Hard Core (Onyx Group) (6 page)

An image of a red-haired maiden gliding through the jungle
flitted through his head. He pinned her with a hard stare. “You were in the
jungle.”

She nodded and reached for something on the bedside table, a
wooden storage crate. He stiffened, prepared to defend himself. Against
a…washcloth? She tied the net aside and leaned over his chest. Her scent,
natural and feminine, washed over him.

“Relax,” she murmured, laying the cloth across his forehead.
“You’ve had a rough time of it. Rest is what you need now.”

Not going to happen. He didn’t trust her. Images of her with
a needle in hand flashed. She held him hostage with drugs. Goddamn, he hated needles.
How the hell did she get close enough to him for an injection? He hadn’t let
anyone stick him with a needle since he’d been a child. Then, he’d been too
young and scared to fight.

He looked into her soft green eyes and he knew. She’d
bewitched him. Somehow, while he’d faded in and out of consciousness, she had
weaved her spell and he’d fallen hook, line and sinker. Jesus, he was losing
it. Damn the bastard who’d shot him.

“Who are you?” he rasped, wishing he didn’t feel so weak.
Vulnerable.
Fuck.

Her brows drew down in a frown and something close to guilt
flickered across her face. What would she have to feel guilty about? Shooting
him up with drugs to keep him comatose? A hell of a good reason.

“You don’t remember anything?” She turned away slightly so
that her hair shielded her face.

Unwilling to give her any information that could be used
against him, he remained silent.

“I found you in the jungle. You were shot, so I brought you
here. You’ve been delirious with fever from infection for the past two days.
It’s no surprise you don’t remember anything.”

Fever? That explained the uncomfortable heat.

“Infection where?”

“At the gunshot wound site. In this environment, a wound
like that will heal slowly and infection is almost inevitable. Many have died
from a simple cut.”

Many? How many were here? He didn’t remember anything about
other people inhabiting the island. Important information he should have been
alerted to, but inconsequential at this point. And since the island belonged to
Ross, that meant this red-haired vixen worked for Ross. Which left him at her
mercy as long as he was laid up in bed.

That’s about to change.

He knew basic medic skills, enough to keep himself alive. He
just had to get the hell out of here. As long as she was awake he’d get nowhere,
so he closed his eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep.

His Angel of Death pressed a cool cloth to his cheeks and
forehead before she moved back to her perch.

Fool
. He waited for her breathing to slow. Ross
shouldn’t have left a woman on guard duty. Escaping would be a piece of cake.

* * * *

Slade was dressed and at the door when he heard a soft
whimper. The sound stopped him midstride and forced him to turn back to where
he’d left his Angel of Death asleep in her chair.

Tears ran down her cheeks, though her eyes were closed, her
face contorted with sadness.

Damn. Had he tied the bootlaces too tight around her wrists
and ankles? She hadn’t woken when he’d secured her to the chair. Hell, she
hadn’t even moved. Either a deep sleeper or exhausted. Judging by the dark
circles under her eyes, he’d guess the latter.

Torn, he glared at her. How did a person cry in their sleep?
But her tears continued to fall quietly into her lap.

He wanted to shake her awake, demand she stop crying because
he couldn’t take it, and wrap her in his arms at the same time. Dammit
.
He
refused to feel guilt for tying her up. Someone would find her in the morning
and free her. She’d be fine. A little stiff, but unharmed.

Unlike him. He still felt the after-effects of the drug
she’d given him.
Penicillin, my ass.
Whatever it was still coursed
through his veins, making him groggy and thick-headed. Out of sorts.

He reached the door and started to leave, but a small,
keening moan stopped him.

Jaw clenched, he stalked across the room, and knelt
painfully at her side. He checked her bonds, satisfied they were tight enough
to hold her, but not so tight they caused her pain. What the hell was she
crying about?

He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He’d done that once, and
would never do it again. The cost was simply too high.

He rose to his feet, fought dizziness, and headed toward the
door again. This time he didn’t look back as he slipped into the darkness.

