Just a Kiss Away (16 page)

She turned over on her back and moaned, flinging an arm across her eyes and just lying there wheezing. Finally she spoke, her tone flat and her voice barely audible. “If you’re gonna kill me, just do it now.”

Oh, the melodrama.
He shook his head, disgusted. “Get up. No one’s going to kill you, although you might get me killed if you keep this up.”

She lifted her arm a few inches to look at him with red puffy eyes. “You just tried to drown me.”

“I doubt you’d drown in less than six feet of water.” Sam picked up the rifle and reloaded.

“I can’t swim!”

He dropped the cartridges in the sand and glared at her. “What in the hell do you mean you can’t swim? Everyone can swim.”

“Maybe every
man
can swim, but not me.” She sat up. “Where I come from, women don’t swim. I never learned, since my brothers didn’t consider it safe or proper for a refined lady.”

“I didn’t think this situation could get any worse,” he muttered, bending to pick up the shot. “I was wrong.”

“You still tried to drown me.” Her voice had a distinct whine to it, something he hadn’t noticed before. She had managed to sit up and turn her back to him again. Hugging her knees, she stared out into the dark bay.

“If I’d wanted to drown you, you can bet your sweet southern little butt I’d have been successful. And if you call me a damn Yankee under your breath one more time I just might do it.” He struggled into the pack while she still sat there, not moving.

“Get up, we have to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“Because of those shots I fired. Your daddy’s boat might not have heard them, but someone else might have, and I don’t want to stick around here to find out who.” He held out his hand to help her up.

She looked at it, then stuck her nose up and watched the bay.

“You want to go swimming again?”

Her head whipped around, her eyes wide, and their gazes locked. After a long tense moment, she looked at his hand still stretched out to her.

“Don’t tempt me,” he warned.

She took it and stood up, shaking the wet sand from her soaking dress.

It was the second time today she’d been soaked from head to foot. Which reminded him . . . “Tell me something, Miss Lah-Roo, why the hell did you jump off that boat if you couldn’t swim?”

She pulled the back of her skirt around so she could get at the rest of the sand. “I was aiming for that barrel.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Why’d you jump off the boat?”

“I was seasick,” she mumbled.

He thought about her answer for a moment, looking for its logic—a futile search. “So you chose to drown instead. Makes perfect sense.”

“I told you I was aiming for that barrel!”

“Let me see if I have this right.” He leaned on the rifle. “You get seasick.”

She nodded, her eyes averted.

“So instead of staying on that trawler with a little upset stomach, you decided to jump through the bullet-ridden air into the middle of the river—despite the fact that you can’t swim—hoping you could hang on to a barrel.”

“It wasn’t a
little
upset stomach, and at the time it made sense.”

He snorted.

She turned and looked at him. “It did! Sincerely.”

“You can be sincere and still be stupid.”

“Why don’t you just leave me here then!” She spun around, crossing her arms like a spoiled little child with the “poor me’s.”

“Want a cross and some nails?”

“I hate you!”

“Good. Funnel some of that energy into those pampered little feet of yours and let’s go.” Sam slung the rifle over his shoulder, turned, and began walking toward the northeast.

Before long he realized she wasn’t behind him. Not enough noise—no mumbling, humming, whining—and no sounds of her crashing face down into the nearest bush. He stopped and counted to ten, then twenty. By the time he’d reached a hundred and fifty, he figured he was calm enough to go back.

The spot where he’d left her was deserted—nothing but a depression in the sand. The beach was dark, the moon being only a thin silver sliver in the sky. He scanned the area where sand met jungle, and there he spotted her. She sat against a coconut palm, her knees hugged to her chest and her head resting on them. One small finger picked at her teeth.

He shook his head at the pitiable sight and wondered what the hell he was going to do with her.

She must have sensed his presence because she looked up at him. He walked over to her and stood above her, not saying a word.

“I want to go home,” she whined into her knees. He didn’t acknowledge her.

“I want to sleep in a bed. I want to eat real food. I want to take a bath. And most of all, I want to brush this stupid jerky meat out of my teeth!”

“Are you through?”

“I don’t know.”

Sam waited.

She sat up, her back pressed against the tree but her eyes locked on the bay. “Isn’t there any chance they’ll come back?
^-

“No.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

He laughed. “I wish I knew.”

“Can’t you take me home?”

“Forget it.”

“Please.”

