behind.
“No, I don’t. I don’t have a little boy, either.” He glanced back at Raffaela. “Let me know when you have to stop.”
She nodded and held Sophie’s hand as he led the way.
Raffaela followed him doggedly, knowing he wasn’t keeping as fast a pace as he had earlier. Even so, she hurt with each step, although her headache had eased slightly after taking the pill. After a time he looked back at her. “All right?”
“Yes,” she answered, and he nodded.
“If you can keep going for another hour, I’d like to. We need to find a stream.” He studied her a moment, and she gazed back. He looked powerful and determined which should have been reassuring, but instead was disturbing.
When he moved ahead, she followed, wondering how he had found them in this wild land and how he knew where he was going. The thick canopy of leaves hid the sun, and she had lost all sense of direction.
When necessary, Micah hacked a path for them, moving steadily west. He figured the men who had approached Raffaela had to be close to a village or a guerrilla band and he didn’t want them to come back with reinforcements. The pretty lady would be an inducement, and he had seen the covetous gleam in their eyes as they’d looked at his automatic weapons.
Raffaela Granillo hadn’t looked exactly like her picture, but Micah chalked that up to the lack of makeup, days in the jungle, and going through a plane crash. The little girls resembled their pictures, though. But what had happened to the bodyguard?
Micah glanced over his shoulder. Raffaela was following him, alternately carrying Sophie and then letting her walk. At least some of the distrust had faded from her eyes since they had stopped. He had slowed his pace, and they seemed to be keeping up. He knew he was pushing them by the grim set to Raffaela’s face. Better to exhaust them trekking through the brush than to have to fight off ten or twenty lust-filled men.
Raffaela looked slender and frail, and he had formed an unfair judgment of the Webster women from Luke, thinking he had to rescue two spoiled darlings. After trekking hours with her, he was changing his mind. She was keeping up without complaint, even though he knew she was exhausted, grieving the loss of her sister, hungry and hurting badly. He felt a growing admiration, knowing she was doing as well as many soldiers he had known.
Finally Micah halted and turned, swinging Angelica down to set her on her feet. “We’ll stop for the night. There’s a couple of hours left before dark.”
“Thank heavens!” Raffaela exclaimed, bending down to talk to the girls.
“I want my bottle!” Angelica exclaimed, bursting into tears, and Raffaela pulled the child into her arms to hug her.
“This is the last can of formula. Angelica, this will be the last bottle.”
“Mama! Carry me. Carry me,” Sophie suddenly sobbed. Both girls were wailing loudly enough to stir birds from the lower branches. They wanted Raffaela to hold them, and he felt a sense of panic at what to do to calm the children.
Raffaela sat down and pulled the girls into her arms, hugging and rocking them as she talked softly to them. Her gaze met his, and they stared at each other. Doubt rose in his mind as he remembered Luke staring out the window, sounding as if he had almost forgotten Micah’s presence as he said, “It’s Rachel who’s the real mother. She’s the one the girls run to. Unfortunately Raffaela doesn’t give a damn about children, not even her own.”
If he was with Raffaela Granillo, she was handling the girls with love and tenderness. They were becoming calm as she petted them.
“I want my bottle,” Angelica cried.
“Shh, love. One last bottle and then we’ll just have bananas and water now,” Raffaela said, meeting Micah Drake’s gaze again. He swung his pack off his back and knelt beside it. The fatigue trousers pulled tautly over his long legs as he rummaged in the pack and pulled out packets of food. He snapped covers off and held them out. “I imagine this will look good right now.”
“Angelica, Sophie, look.” Her hands shook as she reached for the packets, finding a treasure of dried beef, crackers, cheese and dried apples.
Micah put water purifier tablets into a canteen, filled it with water from the stream and passed it around. “This is a feast,” she said with relief.
While they ate, Micah watched Raffaela out of the corner of his eye. She was nervous, which could be her nature or the circumstances, but for someone who had been rescued, she wasn’t swamped with relief. And where was the bodyguard? Something wasn’t right, and he had sensed it before her strange answer to him that they would talk later. Something had happened that she didn’t want to discuss in front of her children.
“Mama, I want to go home,” Angelica cried and rubbed her eyes with her fists.
“We’re trying to go home,” Raffaela said patiently. “Mr. Drake is going to get us back.” She poured the last can of formula and handed the bottle to Angelica.
“There’s a stream nearby. We’ll go wash and then come back here to sleep,” Micah said.
“Why don’t we sleep by the stream?” Raffaela asked.
“It’ll be a watering hole at night. This is safer.”
She nodded, picked up Angelica and took Sophie’s hand to follow him. Only yards away she spotted water trickling over a narrow streambed. With relief she washed her face and washed the girls’ faces and hands. Micah Drake left them alone for nearly an hour and finally returned. His dark hair was wet, pulled sleekly back and tied behind his head. His shirt was open to the waist and Raffaela looked at the narrow expanse of muscled chest. Realizing she was staring, she glanced up to find him watching her.
She straightened and turned, stumbling when her foot caught in a tree root. Instantly strong hands steadied her, and Micah was at her side. Only inches from him, she looked into his dark eyes.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her pulse skittering. He looked tough, unapproachable, yet her skin tingled with a strange awareness of him.
When they returned to their campsite, he pulled a bedroll from his backpack, spreading it for the girls, covering them with mosquito netting. Within minutes they were asleep, Angelica with her thumb in her mouth and Sophie curled into a ball. He handed the square of canvas to Raffaela and she spread it, sitting and leaning against a palm.
He placed the rifle where he could reach it and sat on the damp ground, crossing his legs while he settled a few feet from Raffaela. She met his gaze with wide green eyes. Briefly Micah wondered about her husband. The Bolivian industrialist was a fortunate man. Micah knew if his family had crashed in a Central American jungle, he would have flown home from a business engagement. The father and brother had come forth, ready to do whatever they could, but the husband was strangely absent from the arrangements Luke Webster had made with Micah. Were relations less than good between Raffaela and her husband?
“Now we talk. I have some questions,” Micah said. “What happened to Burr Brogan? And why aren’t you wearing your wedding rings?”
“I regained consciousness with the plane burning and the girls clinging to me and crying,” she said quietly, looking more worried by the minute, and he wondered what had happened back there at the site of the crash. “I don’t know a Burr Brogan and there was no one around but the three of us.”
“I have a passenger list,” he said impatiently. “Burr Brogan, the Granillo bodyguard, and Jose Escajedo, the Granillo pilot, were on that plane. I found Jose Escajedo’s remains.”
She flinched slightly and bit her lip, looking at her hands and touching her fingers as if realizing she should be wearing rings. When she looked up, he felt his stomach tighten, and a gut feeling swamped him that something was terribly wrong.
“You called me Raffaela Granillo,” she said.
“Aren’t you? Was that Rachel or Raffaela who died in the crash? Which one are you?”
She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
