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He tossed away the entrails and began scraping the insides of the pelts. They would come in handy later.
The fur was warm and he could always use it to make Rusty—Rusty. Her again. Couldn’t he think of anything else? Did his every single thought have to come full circle back to her? At what point had they become a pair as inseparable as Adam and Eve? Couldn’t he think of one without thinking immediately of the other?
He remembered the first thought that had registered when he regained consciousness. Her face, alluringly framed in that tumble of russet curls, had been bending over him, and he’d thought of the vilest obscenity the marine corps had ever coined and came just short of saying it out loud.
He’d been glad to be alive—but barely. He had thought he’d be better off dead rather than having to put up with this airhead swathed in expensive fur and sexy perfume. In the wilderness she wouldn’t stand a marshmallow’s chance at a bonfire. He’d figured that before it was over, he’d probably have to kill her to put them both out of their misery.
That was an unsettling and unappetizing thought, but he had been forced to do worse in order to save his own life in Nam. The plane crash had caused him to automatically revert to the law of the jungle, to slip back into the role of survivor.
Rule number one: You either killed or got killed. You stayed alive no matter what it cost. The survival tactics taught to the army’s special services knew no conscience. You did whatever was necessary to live one more day, one more hour, one more minute. He had been steeped in that doctrine and had practiced it more times than he wanted to remember—but too many times to let him forget.
But the woman had surprised him. That leg injury had caused her a great deal of pain, but she hadn’t whined about it. She hadn’t nagged him about being hungry and thirsty and cold and scared, although God knew she must have been. She’d been a tough little nut and she hadn’t cracked yet. Unless things got drastically worse, he doubted now that she would.
Of course that left him with a whole new set of problems. Few people had ever won his admiration. He didn’t want to admire Rusty Carlson, but found himself doing so.
He was also coming to acknowledge that he was stranded in the middle of nowhere with a tempting piece of womanhood, and that they might be alone and dependent on each other for a long time.
The demons who had guided his fate were having a huge laugh at his expense this time. They’d run amok many times in the past, but this was the clincher. This was the big punch line that had made his whole life a joke.
Traditionally, he despised women like Rusty Carlson. He had no use for wealthy, silly, superficial society broads who’d been born with silver spoons in their mouths. They didn’t know, or want to know, about anything outside their gilded cages. Wasn’t it just his luck to draw one who had earned his grudging respect by bearing up under the worst of circumstances?
But even that wasn’t enough for the malicious gods. She could have been a silly society broad who wouldn’t have given a warthog any competition in the looks department. She could have had a voice that would shatter glass.
Instead, the fates had forced on him a woman who looked like a dream. Surely the devil had designed her. Temptation incarnate. With cinnamon-colored hair a man could wrap himself in and nipples that looked so sweet they must taste like candy. Her voice would melt butter. That’s what he thought about every time she spoke.
What a cruel joke. Because he would not touch her. Never. He’d been down that road. Women like her followed vogue. Not only in clothes; in everything. When he’d met Melody it had been fashionable to love a veteran. She had, until it became convenient not to.
Scratch the silky surface of Rusty Carlson and you’d find another Melody. Rusty was only sucking up to him now because she depended on him for her survival. She looked like a tasty morsel, but inside she was probably as rotten and devious as Melody had been.
Slinging the rabbit pelts over his shoulder and folding the meat in a cloth, he headed back toward their camp. She wasn’t going to get to him. He couldn’t afford to start feeling soft toward her. Last night he’d let her cry because he felt that she deserved one good, cleansing cry. But no more. He’d held her during the night because it was necessary for them to keep warm. But he would keep his distance from now on. Once the shelter was built, they wouldn’t have to sleep together like that. He wouldn’t have to endure any more nights with her curled against his front and her bottom cushioning his involuntary reaction to her.
Stop thinking about it, he told himself. Forget how smooth her belly felt beneath your hand. Forget the shape of her breasts and the color of the hair between her thighs.
Groaning, he thrashed through the woods, viciously determined to keep his thoughts on track. As soon as he built the shelter, such close proximity wouldn’t be necessary. He would keep his eyes and his hands—
The piercing scream brought him up short.
If he’d walked into an invisible wall, he couldn’t have stopped more abruptly. When Rusty’s next scream rent the stillness, he instinctively slipped into the role of jungle fighter as easily as well-greased gears fitting into their notches. Silently, he slithered through the trees in the direction of her scream, knife drawn and teeth bared.
“Who...who are you?” Rusty’s hand was gripping her own throat, where her pulse was beating wildly.
The man’s bearded face split into a wide grin. He turned his head and said, “Hey, Pa, she wants to know who I am.”
Chuckling, another man, an older version of the first, stepped out from between the trees. The two gaped at Rusty. Both had small, dark eyes embedded in deep sockets.
“We could ask you the same question,” the older one said. “Who are you, little girl?”
“I...I...I survived the airplane crash.” They gazed back at her with perplexity. “You didn’t know about the crash?”
“Can’t say that we did.”
She pointed with a shaking finger. “Back there. Two days ago. Five men were killed. My leg was injured.” She indicated the crutches.
“Any more women?”
Before she could answer, Cooper lunged up behind the older of the two men and laid the gleaming blade of his knife against the whiskered throat. He grasped the man’s arm, twisted it behind him and shoved his hand up between his shoulder blades. The man’s hunting rifle clattered to the ground at his feet.
“Move away from her or I’ll kill him,” he said to the stunned younger man.