Alana woke with a start and groaned at the stiffness in her
arms and back. She’d slept in a chair again. When she tried to lift her hand,
it wouldn’t budge. She looked down, then at her empty bed, and gasped in
outrage.

Cristian had tied her to her chair and escaped. How far did
he think he would get in his condition? He must be weak as a babe. No one
bounced back quickly from what he’d been through. Not even Superman.

Why the ropes? She looked down.
Shoelaces?
He’d used
her shoelaces to tie her up? Good Lord, she’d been outwitted by a wounded man
barely over his fever.

It had been a long time since she’d underestimated someone
and it rankled that he had pulled one over on her. But why had he felt the need
to do it?

“Damn him.” Angry that he’d done this, she pulled against
her restraints to no avail. The laces weren’t hurting her, but they held firm
with the special knot he’d used. She let out a harsh breath and collapsed
against the chair. Now what? Leya would soon check on her and find her like
this, her patient gone.

She groaned in frustration. Nothing good would come of this.
The tribal elders would order a manhunt for harming one of their women. It
wouldn’t matter he hadn’t hurt her. Cristian tying her up didn’t follow the
strict code of honor a man bestowed on a woman. They would be furious.

Great, this just got better and better. If he was one of
Gavin’s soldiers, then he’d run right back to him. The men of the tribe would
never back down from right and wrong. That would lead to bloodshed, the thing
she’d sacrificed herself in order to prevent.

Gut clenched, she struggled against her bonds. Once again
they held tight.

Alana glared at the empty bed and stiffened when she heard
someone at the door. Not quite daylight, so it couldn’t be Leya. Her father,
come to check on her? She couldn’t let him see her like this.

Her heart pounded as she struggled to free herself. The door
opened behind her. Dammit, she would castrate Cristian when she got her hands
on him.

The door closed and she cursed under her breath.

Time to pay the piper for her misplaced trust.

A hand landed on her shoulder.

“
Senorita
, I’m sorry to wake you, but you must come.
Your father needs you--oh, what has happened to you?” Leya gasped. “Where is
your patient?”

Alana scowled. Yeah, that’s what she’d like to know. “Get my
knife, Leya. Cut me loose.”

Wide eyed, Leya hurried over to where she kept her knife
hidden and looked back at Alana with frightened eyes. “It’s gone.”

Fire burned through Alana’s gut. Not only had he tied her
up, he’d stolen her knife. That knife had special meaning to her. It had been
handcrafted by a tribesman after Alana had set his son’s leg after a bad fall.
They’d thought he would to lose it, but she managed to save the limb.

She hoped Cristian died a slow, miserable death out there in
the jungle.

“Run to the church and grab a scalpel.” She barely kept a
lid on her temper.

Leya nodded and ran out the door. She returned a couple
minutes later and knelt behind the chair to cut the laces at Alana’s feet. “He
did this to you? The elders will be very angry for this disrespect.”

She’d saved Cristian’s life and this is how he repaid her?
It didn’t bode well for him. At this point it didn’t matter if he was one of
Ross’s men or not, he would be hunted and killed for what he’d done.

Alana shuddered. The tribe would have their honor in her
name.

Oh, God. What had she done?

“Leya.” Alana rose from her chair and rubbed her shoulders.
“No one can know about this. Promise me you won’t tell anyone what he did.” She
grabbed Leya’s slim shoulders and gave her a stern look. “Promise me.”

“But…”

Alana shook her head. “No. I’m fine. The elders can’t know
he tied me up and stole my knife. It will bring war with
Senor
Ross and
we can’t have that.”

“But he is one of
Senor
Ross’s soldiers.”

“We don’t know that, Leya. We don’t have the facts. For now
we have to--” A knock on the door stopped her mid-sentence.

“Alana? Open up. We seem to have found something you lost.”
Her father’s voice drifted through the door.

“Not a word,” Alana warned Leya and went to open the door.

Three tribesmen carried her unconscious patient inside. His
deathly pale face bobbed against his bare chest. They deposited him in her bed
with more care than the last time.

Her father came in behind them, his gaze on her. “You should
have asked for relief,” he chided. “He must have slipped out in the night while
you slept.”

