Power: Special Tactical Units Division (In Wilde Country Book 3) (9 page)

“I know how to shoot.” She looked at the pistol on his hip, then at him. “It’s a SIG-SAUER, right?”

He wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt.

“One of my brothers-in-law owns a high-tech security company. His wife had some problems with a stalker a couple of years ago, and then, last winter, my brother, Matteo, and his fiancée…” Alessandra stopped in midsentence. “It’s too long a story to go into. Let’s just say that this past summer the men in our family taught all us women how to shoot.”

She could shoot? This willowy blonde who led a life of ease knew her way around a gun? Tanner took the SIG-SAUER from its holster and handed it to her.

“What’s the first thing you do when you get hold of a pistol you’ve never seen before?”

She gave him a look that said he’d just insulted her intelligence. Then she slid back the magazine, popped it, checked for a chambered round, popped the magazine back in and sighted the gun, two-handed, at a distant tree. Her hands shook a little, but why wouldn’t they? The pistol damn near weighed what she did.

“Shall I fire?”

“No need,” he said, trying not to sound impressed.

She lowered the pistol.

“Satisfied that I know what I’m doing?”

He nodded. She’d handled the thing like a pro.

“Just be careful with it,” he said, because he had to say something.

“I will.”

He started towards the trees. Her voice called after him.

“Hey. Lieutenant?”

Sighing, he turned towards her. “Yeah?”

“One apology deserves another, right? So, here’s mine. I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. About the name thing, you know… It’s just that—that the relationship between the general and me is—is difficult to explain, and—and—” She paused. “Was it really your choice to come after me?”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

“Because,” he said, with a shrug of those broad shoulders, “this is something I do. Something I’ve been trained to do.”

“You’re part of a search-and-rescue team?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“What are you then? I mean, I know I was wrong, saying you were the general’s lapdog.”

“Is there a reason you refer to General Wilde as the general instead of as your father?”

“Is there a reason you won’t tell me what you do in the army?”

He smiled. “Nice return.”

“I play a mean game of Ping-Pong. When we get home, I’ll take you on. Winner buys the loser dinner.”

“And the loser gets…?”

“A week’s vacation in glorious San Escobal.”

His smile became a grin. That had to be a good sign. Maybe she could get some answers out of him.

For some crazy reason, it seemed important to know more about this tough, gorgeous, moody-as-a-thunderstorm guy.

“Why won’t you tell me what you do in the army?”

“Why do you assume I’m in the army?”

Alessandra rolled her eyes. “Do you always answer a question with a question? I’m assuming you’re in the army because you know my—you know the general.”

A small black ant caught his eye as it ran across the pot cover. Tanner brushed it away.

“I don’t know him at all. Turns out he knows my CO.”

“Your commanding officer.” She flashed him an
aha
smile of triumph. “I was right. You
are
in the army.”

“Nope.” He dumped the ant, ran his finger around the inside of the pot just to be sure it didn’t hold any other visitors, then clamped on the cover. “I’m in the navy.”

“You’re a sailor?”

“Why do you say it that way? As if it doesn’t seem possible?”

“It doesn’t. I mean, why would my…why would the general reach out to the navy for help?”

“Because my CO and he are old pals.”

She shook her head. “I can’t quite picture you doing whatever it is sailors do.”

“Sailors do lots of things. But you’re right. I’m not a sailor in the way you probably think of sailors. I belong to a division that deals in specialized field operations.”

Alessandra cocked her head, folded her arms and looked him up and down.

“Meaning, you’re not going to tell me anything else.”

“Meaning, I’m going to go look for that water so I can get back here and put together a shelter before sunset.”

She sighed. “Okay. Keep your secrets. But one last, really quick question…”

“Try to make it one I can answer.”

Her smile was all female. He felt it clear down to his toes.

“Do you, by some minor miracle, have a comb in that bottomless backpack?”

“Dig deep enough and you’ll find a small plastic brush.”

“Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome. Just be careful with it.”

“Trust me, Lieutenant. I know how to use a hairbrush.”

