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“It’s a small world,” Tanner said flatly. “Evidently, somebody at the coalition knew you and the general are related. He got in touch with State, and a guy at State contacted your father. Take off the shirt, Ms. Wilde.”
“It’s Bellini. And they wasted their time. My father isn’t terribly interested in my branch of the family.”
The lieutenant sat back on his heels. His expression was stony.
“Your problems with your old man aren’t my worry. He wants you back in one piece. That’s why I’m here. And we’re wasting time. Get that shirt off.”
Alessandra glared at the man sent to bring her home. No wonder he was so pissed off.
“You’re here,” she said sharply, “because you’re the general’s lackey. He says jump, you—dammit! Let go!”
Tanner’s hands were hard on her shoulders, his eyes hot with rage as they burned into hers.
“I don’t jump for any man,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I’m here because I wanted to be.”
“Right. And I’m here because I couldn’t get a reservation at the Ritz.”
“You’re here because you’re a spoiled little girl with too much money and too little to keep you busy, and maybe some guys like to play your game, but I’m sure as hell not one of them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“All you have to know is that I’m responsible for you until we’re back in the States, and that means you’ll do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. Clear?”
“What’s clear,” Alessandra said furiously, “is that you’re not just the general’s flunky you’re also a brainless, muscle-bound bully.”
“I’m going to count to three. If you haven’t taken that shirt off by then, I’ll do it for you.”
“You wait until we’re back home, Lieutenant. You just wait.”
“One.”
“I’ll file charges that will write finito to your cushioned career.”
“It’s cushy, not cushioned. Two.”
Crazy as she knew it was, him correcting her English made her even angrier. She spoke perfect English. Everybody said so. The only time it slipped was when she was upset, really upset, and, goddammit, how could she let this—this lapdog of her father’s upset her?
Except, he couldn’t be a lapdog.
It wasn’t possible to think of him taking orders or even sitting in an office, and what did any of that matter?
What did anything matter, except surviving this nightmare and getting home?
Besides, he was right.
She was a mass of bites and scratches and cuts, and even though she’d had to take a zillion different vaccinations just to come to San Escobal, the coalition had still given her an endless stack of documents to read, most of them about the dangers of botfly bites and killer bee attacks and, worst of all, infections.
“Three,” he said grimly.
Alessandra twisted free of his hands, turned her back and yanked the shirt over her head.
“Do what you have to do,” she said, just as grimly, “and be quick about it.”
* * *
He was quick and he was efficient, and there was nothing in the way he touched her or looked at her that made this anything but the wound assessment he’d called it.
She held her crumpled, filthy shirt against her breasts while he eyeballed her shoulders and back.
