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Jane closed her eyes, searching desperately for some way of convincing him of her identity. None came to mind, and she had no identification with her. Turego had taken her passport, so she didn’t have even that. “Well, what about you?” she blurted in sudden fury. She’d taken a lot from him, endured without complaining, and now he’d frightened her half out of her mind. She’d had her back to the wall before, and had learned to strike back. “Who are you? How do I know that Dad hired you? If he did why didn’t you know that no one ever calls me Priscilla? You were sloppy with your homework!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, honey, I’m the one on top. You answer my questions.”
“I did, and you didn’t believe me,” she snapped. “Sorry, but I don’t have my American Express card with me. For God’s sake, do I look like a terrorist? You nearly broke my arm; then you knocked me out. You’ve bounced me on the ground like a rubber ball, and you’ve got the utter gall to act like I’m dangerous? My goodness, you’d better search me, too, so you’ll be able to sleep tonight. Who knows? I might have a bazooka strapped to my leg, since I’m such a dangerous character!” Her voice had risen furiously, and he cut her off by resting all his weight on her ribcage. When she gasped, he eased up again.
“No, you’re unarmed. I’ve already had your clothes off, remember?” Even in the darkness, Jane blushed at the memory, thinking of the way he’d kissed her and touched her, and how his hands on her body had made her feel. He moved slowly against her, stopping her breath this time with the suggestive intimacy of his movements. His warm breath stirred her hair as he dipped his head closer to her. “But I wouldn’t want to disappoint a lady. If you want to be searched, I’ll oblige you. I wouldn’t mind giving you a body search.”
Fuming, Jane tried again to free her hands, but finally fell back in disgust at the futile action. Raw frustration finally cleared her mind, giving her an idea, and she said harshly, “Did you go in the house when Dad hired you?”
He was still, and she sensed his sudden increase of interest. “Yes.”
“Did you go in the study?”
“Yes.”
“Then a hotshot like you would have noticed the portrait over the mantle. You’re trained to notice things, aren’t you? The portrait is of my grandmother, Dad’s mother. She was painted sitting down, with a single rose on her lap. Now, you tell me what color her gown was,” she challenged.
“Black,” he said slowly. “And the rose was blood red.”
Thick silence fell between them; then he released her hands and eased his weight from her. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—”
“Well, gee, thanks!” Huffily she rubbed her wrists, trying to keep her anger alive in the face of the enormous relief that filled her. Evidently her father had hired him, for otherwise how could he have seen the portrait in the study? She wanted to remain mad at him, but she knew she would forgive him because it was still dark. In spite of everything she was terribly glad he was there. Besides, she told herself cautiously, it was definitely better to stay on this man’s good side.
“Don’t thank me,” he said tiredly. “Just be quiet and go to sleep.”
Sleep! If only she could! Consciously, she knew she wasn’t alone, but her subconscious mind required additional affirmation from her senses. She needed to see him, hear him, or touch him. Seeing him was out of the question; she doubted he’d leave a flashlight burning all night, even assuming he had one. Nor would he stay awake all night talking to her. Perhaps, if she just barely touched him, he’d think it was an accident and not make a big deal out of it. Stealthily she moved her right hand until the backs of her fingers just barely brushed his hairy forearm—and immediately her wrist was seized in that bruising grip again.
“Ouch!” she yelped, and his fingers loosened.
“Okay, what is it this time?” His tone showed plainly that he was at the end of his patience.
“I just wanted to touch you,” Jane admitted, too tired now to care what he thought, “so I’ll know I’m not alone.”
He grunted. “All right. It looks like that’s the only way I’m going to get any sleep.” He moved his hand, sliding his rough palm against hers, and twined their fingers together. “Now will you go to sleep?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
She lay there, enormously and inexplicably comforted by the touch of that hard hand, so warm and strong. Her eyes slowly closed, and she gradually relaxed. The night terrors didn’t come. He kept them firmly at bay with the strong, steady clasp of his hand around hers. Everything was going to be all right. Another wave of exhaustion swept over her, and she was asleep with the suddenness of a light turning off.