His lips twitched. “You’re liable to pull out handfuls of hair. You’ve got some burrs caught in it.”

Her hand flew to her head. “Where?”

He walked to where she stood.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand, guiding it to a thick tangle of gold. “And here…”

He leaned in.

Close.

Too close.

Their eyes met.

The air stilled.

Then he let go of her hand and drew back.

“Ten minutes,” he said, and he turned and got the hell out of there before he did something they would both regret.

CHAPTER FIVE

They’d lucked out.

There was a small stream just downhill from where they were camped. He heard the soft rush of the water before he saw it, all but hidden by a stand of leafy young trees.

It was good news all around.

He’d have to boil whatever water he collected, of course. It looked clear and clean, but water that looked clear and clean had a bad way of harboring nasty stuff too small to be seen by the naked eye. Boiling the water for fifteen minutes would make it potable.

As for the trees…

Tanner shrugged off the sling, let the pot and canteens fall to the ground. He selected several very young, leafy branches and used the machete to cut them down.

Once he got back to the clearing and turned the tarp into a tent, the leaves would provide soft ground cover.

After the branches were stacked, he checked his watch.

He’d told Alessandra he’d be back in five. It would be more like ten, he thought as he collected the pot and the canteens, but he didn’t want to push beyond that.

A tangle of vegetation covered the sloped bank of the stream. The footing was tricky; it was muddy and slippery under the layer of moss and ferns and leaves. It would be easy to fall, and the now almost-constant throbbing in his calf warned him that a fall might not be the best idea.

He moved with exaggerated care, heaved a sigh of relief when he finally made it down to the stream. Working quickly, he filled the canteens and screwed on their tops, filled the pot and secured its cover, laced all the devices back on his improvised carry strap and started to climb the bank…

“Shit!”

His foot connected with something soft. Mud-covered leaves, moss—it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he felt his leg going out from under him.

Tanner tried to stop it from happening. He thrust out a hand, grabbed a tree branch, felt the branch give way…

His leg buckled, his foot twisted, and he started to go down. Blindly, just before he would have hit the ground, he flung out his arms, wrapped them around the slender tree trunk and clung to it.

Pain, hot and fierce, shot from his ankle straight up to his hip.

The world blurred.

Nausea roiled in his belly.

He heard himself groan.

Still, he managed to hang onto the tree.

At last, his vision cleared. The excruciating pain dulled, if only a little.

Slowly, he worked his way from the first tree to the next, then to the one after that, until, finally, he reached level ground. Hands on his hips, he bent over, dragged in long, steadying gulps of air.

Jesus, he was useless.

What folly it had been accepting this assignment.

Alessandra was better off without him. He had just become the worst kind of liability, a warrior without strength, without endurance.

Tanner slid to the ground beside one of the trees, leaned his head back against its rough bark.

But he knew the terrain. He knew in which direction the river lay and how to find a canoe once they reached it. He knew where they’d have the best chance at making a safe crossing. He knew how to forage from the land, if it came to that, and how to use the satphone to signal for a pickup.

His mouth thinned.

And, yes, she knew how to shoot.

So did he.

But there was one big difference.

He knew how to kill.

With a gun. With a knife. With his bare hands, if it came to that. No matter how many times Alessandra Bellini surprised him, he was sure she couldn’t surprise him with that particular set of skills.

She needed him to get her home, especially because he knew one last thing she didn’t.

She didn’t know anything about Bright Star or that what her captors had done to her might be child’s play compared with what the guerrilla forces would do if they got their hands on her.

Maybe he wasn’t good for much anymore, maybe he wasn’t the man he’d once been, but she was all he had. He’d given her his word that he’d keep her safe and either his word still had some meaning or…

Or he really was finished.

Seconds slipped by.

He told himself he had to get up. Move past the pain. Do what he’d done the day he’d been wounded, concentrate not on the pain but on his job.

That time, it had meant getting Kenny Briscoe to the pickup point.

This time, it meant doing that same thing for Alessandra Bellini. Or Alessandra Wilde. And, man, was she touchy about that name.

He almost smiled.

Touchy, but tough.

