Diamond Mine (12 page)

She shuddered and a blanket floated atop her. How did he always know what she needed before she did?

Tears threatened to well and spill down her cheeks. She was tired of crying. Considering herself a strong, independent woman, she didn't like this response.

She didn't need a real man. The only ones she needed were the heroes from her novels. But wouldn't it be nice, if just once…

“Hannah, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“You might stay warmer if we were closer together.”

“Yes, I might.”

“I have set up a shelter if you are interested.”

L
et me think.
Am
I interested in snuggling up to the only man I
'
ve ever loved
?
Maybe it
'
s a trick question.
Perhaps my brain is playing a c
ruel
joke.

Even while Hannah thought these things, her body led her to Rory. She rose from the back seat and stretched her tense muscles. She walked toward the erected shelter and studied the area. He'd found a place buried underneath a tree with long, full limbs. The stars winked through the spread. Settled on a thick pallet of blankets, she didn't flinch as his body made contact. He scooted in behind her and covered them.

His lips rested like a whisper against her neck. “I remember a book I read where a dashing young Brit rescued an American girl, and to keep her from freezing, they
cuddled
together in a cave.”

Shock coursed through her body. He'd read her books? But if he'd read her books, then he knew where she was. And if he'd known all along where she was, then why hadn't he tried to contact her?

She rose on one arm and distanced herself from Rory's imposing form. “You mean to tell me you've read my novels? Which means you've known where I was this whole time, and you couldn't take two seconds to pick up a phone and contact me and at least let me know you were alive?”

A long whoosh of breath escaped his parted lips. “Hannah, I can explain.”

“Okay, lover boy, go ahead.”

“Well, hmm…”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. You don't have a reason. What was I, a one-summer fling? Did you just need a girl on your British arm, so when you were done, you could cast me away like old trash?”

Rory reached out and she shied away. He sighed. “It wasn't like that.”

“Sure, it wasn't,” she muttered angrily. To get up from her position, her hand fell on his leg, and she pushed. It felt odd, hard, and cold. Before she thought, she said, “What in the world?”

Nimble fingers reached for his pant leg and lifted. Her eyes widened in shock. No longer was there flesh and bone; instead, several inches below the knee was a false leg, a prosthetic. He opened his mouth to explain, but she didn't give him a chance. Her mouth moved faster than her brain. She blurted, “What happened to your leg?”

His mouth formed a grim line.

Sitting down beside him, all her thoughts bubbled out. “I knew something happened to you! I called every hospital in the state. Perhaps I should have expanded my radius. I told my mom you wouldn't just leave me. And now I get it. You were in the hospital, recovering from the accident that took your leg. You couldn't call me. You were probably in a coma, right? Then, when you woke up, you had amnesia and you didn't remember me. You have probably been recovering in the monastery this whole time, and when the little boy told you of a woman who matched my description, suddenly you remembered everything. That's it, right?'

He still didn't answer. He pulled her to his side, covered both of them, and said gruffly, “Go to sleep.”

Hannah felt much better now that she'd figured out why he'd gone missing. His lack of a leg from an accident meant nothing to her. He was still the same man inside, and that was all that mattered.

Together they would rescue Melanie, and when it was all over, she would tell him how her feelings hadn't changed. Then they could be a couple, just like in one of her novels. She would be the heroine in need of a rescue, and he would be her hero.

Hannah settled and used his chest as a pillow. Rory stroked her long brown hair, and even in her sleep, she purred like a contented kitten.

Laying on the hard South African soil, he stared at the starry sky. He was in trouble. Big trouble.

Eight years ago he'd held deep feelings for Hannah, but time changes things. He'd changed.

If it was possible, Hannah was more beautiful. The seventeen-year-old girl he had met that summer had morphed into a beautiful twenty-five-year-old goddess. Her body had continued to fill out in all the right places. And her legs! He couldn't even begin to describe how slender, toned, and… he had to stop this!

To get his mind off her looks, he reflected on some of the things she'd said. His sudden disappearance from her life must have affected her mental stability, because half the time when she spoke, she sounded like a raving lunatic. The poor thing had lived most of her life like it was a romance novel.

Surely in the light of day, she would realize he hadn't been in a coma in some hospital for eight years, just waiting for her name to be mentioned. The idea was preposterous.

None of his musings meant anything. The fact was, he would have to tell her the truth, and sooner rather than later. When he did, the question would be could she ever forgive him?

The scenery flashed by, but Hannah refused to enjoy it. Instead she sat like a stubbed-up child: rigid spine, pouty lips, folded arms, the works. A breeze graced her face, and she relaxed her posture and attempted to enjoy the countryside.

South Africa was a beautiful place. Right now at the end of January, her home in America was in the throes of winter. At times it wasn't uncommon to see snow fall. But here, their autumn season was about to begin.

That morning she'd awakened and gone through all the supplies in the jeep. Running across a pack filled with women's clothing, she'd smiled. A water bottle in hand, she'd hidden behind a large bush and attempted to clean. Wearing a brown t-shirt and thin khaki pants, she struggled to get comfortable as the air warmed and the clothes stuck to her sweaty frame.

Chance glances at Rory showed him biting the inside of his cheek as the vehicle moved along the dirt road toward their destination.

She fisted her hands in her lap. Earlier Rory had been right about a few things. One — she was moody. How could she not be! She'd only been in this country for a few hours when she'd been taken hostage.

Two — she hadn't had a real bath in what felt like forever. She sorely needed a decent tub. At least if she had adequate soap and water, she might be able to wash off the smell of the trafficker's camp, and then maybe she could think more clearly.

Three — she hadn't rested since arriving in the country. If she sat still for any length of time, she fought a battle with sleep. She really did need a comfortable bed and a safe place to lay her head, even if for just one night.

Thoughts of Melanie and the children as captives ran through her mind. What were they doing to them? Would they sell them or dispose of them before she had time to mount a rescue? Would it be prudent to contact the U.S. Embassy?

Since she was an American citizen, could she press charges for her kidnapping? These were all good questions with no ready answers.

Rory narrowed his gaze, his knuckles white and his hands tense. She touched her lips. They tingled where his finger had rested.

Even though he hadn't contacted her in the last eight years, she was still glad to see him. She didn't know how it had happened, how God had placed him here, but she was happy He had. Otherwise, she might not be alive.