“Gracias, abuelita,” he said to the old woman who’d shown them in. It had been blind luck stumbling on this ramshackle cabin on the edge of the jungle. He could see the distant lights of a small village a few miles in the distance, but even that seemed a little too crowded right now. He needed time to sit back and come up with a plan, a time without two civilians whining at him. Not that Sister Beth whined. She was as stalwart as any of the nuns who’d taught him in elementary school, if not as mean. Dylan more than made up for it, but even so, MacGowan was constantly aware of the woman, and it wasn’t simply because she was the first relatively available female he’d been around in years. He glanced over at her, passed out or asleep on the narrow, sagging bed, and tried to picture someone he wanted more. He couldn’t.
The old lady took the money he offered her, the grease-stained pesos part of the poker winnings he’d been amassing, and then disappeared, leaving the three of them alone in the rude hut. MacGowan pushed away the uneasiness that always stalked him. The years had taken their toll – he could no longer trust his instincts. Everyone seemed suspect, including the harmless old woman who’d disappeared into the night, tucking his money into her blouse. She’d taken one disapproving look at them, the disapproval fading as he brought out the money, and then she was gone.
The night air was cool, even down at these lower altitudes, and he grabbed an extra blanket from the bed and spread it over Dylan’s gangly figure. The kid was starting to sprout whiskers – maybe he was older than Finn had thought. He was still a brat.
He looked around the room. He’d slept on hard wood floors before - in truth, he was more used to it than Dylan would be. He’d slept on worse, and there was a quilt he could roll up in.
He wasn’t going to do it. None of his little chickens had eaten anything, and abuelita had left some savory mixture of meat and beans for them, with fresh tortillas to mop it up with, but he figured they needed their sleep more at this point.
So did he.
He closed and locked the flimsy door. Not that it would keep anyone out, not anyone determined to get in, but it might slow them down a few seconds. He doused the lights, so that only the glow of the cooking fire lit the shabby room. He shouldn’t do it, he knew he shouldn’t.
And he knew he was going to.
He kicked off his boots and went to the bed, lowering himself down beside her, pulling her into his arms as he settled into the narrow space. She was dead to the world, and he moved against her, surrounding her body with his. Even after falling into the river he figured he wasn’t smelling too sweet, but that was the least of their worries. For some damned reason he wanted to p
ut his arms around her, bury his face in her blonde hair, and breathe in the pure animal smell of her.
He’d been too fucking long without a woman. And here she was, the antithesis of every woman he’d gotten near in the past few years. Blonde, pale, almost ethereal in her beauty. She’d be a trophy for anyone, and he’d never been the kind of man to collect trophies. His job was to get her safely back to her millionaire lifestyle, collecting a healthy reward in the bargain. Enough of a reward that he could take his time and find half a dozen blonde-haired gringas who wouldn’t react like a frightened virgin every time he came near her.
He almost might have thought Izzy and his friend had gotten to her, but he’d overheard their arguing and knew that no one had raped her. Yet. That was probably one reason he’d decided to bring her with them. And it all worked out for the best, didn’t it? Hans Froelich sold him out, and MacGowan’s reward went south with him. He could use the money the Pennington Foundation would pay him for the return of their precious heiress.
And he got to spend a few hours wrapped around a soft, female body. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smelled like the jungle, it smelled like flowers. He slept.
It was the pain and stiffness that woke her, and for a moment Beth didn’t move, disbelieving what her senses were telling her. She’d been dreaming for what seemed like hours. She had heard the soft rumble of MacGowan speaking in liquid Spanish, a woman’s voice answering him, and the smell of something divinely delicious on the air. Either she’d been dead or dreaming, and either way she wasn’t going to do anything to change things. She was lying on something soft, not the hard ground, and there was a roof over her head, and if anyone tried to drag her back into life she was going to kick and scream and fight them every inch.
“Gracias, abuelita,” MacGowan had murmured. Grandmother. The very word warmed her. Between MacGowan the soldier and the old lady, she would be safe. One to defend her, the other to comfort her. And she gave herself up to sleep once more.
When she woke again it was pitch black, even the dim light of the fire was out, and yet she felt safe, warm, wonderful. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake, she wanted to stay there forever in the safety of his . . .
Her eyes flew open in the darkness and she tensed. She was lying in his arms, and she had no doubt as to who he was. She could feel his long beard at the back of her neck, the strong arms wrapped around her, holding her against his body. Not that he had any choice in the narrow little bed – it was scarcely big enough for one. His body was curled around hers, and she realized with sudden panic that he was hard. There was no mistaking the feel of it beneath her butt, and for a moment she thought of Carlos and his hands, his eyes.
A child, and he was dead. She wanted to weep, and would have, if she hadn’t remembered the vicious cruelty in his touch, his words.
“Go back to sleep, Sister Beth.” His voice was only a breath of sound in her ear, but for some reason it calmed her. She had no illusions about Finn MacGowan – he could be fully as dangerous as any of the men who’d kidnapped her. Perhaps even more so. So why was she feeling safe?
“Stop calling me that.” Her voice wasn’t any louder than his. “And what are you doing in bed with me?”
“Didn’t fancy the floor, love,” he replied, using the Irish to try to cajole her. It didn’t work.
“You’ve slept worse places.”
She heard him laugh. “How right you are. But not by choice. If there’s a hard floor and a soft bed I’ll go for the soft bed anytime.”
“It was already occupied,” she said, starting to pull away from him. “I don’t mind the floor.”
She was hauled back against him, his hands making her struggle useless. “Stop being a baby about it. I’m hardly going to fuck you in full view of young Dylan, who doubtless would be more than happy to watch. Your virtue is entirely safe with me. I just want warmth. And the feel of someone by my side. No ulterior motives, saintly one. I just need someone to hold on to.”
For a moment she said nothing, remembering the dead men in the last few days. The men MacGowan had killed. After so much carnage it was little wonder he needed to hold on to something. Someone.
“All right,” she said. “But does it require your hands on my breasts?”
She could feel the soft rumble of laughter in the chest pressed up against her back, and his hands slipped down to wrap around her waist. “Three years, remember?”
“There’s only so long you’re going to be able to coast on that, MacGowan. It’s getting old.”
The vibration of laughter increased, and for some reason it did even more to warm her than the heat from his big, strong body. “You know, Sister Beth, you’re a dangerous woman.”