Thrill Ride Page 4

  What in the w—

  That’s as far as he got before a second loud rattle had her climbing him like a cat climbs a tree, finding footholds and handholds on his knees, gear belt, and shoulders. It was either help her reach her goal or suffer serious injury, so he palmed her ass—sweet Lord in heaven!—and gave her a little boost. And, to his utter astonishment, the next moment found her sitting on his shoulders, shining the penlight around the forest canopy with one hand while the other sunk deep into his hair, threatening to rip out the whole kit and kaboodle by the roots.

  “What was that?” she breathed as he blinked away the tears that sprung to his eyes. He felt a few hairs pull loose.

  And when he fantasized about having Vanessa’s thighs wrapped around his ears? Boy howdy, you better believe he never envisioned it quite like this.

  “It was just a bird,” he assured her as he reached up to gently untangle her fingers from his hair, rubbing his abused scalp in the process. Grabbing her by the waist, he tried to ignore how right it felt to have his hands on her, how taut her flesh felt beneath his fingers, as he lowered her to the ground. No sooner did her toes touch the good ol’ terra firma than she latched on to his arm with a claw-like hand.

  Okay, so the tree house it is. Because the poor woman would probably need to be fitted for a straitjacket if he tried to march her all the way back to Santa Elena in the dark.

  “A bird?” Her voice broke on a frightened edge. “What kind of bird makes that noise? It sounds like bones rattling.”

  Oui, that’s exactly what it sounded like, which, he had to admit, was pretty spooky even for someone who wasn’t scared of the dark. For someone who was? Sheer, unadulterated terror…and the inclination to climb on top of the nearest solid structure, obviously.

  “It’s called a Black Guan. And that’s just the noise its feathers make when it flies,” he informed her reassuringly.

  “You’re kidding me.” She shined the light directly in his face, and he lifted a hand to protect his eyesight.

  “Non,” he said, bending to retrieve his pack. He slapped it a few times for good measure and shrugged into it as he blew out a resigned breath. One night. He could get through one night. “Just stick close on my heels.”

  “Where are we going?” Her voice was still shaky, the beam of the flashlight she carried continuing to dart up into the canopy on occasion.

  “We’re goin’ to my tree house for tonight. And tomorrow you’re goin’ back to Santa Elena and then to San Jose.”

  “And you’re coming with me?”

  No. But he was finished arguing about it. So he gave her the only answer he could, which was no answer at all.

  Chapter Three

  The fact that Rock hadn’t responded to her last question wasn’t lost on Vanessa, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Not when she was busy trying to slow her breathing and quiet her heart while simultaneously scrambling to keep pace with him.

  She felt the darkness closing around her like a hot fist, squeezing her, trying to cut off her air.

  Good grief, Van. Keep it together, or you’re gonna make an even bigger fool of yourself than you already have.

  Of course, making a bigger fool of herself might prove difficult, considering she couldn’t think of anything more idiotic than climbing the poor man like a light post when that weird bird took flight. She still wasn’t quite sure how that happened. One second she had her eyes and flashlight glued to his jungle boots, concentrating everything she had on not thinking about the darkness surrounding her. And the next second? Well, the next second she was on his shoulders.

  And, here you are trying to convince him you’ve come to save him. Fat lot of help you’ve been so far…

  Blowing out a dismayed breath, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, skirting around the ankle-grabbing vines and giant tree roots. She didn’t know how much time passed—it could’ve been minutes or hours—but suddenly Rock stopped. She lifted the beam of the flashlight to his face only to discover his head thrown back, his gaze focused overhead.

  Oh, gosh, I hope it’s not another one of those birds…

  Hesitantly, she traced the penlight up a huge tree until she saw what had snagged his attention. The distance diffused the beam of light, but even so, she had no trouble making out the proportions of the framework overhead.

  Um, okay, so he called that a tree house?

  He must have seen the astonishment on her face. “I didn’t know how long I was gonna be livin’ here, so I reckoned I better get comfy.”