“Yes, he must have.” She glared at her patient, who now
slept comfortably in her bed. “Where did you find him?”

“Near the edge of the camp. He passed out.”

“He’s nowhere near healed. I’m surprised he made it that
far.”

Her father studied her closely. “Are you sure you’re all
right?”

Alana nodded and squeezed his arm. “I’m fine. I’ll keep a
better watch over my patient from here on out.”

Her father shook his head. “No. We’ll work in shifts now. It
isn’t safe for you to be alone with him. I don’t trust him.”

She rubbed her forehead. Cristian had already managed to get
the drop on her. And for his sake, he better hope the tribesmen let her be the
one to remove his pants, because her knife could be nowhere else. How he’d
gotten into his pants in the first place she didn’t know. Then again, Cristian
was anything but typical.

Exactly the reason she wouldn’t leave her father alone with
him. What if he did to him what he’d done to her? Her father didn’t have the
strength he once had. She could handle Cristian, but she wasn’t letting him
hurt her father.

“I appreciate it, Dad, but his fever is down, and the
antibiotics are working. It won’t be long now.”

“Then you’ll release him and get him out of our lives?”

“Yes. Let him go fight his war with Gavin, or whatever it is
they’re doing.”

“You don’t believe he works for Ross? That he did something
wrong and got punished for it? Gavin Ross won’t let him live if he’s betrayed
him.”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said on a sigh. Lord, she
was tired.

Her father kissed her forehead. “Trust your instincts, dear.
You’ll do the right thing.” He walked to the door. “Looks like you’ve lost your
shoelaces. Might want to fix that.” Then he left.

She glared at the man in her bed. He better hope he healed
quickly or she just might take his advice and shoot him. Twice. She stalked
over to where he lay and scowled down at him. Maybe she should let him fend for
himself. If the infection didn’t kill him, Ross would. They’d all sleep better
once he was gone. And she could easily send him packing right now. If it
weren’t for that incredibly broad chest of his and those hard planes and
muscles…

Alana huffed out a breath. Why did he continuously turn her
thoughts in the wrong direction?
Him patient, you doctor.
She really had
to remember that. Her thoughts crossed hundreds of moral lines. Lines she had
never crossed and never planned on crossing again. She would not dishonor her
father or her reputation.

Yet, she couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling over the dark
shadow of his jaw and down the defined muscles of his shoulders. She knew from
experience how strong he was. The unsatisfied part of her reared its stubborn
head, tightened her insides and sent a current of pure desire through her
veins.

Her body remembered how he’d touched her, knew her, and
tingled in response.

“Traitor,” she muttered. She was a fool. A big,
unprofessional fool.

Alana dropped to her knees beside him and searched his
pockets for her knife. She found it strapped to his ankle. Angry that he dared
steal such a personal thing, she tucked it into her waistband. Her gaze
traveled over the heavy stubble on his jaw and dirt smeared across his chest.

“I should let you lie in your own filth,” she groused.
Irritation coursed through her. “Would serve you right for stealing my knife
and tying me to a chair with my own laces.”

Even as she wished she could do it, Alana started to gather
supplies to give her patient a sponge bath. Later, she would borrow her
father’s shave kit and make him look a bit more civil. Right now he looked like
a savage. One who tied women to chairs while they slept.

She set the bowl of water and washcloth on the floor by the
bed and knelt beside him. His bandages were soaked in blood and needed changed.
He’d probably pulled his stitches during his escape. Well, she wasn’t going to
put them in again. Not after the miserable time she had the first round.

With slow, gentle passes she cleaned the dirt off his face.
Then she moved to his bare chest, focused on the task instead of the lines and contours,
the power beneath his tanned skin. Cristian was nothing like her father, a
gentle, tender man with an easy smile that put his patients at ease. He had
treated her mother like a precious object he coveted. That’s how a man should
treat a woman. The only kind of marriage she would settle for, when she found a
way to change Gavin’s mind about their arrangement. He had to know she would
never love him.

She stared down at Cristian. There was nothing gentle or
tender about this man, not even in sleep. His edges were rough.