“What do you think I am, some hero in a romance novel? I said forget it. It’s too dangerous, and there’s no time. I have to be back at my camp. I’ve got a job to do. Now get up.”

“I want to go home.”

“Get—”

“I want to take a bath.”

“Up.”

“I want to brush my teeth.”

“Now!”

Her back went ramrod straight. She turned her head away from him and dug her heels a little deeper into the sand.

“I said now!”

“No.”

He dropped the rifle, slid out of the pack, and grabbed her shoulders, then hauled her none too gently up against the tree. With his face barely an inch from her, he gritted, “Look, you spoiled little brat. One more whine about those teeth of yours and you won’t have any to brush. You
will
get up. You
will
walk. And you
will
keep quiet!”

Her chin shot up. “Not until you tell me where you’re taking me!”

“To Bonifacio’s camp!” he bellowed.

“Isn’t he another one of those guerrilla leaders?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you gonna do, sell me to him so he can hold me for ransom, too?”

Sam stared at her, still shaking his fist at her teary, belligerent face. Her words registered. And he’d called her stupid? He was a damn fool.

She’d just given him the solution to his problem. He had no choice but to take her with him anyway. He might as well let Bonifacio hold her for ransom. Andres needed the money as much as Aguinaldo did. There was no Colonel Luna in Andres’s camp. Sam and Jim Cassidy were serving as officers. They wouldn’t let anything happen to her. It was perfect.

He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it. Must be the heat, or that batty woman, because the Chicago street kid in him would never have missed this kind of opportunity. He guessed age affected everyone, and maybe he was getting too old for this.

Well, he’d worry about that after this job was done, until then he had a new plan—to see to her safety. After all, she was a defenseless woman and a fellow American, and now he could make a little money on the side. Bonifacio would give him a bonus—a cut of the ransom. It was perfect.

“What are you staring at?” She eyed him warily.

“Not a thing, Miss Lah-Roo, not a thing.” Sam smiled, releasing her shoulders. “Bonifacio and I will make sure you get back to your daddy all safe and sound. Now let’s go. The sooner you move the sooner you’ll be home.” And, Sam thought, whistling as he watched her wobble ahead of him, the sooner I’ll get that bonus.

“I
am
tired,” she repeated with a sigh, looking out at the never-ending maze of green jungle. She felt if she had to walk through one more plant she’d just die.

Self-pity in full swing, she talked to the jungle, willing at this point to tell anyone or anything her plight. “I want to take a bath. I want to sleep in a bed, any bed, with real sheets. I want to
eat
real food and wear clean clothes.” She ran her tongue over her teeth frowning, and added, “And I want to br—”

She stopped in mid-word.

He glared at her, waiting for her finish. Silent, she returned his stare.

“And I want you to stop whining, but I doubt I’ll get that any more than you’ll get your toothbrush. Now let’s go.” He stood there waiting for her, then said, “When we get to the camp you can have a bath.”

“I’m tired of walking.” She sagged back and raised a limp hand to her brow, absolutely sure she was gonna get a headache any minute. “Can’t we just sit here a spell?”

“No.” He extended his hand. “Get up.”

Lollie sighed twice, let him help her up, then proceeded to dust the leaves off her fanny. By the time she’d finished and had scratched the bites on her arms, Sam had disappeared into the jungle at what must have been almost a full run. She sighed for strength and stumbled off after him.

Over the last two miserable, horrid days, trailing along behind Sam the Tireless, she’d had nothing to do but walk. Every time she’d tried to sing he threatened to gag her again. She’d tried to talk to him. Sometimes he answered her, sometimes he grunted, and usually he ignored her. She’d had nothing to do but scratch and feel sorry for herself, which wasn’t too difficult when she was forced to slog through clinging brown mud and to tramp through jungle that scratched her exposed skin and served as a breeding ground for every creepy critter imaginable.

But the nights were the worst. One night they’d slept on a dirty moss-covered rock ledge with three feet separating them. She’d been on the inside, forced to lie there in the dark, smelling the pungent stink of the moss and listening to the foreign sounds—rustles, hums, twitters, buzzes—and wondering what gawdforsaken creature made those sounds.

The pack made a perfect pillow, so he’d taken it, leaving her to fall asleep on one mosquito-ravaged arm. She’d tried to talk to him. He told her to shut up and go to sleep. She didn’t hear another sound from him until he kicked her—well, prodded her—awake the next morning.