  Comfy. Right.

  The mammoth wooden structure spanning the gap between two huge trees came equipped with shuttered windows, a rope bridge, and was that…? Yep, that was definitely an outdoor shower she spied on the landing. It was fed by one of the big plastic rain barrels bolted above the thatched roof.

  And here she’d been feeling sorry for him, thinking he’d been huddled in a crude little shack for the last six months. Shack? What a joke. This place looked like the Hilton Hotel of tree houses, like Robinson Crusoe Gone Wild.

  “Does it come with cable TV and broadband?” she asked dryly, still frowning up at the structure, marveling at his ingenuity.

  “Nothin’ that fancy.” He led her around the wide, flat, bacon strip–shaped roots of the tree until they came to a long ladder affixed to the trunk with thick steel bolts. “After you,” he gestured with a jerk of his whiskered chin.

  Vanessa bit her lip and once again shined the penlight up, waaayyy up, the trunk of the tree. Now, normally, she wasn’t afraid of heights. Then again, she’d never been required to cling like a spider monkey to side of a giant rainforest hardwood without benefit of a safety cable and harness either, so…yeah…

  Forty feet. That’s how high she estimated she’d have to climb before she reached the tree house.

  Gulp.

  Of course, after the snake episode and that weird bone-rattle bird and the subsequent shoulder-straddling thing, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him see her trepidation. She hoped there was still a chance to salvage at least some of her whole girl-races-to-the-rescue-of-doomed-operator mojo so, nodding with far more confidence than she felt, she shoved the penlight between her lips and grabbed the first wrung.

  Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize, she mentally coached herself as, hand over hand, she scaled the ladder. By the time she reached what she thought was the half-way point though, that mantra switched to don’t look down, don’t look down, just don’t look—

  Ah, crap. She looked down.

  And as high as it’d seemed while looking up, it appeared a whole hell of a lot higher while looking down. Her eyesight played one of those tricks on her, like in the movies when the camera suddenly zooms back, elongating the field of vision. Just as she was gearing up to have herself a mini panic attack, the beam of her flashlight illuminated Rock, steadily climbing below her, and she forgot all about the likelihood of her breaking every single bone in her body should she lose her grip on the ladder. In fact, all thought came to a full stop. Because the yellow beam caught the play of his muscles, the dips and mounds and planes, casting everything into harsh relief, and it was enough to have a girl’s brain turning to mush.

  All the Knights were in peek physical condition, but Rock? Rock was almost inhuman.

  Not an ounce of fat showed in his bare arms or shoulders as he hoisted himself and his heavy pack up the tree. He was a study in taut, tattooed skin, sturdy bones, and sleek, sinewy muscles. A study in the perfect male form…

  And it was a good thing she needed both hands to cling to the ladder or else she might have started fanning herself. Then, as quickly as her synapses went offline, the ol’ gray matter rebooted itself and the first thought to spring into her head was, No man should look that good in a tank top. It’s just not fair.

  Disgusted by her inability to control her libido whenever he was around, she went to resume her task of climbing the ladder when suddenly Rock looked up, his fascinating,
multicolored eyes flashing in the beam of light and, just like that, she was struck dumb again.

  Most people wouldn’t consider Rock a handsome man. Save for his tattoos, there was nothing about him that really stood out. At first glance, he had a plain, somewhat forgettable face. But there was just something about him. Something more than his dark brown hair with its auburn highlights, something more than his straight, unexceptional nose and thick, dark eyebrows. Maybe it was his high cheekbones or his square jawline. Or, more likely, it was his lips.

  Holy cow, those lips were a thing of beauty. A perfect bow on top and a lush, plump pad on the bottom.

  She’d had more than her fair share of fantasies about those lips. A few of which skittered through her sluggish brain right now.