Grant woke before dawn, his senses instantly alert. He knew where he was, and he knew what time it was; his uncanny sixth sense could pinpoint the time within a few minutes. The normal night sounds of the jungle told him that they were safe, that there was no other human nearby. He knew immediately the identity of the other person in the tent with him. He knew that he couldn’t move, and he even knew why: Jane was asleep on top of him.
He really didn’t mind being used as a bed. She was soft and warm, and there was a female smell to her that made his nostrils f
lare in appreciation. The softness of her breasts against him felt good. That special, unmistakable softness never left a man’s mind, hovering forever in his memory once he’d felt the fullness of a woman against him. It had been a long time since he’d slept with a woman, and he’d forgotten how good it could feel. He’d had sex—finding an available woman was no problem—but those encounters had been casual, just for the sake of the physical act. Once it was finished, he hadn’t been inclined to linger. This past year, especially, he’d been disinclined to tolerate anyone else’s presence. He’d spent a lot of time alone, like an injured animal licking its wounds; his mind and his soul had been filled with death. He’d spent so much time in the shadows that he didn’t know if he’d ever find the sunlight again, but he’d been trying. The sweet, hot Tennessee sun had healed his body, but there was still an icy darkness in his mind.
Given that, given his acute awareness of his surroundings, even in sleep, how had Jane gotten on top of him without waking him? This was the second time she’d gotten close to him without disturbing him, and he didn’t like it. A year ago, she couldn’t have twitched without alerting him.
She moved then, sighing a little in her sleep. One of her arms was around his neck, her face pressed into his chest, her warm breath stirring the curls of hair in the low neckline of his undershirt. She lay on him as bonelessly as a cat, her soft body conforming to the hard contours of his. Her legs were tangled with his, her hair draped across his bare shoulder and arm. His body hardened despite his almost savage irritation with himself, and slowly his arms came up to hold her, his hands sliding over her supple back. He could have her if he wanted her. The highly specialized training he’d received had taught him how to deal excruciating pain to another human being, but a side benefit to that knowledge was that he also knew how to give pleasure. He knew all the tender, sensitive places of her body, knew how to excite nerves that she probably didn’t even know she had. Beyond that, he knew how to control his own responses, how to prolong a sensual encounter until his partner had been completely satisfied.
The sure knowledge that he could have her ate at him, filling his mind with images and sensations. Within ten minutes he could have her begging him for it, and he’d be inside her, clasped by those long, sleek, dancer’s legs. The only thing that stopped him was the almost childlike trust with which she slept curled on top of him. She slept as if she felt utterly safe, as if he could protect her from anything. Trust. His life had been short on trust for so many years that it startled him to find someone who could trust so easily and completely. He was uncomfortable with it, but at the same time it felt good, almost as good as her body in his arms. So he lay there staring into the darkness, holding her as she slept, the bitter blackness of his thoughts contrasting with the warm, elusive sweetness of two bodies pressed together in quiet rest.
When the first faint light began to filter through the trees, he shifted his hand to her shoulder and shook her lightly. “Jane, wake up.”
She muttered something unintelligible and burrowed against him, hiding her face against his neck. He shifted gently to his side, easing her onto the blanket. Her arms still hung around his neck, and she tightened her grip as if afraid of falling. “Wait! Don’t go,” she said urgently, and the sound of her own voice woke her. She opened her eyes, blinking owlishly at him. “Oh. Is it morning?”
“Yes, it’s morning. Do you think you could let me up?”
Confused, she stared at him, then seemed to realize that she was still clinging around his neck. She dropped her arms as if scalded, and though the light was too dim for him to be certain, he thought that her cheeks darkened with a blush. “I’m sorry,” she apologized.