Years back, in specialized post-BUD/S training, he’d known guys who’d washed out after a couple of days of jungle survival.

She’d come through that with flying colors, same as she’d come through being beaten.

She was tough, but so was he. And now was the time to prove it.

Tanner felt his calf through the camos. He winced. The wounded area hurt like hell, but there was no blood.

That was good.

He felt his ankle. It was tender beneath the high-topped, tightly laced combat boot, but he didn’t think he’d actually broken anything.

That was good, too.

With deliberate care, he got to his feet.

The carry strap lay within easy reach. He grabbed it, checked to make sure neither the canteens or the pot had given up their precious contents. Then he scooped up the stack of young, leafy branches and squinted through the treetops at the sky.

It was late.

Soon, too soon, the sun would set. And he had a lot to do before that happened.

So what if his leg hurt? Despite what he’d told the physiatrist and Chay and Blake and—
be honest for once, Akecheta
—what he’d told himself, it almost always hurt. He’d learned to live with the pain, and now was not the time to abandon that talent or ability, or whatever you wanted to call the lie by which he lived.

A thick, sturdy-looking tree branch lay a couple of feet away.

It would make a perfect cane.

Hell, no.

A walking stick. Not a cane. And not yet. He could always cut one tomorrow.

Tanner drew another deep breath, exhaled, and headed back to camp.

* * *

Alessandra was sitting under one of the palm trees, legs crossed, hands on her knees, the pistol in her lap.

She looked like a woman ready for, and ready to handle, anything.

“It’s me,” he called as he emerged from the trees.

She got to her feet.

“You’re back,” she said, smiling as she rose and came towards him.

He nodded. A welcoming committee of one, he thought, surprised at how good it felt to be greeted with that smile.

“Did you find wa…Hey. Are you limping?”

To lie or not to lie. Hamlet wasn’t the only guy with doubts.

“It’s nothing.” He dumped the branches near one of the trees, unslung the rifle, put down the machete and the water containers. “I slipped in some mud. Nothing to worry about. A night’s rest, I’ll be fine.”

Her gaze flew over him. “I was starting to worry.”

He was surprised at how good hearing that felt, too, and wasn’t that nuts? Loners never wanted welcoming committees or worriers in their lives, and he damned well was a loner.

Besides, he was reading more into things than they deserved.

Of course she was relieved he was back. That was as logical as the fact that she’d been worried.

He was her ticket out of this place. It was only natural she’d have been concerned when he didn’t show up as quickly as she’d thought he would

The last thing she needed to hear was that the man charged with saving her was having trouble saving himself.

“Sorry. It took longer than I figured to find water.” He jerked his head towards the containers he’d dumped beneath the tree.

“But I did.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“I’ll get a fire going. Then I’ll rig us a shelter for the night. We’ll eat after all that is done, but for now, why don’t you find one of those power bars in my backpack and chow down?”

“I’ll wait.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

How about getting naked? Just so I can look at you and think about something other than my damn leg?

“What?”

“Nothing.” His mouth had gone dry. “I mean, I see you found that brush.”

She nodded, smiled and put a hand to her hair.

“I did. I brushed so hard, I think I’m probably bald.”

Bald? Not even close.

Her hair, no longer home to burrs and bits of leaf and twigs, fell in long waves of gold, half a dozen shades of gold, from the pale glow of South Dakota wheat to the sunlit yellow of wild poppies of Afghanistan to the darker richness of
jicote
honey from the forests of Nicaragua.

She was beautiful.

Beyond beautiful.

She was spectacular. She was a woman who’d walk into a room and command instant attention from every man there, all of them wanting her, willing to do whatever it might take to win her.

Not him, of course.

One time, maybe, but he knew better now. Even aside from her predilection for turning animals into fashion statements, she absolutely wasn’t his type.

Unfortunately, his dick didn’t seem to agree.

They were in the middle of hostile territory. She’d been through one hell of a trauma. He was among the barely walking wounded. And yet…

And yet, he wanted her so badly, it hurt.

He had seen the body under the T-shirt and scrubs. The long legs. The slender waist. The rounded hips. He had not seen her breasts, but same as most men, he had one fine imagination. It was more than capable of filling in the details.