  “There a problem, chere?” he asked, breaking into her lurid thoughts, which only worked to remind her of the effect his voice always had on her peace of mind. She supposed it was her propensity for languages, for the tonal quality of words and inflection, that made Rock’s fluid baritone, especially when it was infused with the elongated vowels of the South, sound like the most delicious thing she’d ever heard.

  She shivered and wished she could blame it on the coolness of the air after sunset. Unfortunately, the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle hadn’t dissipated even one degree. So her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the fact that she was a goddamned lightbulb when it came to Rock; everything about him turned her on.

  And even in the darkness she could see one of his eyebrows begin a steady march up his forehead. For a minute, she worried that perhaps her expression had given away her thoughts. Then she remembered he’d asked her something. What was it again?

  Oh, yeah, he’d asked if there was a problem.

  And her answer? Hell yes, there’s a problem!

  The problem was that the one man on the entire planet she’d ever gone all goo-goo-gah-gah over also just happened to be the one man on the entire planet who would never return the sentiment. Of course, she couldn’t tell him that, so she satisfied herself with simply turning and resuming her upward trajectory. And, all the while she was climbing, she was reminding herself she’d come here to help him—to bring him back so the Knights could help him—not to jump his oh-so-delicious bones.

  ***

  Don’t look at her butt, don’t look at her butt, just don’t look—

  Dieu. He looked at her butt.

  And how he’d confused her for a man, for even a nanosecond, he’d never know. Because Vanessa Cordero had that quintessential Latina build. Her small waist flared dramatically to curvy hips and a high, round ass.

  Sir Mix-A-Lot was writing about her with, “little in the middle but she got much back,” because merde!

  And when she reached the top of the ladder and hoisted herself onto the landing, effectively shielding her world-class booty from his hungry eyes, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Because even though he was now able to construct a thought that didn’t revolve around taking a bite out of each one of her ass cheeks, he knew it was only a matter of time before those ass cheeks would be warming his bed while he lay tossing and turning on a pallet on the floor.

  He may never wash his sheets again…

  “You need help with that pack?” She interrupted his prurient thoughts, her faux whisker-covered face appearing at the top of the ladder, which served as a reminder of something that’d been bugging the hell out of him.

  He shook his head, and she moved back so he could pull himself onto the landing. Straightening, he blurted, “Why the disguise? If the CIA has given up hope that you guys knew where to find me, why’d you need to go dressin’ up like ol’ Cooter Brown?”

  He watched her reach up to finger the tiny hairs still glued to her chin and cheeks. She grimaced and started yanking them off one patch at a time. “I wore the disguise just in case,” she told him, scrubbing her hands over her now hair-free face, scratching at a spot that still retained some glue. And, mon dieu, why did she have to be so damned beautiful? “Just because we think they’ve mostly given up doesn’t necessarily mean they have. You know the CIA. They’re nothing if not wily. So, I snuck out of San Jose a week ago as Ricardo Ramirez and have been in Santa Elena looking for you as Ricardo Ramirez ever since.”

  “And you didn’t approach me at the cantina because…?”

  “Are you that paranoid?” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you trust me? Do you really think I’ve come here to do anything more than help you?”

  He shrugged out of his pack, leaning it against the wall of the tree house. He’d unpack later. For now, he needed a cold drink and an even colder shower. Of course, since air-conditioning and refrigeration weren’t really part of the whole Tarzan theme he had going, the odds of getting either were pretty much non-existent. Still, he could dream…and wish. Then again, there was a saying that went something like wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up faster…

  Opening the door to the tree house, he motioned for her to precede him.

  For a brief instant, she hesitated, waiting for him to answer her last set of questions. And only when it became obvious he had no intention of answering anything did she shrug her shoulders and step over the threshold.

  He followed her in while not looking at her butt. Okay, maybe he snuck one quick peek. He was just a man, after all. Once inside, she glanced around curiously, and he knew what she saw. A slap-dash box-framed bed holding a thick blow-up mattress covered in tangled sheets. A rough-hewn table with one chair. A kerosene stove on a stand. Cooking utensils stacked on a shelf. A pyramid of canned food and MREs. A small water barrel…and a shitload of intel.

