Wolf (5 page)

* * * *

Fear, Sylvie reflected, was a lot more exhausting than she’d ever realized. Then again, it wasn’t something she was really familiar with. She was sorry she’d done something so stupid as to get her mixed up in whatever it was she was mixed up in. Not that it did any good to tell herself she should’ve known better. Adventure wasn’t for the faint of heart anymore than ‘taking a stand and doing something’ was. Deep down, she was a born coward and she knew it, knew her limitations. She’d tried to find her backbone and look where it had gotten her!

She decided after a few minutes that she wasn’t really sorry she’d let Carl talk her into joining his little group or that she’d caved when they’d begun pestering her to be the pickup. It just wasn’t right that people needed medical help they couldn’t get in their country because they couldn’t afford it.

Maybe she was just that much more susceptible to their plight because of her mother’s illness, but she thought she would’ve empathized regardless.

She might not have willingly fallen in with Carl’s plans, but she would’ve been outraged. She would’ve been willing to stand up and demand that
somebody
do something!

She was too old to do such stupid things, she thought glumly.

Bravery was for the young and stupid who believed they were invincible,
22

untouchable, and immortal!

Like the kids that had captured her and were currently trying to make up their minds whether they most wanted to play soldier or rapists.

She didn’t suppose they were
that
much younger than her, but she knew if she’d met up with them anywhere else under any other circumstance, she would’ve thought of them as kids.

It was hard to think of a 200-pound gorilla as a kid, she reflected, even if he did look like one in the face. She seriously doubted there was a single one of them over the age of twenty-five, and most of the ones she’d gotten a glimpse of looked to be closer to twenty—with hard bodies, hard faces, and hard eyes that had seen way more than most twenty-year-old kids saw, or should see.

Handsome, all American boys—men. They’d gone in as boys. They weren’t boys anymore, regardless of their youth. She needed to remember that. She needed to keep firmly focused on the fact that—in experience, if not age—she was dealing with some seriously dangerous men.

Special Forces, Mac had said. Were they all Special Forces? And if so, what the hell happened? Why was half the base out chasing them? Try though she might, she couldn’t come up with a single theory that sounded plausible for an entire group of Special Forces soldiers to end up imprisoned and considered dangerous enough by the Armed Forces to launch such a full-scale search for them.

Well, the dangerous part she didn’t have trouble with. She might not know a damned thing about the military, but everybody had heard about Special Forces.

An image of Mac’s face formed in her mind. There’d been a wildness in his eyes when she’d first encountered him that had scared the piss out of her, but she didn’t think he was insane. He’d scared her with his threats, too, but he hadn’t made any attempt to reinforce those threats.

Not that she had any desire to test him!

“You ok?”

Sylvie jerked at the sudden question, lifting her head to stare at the stranger now standing in the doorway to the cabin. She nodded numbly instead of pointing out that she wasn’t ok with being a prisoner.

He nodded. “I’m Beau—actually Maurice Beauregard, but everybody just calls me Beau. Sarg sent me to look after you, so if you need anything …?”

Sylvie felt her heart skip a beat, but she wasn’t sure if it was hopefulness that his consideration meant they weren’t a threat to her or if was simply because he’d mentioned Mac—and she wasn’t sure why the mention of him was enough to set her heart to hammering in overtime.

Actually, she suspected why, but she didn’t have any intention of acknowledging it, even to herself.

“Sarg? The one you all call Mac?” she asked hesitantly, not even certain herself why she was pretending she didn’t know exactly who he was referring to.

“Yeah, Mac. He’s the Sarg. Good man! I’d give my right nut … uh … sorry

‘bout that. Ain’t been in mixed company in a while.”

His friendliness didn’t particularly make her less uneasy. In point of fact, it unnerved her more, but she realized it might be her only chance to learn something.

“You’ve … uh … worked with him a lot?”

23

“Sure! Done ….” He paused, obviously jogging his memory. “Six missions with him. He’s gotten us out of a lot of tight spots.”

“Really?” Sylvie asked, interested in spite of herself. “Six? He doesn’t look …

uh ….”

Beau chuckled. “Experience is what counts.”

Sylvie felt her face heating in spite of every effort to curb it, because the minute he mentioned experience, her mind instantly leapt to the memory of being pinned to the bed beneath him. An involuntary shiver skated through her.

Beau’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “I was talkin’ about on the field, sweet pea.

But I ‘spect he’s got plenty of that kind of experience, too. He’s a marine, sweety—we fight hard, work hard, and play hard.”

Sylvie cleared her throat. “My name’s Sylvie—Sylvie Stone. Actually, Sylvia, but I never really liked that.”

“Sylvie,” he repeated in his thick Cajun accent.

It was amazing how much prettier it sounded when he said it.

He crouched in the doorway. “So, tell me, Miss Sylvie—what you wuz doin’ in a bad place like dat, eh?”

Sylvie studied him. “You first.”

His brows rose. All of the humor vanished from his face. “I don’t tink the sarg would like me runnin’ off at de mouth about it,” he responded finally.

His accent got thicker the longer he talked—or maybe because he was agitated?

Clearly, either way, it wasn’t something he was planning on telling her. But was there really any reason not to tell him what he wanted to know? She hadn’t wanted to before because she couldn’t think past her own troubles, but they had far more trouble than she did. It wasn’t likely they were going to narc on her and her friends. “I was supposed to pick up some people,” she said finally. “Carl—he’s a guy I know that has this sort of radical group—had taken some people down to Cuba for medical treatment they couldn’t get in the states. He needed somebody to pick them up and take them home. He knew my stepfather had a boat and he convinced me to sail down and wait for them.”

He looked skeptical.