Alana dipped the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out, then
brushed it across his chest, her gaze trapped on the trail left on his skin.
Little goosebumps arose on his flesh and her stomach fluttered. Why did she
respond so to him? Crave his touch? She’d been attracted to other men, but
never like this. Not to the point she ached. Like right now, and he wasn’t even
alert to take the blame.

Traitor.
Alana ignored the voice in her head and drew
the cloth over his muscled shoulder, then down his arm. On impulse she let her
fingers brush his heated skin, hot beneath her touch. Taut and smooth over hard
muscle. Except for the scars and scrapes from his beating. Which only served as
a reminder of who he worked for.

Properly chastised, she dropped the cloth into the bowl and
rose to her feet. She would never know this man beyond here. Soon he would be
gone.

She turned away and began to clean up the mess inside her
hut, Cristian pushed firmly out of her mind along with her hopes and dreams.

* * * *

Slade opened his eyes and looked around. Wood hut. Thatched
roof. Bare essentials. Right back where he started. How he’d gotten here, he
didn’t know. The last thing he remembered was tying the pretty young doctor to
her chair while she cried in her sleep. He didn’t want to remember that.

He didn’t want to care.

Now, how the hell did he get out of here and finish the job
he’d been sent to do?

Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the hut, warming it
like a sauna. The humidity was unbearable. It dampened the sheets and made
breathing hard. God, he wanted off this godforsaken island.

The good news, he felt stronger. Fatigued, sore, but not so
weak. He tossed back the sheets and swung his legs to the floor. At least he
had his pants this time. And his boots. No shirt. Vaguely, he remembered it
being cut off him when he first arrived. By the same red-haired doctor who’d
haunted his dreams the past few nights. Real or hallucination, she’d never left
his side.

She’d also stuck him with a needle. He couldn’t trust her.
And she had probably already sent word to Ross that he was here. He didn’t care
if Ross showed up. It only made his job easier, but he wouldn’t involve the
doctor in his mission. Not even as collateral damage. He didn’t work that way.

The sooner he got back to the task, the sooner he’d be able
to leave this place. First, he needed to get back to his camp and arm himself.
His base was well hidden, so he didn’t worry about Ross’s men finding it.

With a grimace he pulled his boots on, did a quick search for
the homemade knife he’d found last time, came up empty and moved toward the
door. He could hear people moving around outside, children playing, women
talking. The wooden walls of the hut were paper thin, full of gaps and easily
penetrable.

He wasn’t worried about being seen--he had been trained to
move undetected. With little to no sound, he opened the door and stopped short.
A slender woman sat on the stoop. Soft green eyes turned up to meet his, her
long ponytail swung over her shoulder. His gut tightened.

Dammit, she was one enticing woman. A beautiful threat.

“Caught ya,” she said, fully aware she blocked the doorway.
As was her intention, he guessed with a scowl.

She rose to her feet and faced him. Her gaze dropped to his
boots. “Decided to wear those this time, huh?”

Laughable, that she thought she could stop him. She had
mettle, he’d give her that.

“I haven’t given you a clean bill of health.” She placed a
hand on his chest and gave him a nudge. He didn’t move.

Her eyes narrowed and her jaw set in a stubborn line. She
was clearly in this for the long haul.

“Look, mister, you aren’t going anywhere until I clear you.
What you do after that is your business. Until then, you belong to me.”

Slade’s heart pounded.
You belong to me.
Why did
those words affect him? He belonged to no one.
Her hand burned like fire
against his skin. He looked down to where it rested over his heart, small and
delicate against the muscles of his chest. Her skin was soft, her fingers long,
slender, feminine.

An image of her bathing, naked except for bra and panties,
threw him where he didn’t want to go. Not many women were naturally sensual
like this woman. Watching her bathe by light of a lantern hadn’t been a
hallucination. It was too vivid, too clear. He remembered every inch of her
silken skin, the way her narrow waist curved into lean hips and long, shapely
legs. His palms actually tingled as if they’d touched her soft skin.
Ridiculous. If he’d touched her, he’d sure as hell remember it.