  Every vertical surface of the tree house was wallpapered with the information he’d been able to find out about himself, his missions, and his targets. And, unfortunately, even given all of that, he still felt no closer to discovering the true identity of Rwanda Don than he’d been six months ago. Maybe if he had his files…

  But no. Those files were the main reason he was in this mess. He should’ve destroyed them and then he—

  “You’ve been busy,” she murmured, walking over to the table to pick up a glossy eight-by-ten photo of Fred Billingsworth. The last man he’d interrogated. The last man who’d died.

  The only man who’d been innocent…

  A strange expression crossed her face as she studied that photo, and Rock could tell she was struggling with the suspicion that, oui, despite what she thought she knew of him, despite her wanting to believe him innocent, the fact remained that maybe he really had killed all those men.

  “Why didn’t you approach me at the cantina?” he asked again. Not that he didn’t believe she’d come to help him. All it took was one look at her wide-open, honest face to know she was telling the truth. But he wanted more. He wanted to ascertain her motives. Because, for one, it was his training to go digging around in a person’s psyche to see what made them tick. And two, it would give him an idea just how much heat the Knights had been exposed to because of him.

  “Because I had to be sure.” She dropped the photo back to the table in order to cross her arms and scowl. “If by some miracle I was being tracked, I figured it was best to hang back and see if they trailed you into the jungle.” Okay, so they’d suffered quite a bit of heat if she was having to employ that level of caution. His heart sunk at the thought of what his actions had cost the Black Knights. “When enough time went by and no one took off after you, I followed. But I think maybe I waited too long, because I nearly lost you.”

  “If only,” he sighed, pulling his pistols from his waistband and trudging over to the shelf that held his few pieces of cookware. Placing the 9mms inside a pot and securing the lid—capuchin monkeys sometimes snuck in and messed with his stuff, and the last thing he wanted was to get accidently plugged by some light-fingered primate—he turned back around to find Vanessa’s head cocked, her lips pursed.

 
; “And if I had lost you, how long would I have had to wait at that cantina before you made a return appearance?”

  “A month,” he admitted. “Maybe more.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, blowing out a breath. “Well, thank heavens I brushed up on my Maleku.”

  “Huh?”

  “It was an elderly Maleku man who pointed me toward the cantina. I guess he’d seen you there a couple of times.”

  And he wasn’t surprised the Knights had chosen to send her after him. They had to have figured it would take someone with her particular linguistic abilities to decipher the many Chibchan dialects spoken by the locals around these parts.

  Just as he opened his mouth to question her further, a subtle sound, a deep muttering, had every single hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  ***

  Eve Eden’s vacation house, San Jose, Costa Rica…

  “Oh shit!”

  Eve’s entire skeleton nearly flew out of her skin at Billy’s roared exclamation. The tension around her place had been riding high until a few hours ago when Vanessa Cordero checked in to say she’d finally located Rock. Since then everything had evened out. Calmed down. Which was probably one of the reasons why Billy’s sudden outburst scared the bejeezus out of her. It was like a gunshot in the middle of a picnic lunch.

  The glass of Chardonnay she’d been in the middle of pouring fell victim to the hand that jumped to clutch her throat. Sparing barely a glance at the shattered glass and gold liquid flowing freely across the granite countertop, she watched as Billy—Wild Bill Reichert to those in the spec-ops community—jabbed a hard finger onto the screen of his phone before launching himself over the back of the sofa and racing toward the hall.

  Her natural instinct was to stay rooted to the spot. But just last month, her personal defense instructor informed her, in no uncertain terms, that she needed to grow a pair. Which she took to mean when everything inside her yelled at her to get very still and stop breathing—just play the scared rabbit—that’s when she should channel a little of her best friend, Becky Reichert, and kick her characteristic reserve to the curb.