“That’s all, really.”

“Good ting for us. I doan know about the others but I shore was glad when I see dis boat just sittin’ out dere in the water. I was beginnin’ to think they was gonna catch us again ‘fore we even made it off that fuckin’ island.”

“Beau!”

The growl came from Mac. Sylvie recognized his voice even though she couldn’t see him.

Beau surged to his feet, his expression a mixture of discomfort and resentment. “I was just talkin’ to Sylvie. You din say I wasn’t supposed to.”

Mac stepped to the door and glanced around the room before his gaze settled on her. “You hungry?”

“I’m about to starve stiff,” Beau responded immediately.

Mac rolled his eyes. “Well get in there and find something,” he said irritably and then turned to Sylvie again. “How about you?”

She discovered she was despite the tension in her belly. She nodded and surged to her feet. Mac scanned her attire and looked disgusted.

24

“It’s what you gave me,” she said a little defensively.

He shook his head. “I don’t guess it matters what you wear,” he said a little irritably. “Come on.”

Sylvie didn’t know whether to be flattered or unnerved by his comment, but she moved toward him. He settled a hand along her back at her waist, urging her out. It felt like a firebrand. She felt her skin prickle all over. The urge to outrun his touch, however, died when she discovered there were several men in the main cabin. She immediately felt a counter urge to stay as close to Mac as she could.

Hawk, already seated at the table, watched her like his namesake as she crossed the room, at Mac’s urging and settled across from him. It wasn’t until a noise across the room distracted him, in fact, that he seemed to remember he had a fork in his hand.

Frowning, he focused on his plate—which she saw contained one of the microwavable meals from the stores.

“We’ve got chicken, chicken, chicken, and beef,” Mac said sardonically.

Sylvie felt a flicker of discomfort and irritation at his sarcasm.

“I’ll take another chicken if there’s enough,” Hawk said before she could answer.

“Me, too! This is some good shit!” Cavanaugh said enthusiastically. “Better than the shit we’ve been gettin’, anyway.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Beau said tartly.

Mac sent him a significant look and Beau shrugged. Carrying two, he moved to the table and looked down at Sylvie. After staring back at him blankly for a moment, she finally realized he was waiting for her to move over. She scooted across the seat.

He settled, setting both meals down. “Beef? Or Chicken?”

Considering his comment, Sylvie decided he’d probably prefer the beef. “The chicken’s fine.”

He pushed it toward her. “Bring something to drink when you come, Beau.”

Sylvie heard the rattle of the fridge and then the rattle of bottles. Her stomach knotted when she realized he’d grabbed the case of beer Carl had stocked. Hopefully, however, it wasn’t enough to get them drunk.

“You drink beer?”

Sylvie glanced at Mac. “No. I’ll take water.”

Beau set the case down and headed back into the kitchen area, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of water. Hawk slid around the booth to give the others room and grabbed a bottle of the beer.

“Who’s the beer for?”

Sylvie stiffened. “Carl brought it.”

“Carl your boyfriend?” Hawk asked.

She glanced at him, realizing he was a lot closer than she’d first thought. “He’s just a friend.”

“Your boyfriend don’t mind you take jaunts with old Carl?”

“Why don’t you just ask her if she’s got a boyfriend, dumbass?” Cavanaugh asked with a chuckle.

Hawk shot him a bird. “You got a boyfriend?”

“Knock it off,” Mac said before she could answer.

“Shit, Sarg. We’re just making conversation here,” Beau muttered irritably.

“You’re making her nervous. Let her eat.”

25

On one level, they weren’t. The easygoing conversation between them almost made her forget she was a captive. She could almost imagine herself sitting down in a club or someone’s backyard, just enjoying a little food, a little flirtation, and friendly company.

On another level, they definitely were. It was impossible to ignore the fact that they were hitting on her. Whether they were actually serious or not was another matter, but it was still a little overwhelming to be hit on by so many good-looking men at the same time.

And they
were
good-looking now that she’d settled down enough to notice. It almost went without saying that they were all built like young gods—because they
were
young and in peak physical condition besides. Being young and built well was enough to make them attractive by itself, but it went beyond that. They had nice faces to go with that youth and great build. She doubted any of them had ever had any trouble coaxing a woman into their bed. Even though she was inclined to think Mac the handsomest of the four, the others could give him a run for his money.

Beau was a total flirt and his Cajun accent was just icing on a package that was already dangerously attractive. Cavanaugh had a hint of that same accent and she wondered if they’d known each other before they’d joined the service. That thought led her to another. Every one of them had a southern accent.

Curious coincidence? Or had they all known each other before they’d joined up?

“You’re all from southern states, aren’t you?”

The men looked at each other a little blankly and then shrugged. “Sarg is from Wyoming,” Hawk volunteered.

Sylvie glanced at him in surprise. He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m surrounded by Rebs. They kind of rub off on you.”

She smiled faintly at the admission, but then frowned thoughtfully. “So it’s just a coincidence? You didn’t know each other before you went into the service?”

“Nah,” Cavanaugh responded. “I’m from the mighty state of Mississippi—

Hawk’s a long, tall Texas, and I figure you can guess where Beauregard’s from.”

“Most of the hot spots are hot zones,” Mac responded to the question she hadn’t voiced. “It’s easier to handle the heat when it’s something you’re used to. Then, too, southern boys are just crazy enough to think crawling around on their bellies through mud and getting shot at is a hell lot of fun.”

The ‘southern boys’ grinned.

“Guess that goes for rednecks from Wyoming, too, huh?” Hawk quipped.

Mac sobered. “I guess I thought so when I enlisted.” He nudged his head in a silent command for the others to leave.