And that face.

The lovely bones. The deep blue eyes. The kissable mouth.

And the strength in her. The determination. It was an intriguing combination, the softly feminine exterior laid over that indomitable interior…

“Lieutenant?”

It was probably a damn good thing his head knew that her beauty was only skin-deep. Otherwise, being out here with her, alone, in a situation that made for forced intimacy, he could easily end up taking her to bed—and then what, after he returned her to the real world?

“Lieutenant?”

Tanner blinked, brought her into focus. Her head was tilted; she was looking at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“Is something wrong? You’re staring at me.”

Idiot!

He bent to the backpack, opened it, dug through it.

“Sorry. I was checking to make sure I didn’t miss any cuts when I cleaned you up before.”

“I don’t think you did, but I have to admit, I’d love to get clean. You know. Soap. Hot water…”

She painted a picture he didn’t want to think about. A deep tub. Scented water. Candles. She, naked, lying back in the water, he between her legs…

Man. He was killing himself.

“The best I can offer you,” he said briskly, “is some warm water after supper. Meanwhile…” He burrowed deeper into the pack, as if he didn’t know each and every item it contained. “Let’s see what we have.” He took out the fire starter and, again, the paracord. Then he got to his feet, keeping most of his weight on his good leg. “Fire, first. We don’t have much time until it gets dark.”

She shuddered.

“It’s the one thing I don’t like about the jungle,” she said softly. “How fast night closes down, I mean.”

Night. The two of them in that tiny shelter…

Tanner turned away from her, picked up a branch, squatted down, took out his knife and began slicing off narrow, shallow strips of wood.

“Can I help?”

“No.”

“There must be something I can do.”

“No.”

“But thanks for offering,” she said.

Tanner looked up. Her expression was unreadable, but the folded arms, the fingers tap-tapping, said it all.

Okay. So yes, maybe he was being an idiot.

He nodded at the fire starter. “You can get that for me.”

She plucked the small tool from where he’d left it, handed it over as she knelt beside him. She smelled of vanilla. Of jungle flowers. Impossible. He knew
he
sure as hell didn’t. All this time, making their way through the all-but-impenetrable jungle? She ought to smell like sweat.

“Why are you cutting such strange-looking slivers of wood?”

He cleared his throat.

What he needed was to clear his head. The fire, food, some hot black coffee would do that.

“For kindling,” he said. “They’re called feathersticks.”

“Ah. I get it. You want something that can catch a flame as easily as possible.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed and sat back on her heels. “I’m not much good at making fires.”

“When would you have to be anything at making fires?”

“I have a fireplace in my apartment.” She laughed. “This is in Manhattan, you know? A fireplace is a big thing. It’s what the realtor concentrated on when she showed the place, as if a brick-lined hole in the living room wall was supposed to make me ignore the roaches in the kitchen.”

Roaches? In an apartment lived in by a general’s daughter? Well, why not? Anything was possible. He rented a house in Santa Barbara. Four rooms and a sagging porch, but you could see the ocean from that porch, and he’d once turned around and discovered a fox sharing the view with him.

“So I tried and tried to learn how to build a fire. I even asked Matteo to teach me.”

“Matteo,” Tanner said, without looking at her.

“Luca, too.”

“Luca,” he said. The knife slipped and missed his thumb by an eighth of an inch. He could just picture guys named Matteo and Luca. Tall. Dark. Perfectly groomed. Lots of money. Lots of charm. No stinky sweat coming off them.

“My brothers.”

“Your brothers,” he said, very casually, and if the fucking knife slipped again, he’d be minus a finger.

“Uh-huh.” She poked at a couple of the feathersticks that had fallen too far from the little heap he’d created. “They were huge helps.”

“Matteo and Lucas,” he said, because maybe he’d misunderstood the first time.

“Luc-ah, not Lucas. Yes.” She gave a soft laugh. “They told me to buy those log things. You know, logs that aren’t really logs? You light a match, touch it to the paper and, whoosh, you have a fire.”