The Mercenary. Allison Leigh
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look so stricken,” he drawled. “You’re supposed to be a poor Mezcayan native. That doesn’t extend to makeup and suits from Saks.”
T-shirts and jeans for her sister and toys for the children. Books for her father and entertainment magazines for her mother. So many things that she’d collected to take into Mezcaya where she could talk Franco into delivering them for her to their family. She didn’t like thinking of the items as a peace offering, though that may have been part of it. Mostly she had simply thought how much they might enjoy the items that they didn’t ordinarily have. Things they couldn’t obtain, or couldn’t afford.
And now they were all gone. If they weren’t destroyed by the water flooding the plane, they surely had been finished off by the charge that Tyler had set.
She hated the tears that burned behind her eyes and resolutely turned so that she didn’t have to look at him. “Mezcayans don’t arrive at la Fortuna wearing ruined linen suits, either,” she said. His cammies wouldn’t necessarily be out of place, but she’d stick out like a sore thumb.
“It’s a long way from here to la Fortuna. We’ll get clothes.”
But she couldn’t hope to replace the things that had been lost in her suitcase. Not now, not when she’d used the remainder of her meager savings on them. She sighed and furtively dashed away the tears.
She could find another reason for Franco to stop his madness, and she, herself, would begin again. Once she had her career back.
It was that reason she needed to remember. That reason she needed to focus upon. Tyler wasn’t letting anything as minor as a plane crash get in the way of his plans. Neither would she.
“Here.” He tossed a white bundle toward her and it landed on her lap. It was a T-shirt.
“I don’t want to wear your shirt. I want to wear my own shirt.”
“And people in hell want ice water. Your clothes are gone, princess.”
“I am not likely to forget.” The soft fabric crumpled in her fist. “Your clothes are wet, too.”
“So?”
So, naturally, Mr. Macho could stand the discomfort, whereas she, Miss Princess, couldn’t. “Turn around.”
His lips twisted. “On a boat the size of a minute? Come on, M. After all—” his voice dropped hatefully “—we are supposed to be married.”
As he watched her expression go from unbearably sad to angry, Tyler wondered if he’d hit a new low. All he knew was he was glad when Marisa’s eyes went from liquid sadness to hot fury. If she was spitting mad, it was a lot easier to remember that he couldn’t afford to trust her for a second.
If her expression was any indication, it was probably safer for him not to turn his back on her right now. Or he might find himself with a leather-shod foot being planted square in the center of it.
Her lips tightened and she lifted one slender hand to the top gold button on her suit. She flicked it free. And the next. The limp fabric sagged, displaying a narrow wedge of gold-toned curves and a glimpse of shining ivory fabric.
She wore a delicate gold chain. The cross at the base of it was minuscule. Her fingers touched the third button. Her eyes snapped with anger. He almost expected her to do it. To unfasten that third button.
Then she huffed. “Pig.”
He didn’t disagree with her.
She pivoted on her knees, facing away from him. She yanked off the jacket of her suit and swiftly tugged his T-shirt over her head. It caught on what remained of the knot at the back of her head, preventing her from sticking her head through. She muttered under her breath and pulled the shirt off once again to tear the pins out of her hair.
It slowly uncoiled, helped along by the breeze created by the boat as it skimmed the water, and sprang free into a riot of waves. She yanked the shirt over her head and flipped her hair loose.
Then she turned around to face him, her finely shaped features set into defiant lines. “I hope you’re satisfied.” Her accent was more pronounced.
“I’m not even close to being satisfied, M. But when I am, you won’t have any doubts about it.”
Three
Could a person go insane from being cooped in a boat that provided, possibly, eight by three feet of space? Most of which was taken up by a very long-legged, very annoying man?
Marisa thought that she very likely could. It seemed they’d been on the boat for hours, but she knew her sense of time was skewed. At least the T-shirt he’d given her was dry. She wished she could say the same about her slacks, socks and shoes.
Fortunately she was wearing relatively flat leather walking shoes. Unfortunately she didn’t dare remove them lest they shrink as they dried, making her unable to wear them at all.
She pulled her fingers through her hair. It was unforgivably tangled now, thanks to being whipped into a mess by the breeze. She sat in the front of the boat facing Tyler. She caught her hair in her hand and held it down. “Do you—” She stopped to clear her throat. She would not be intimidated by a man, she reminded herself. “Do you really think it was El Jefe who shot at us?”
His hooded eyes studied her. “You tell me.”
She bristled. “I’ve had enough of your implying I had something to do with this.”
“I did more than imply it, M.”
She swallowed. “You really do have quite an opinion of me.”
He didn’t bother to deny it.
“How can you even be sure the plane was shot? Maybe there was something else wrong with it.”
“Believe me, I know.”
Unease rippled through her and she turned to look over her shoulder in the direction they were traveling. The river was still narrow, highly congested in some places with boulders and reed, causing him to slow down to a crawl in order to maneuver the boat.
The small outboard droned on steadily, and though it was a comforting sound after the nightmare on the plane, it still sounded frightfully small in the vast silence around them. She sighed and turned toward him again. “Do you even know where we are?”
“I have a good idea.”
Not that he would share the knowledge with her, she figured. Her head was throbbing and she scooted down more comfortably, stretching out her legs. She was careful to stay well away from him, however.
He leaned over, holding out a canteen. “Here. There’s aspirin in the first-aid kit.”
She hesitated, not sure she liked the way he seemed to read her mind. But common sense overruled, and she took the canteen, then found the packet of aspirin and swallowed them down. The water was cool and blessedly sweet and she wanted to guzzle it right down, but managed to refrain. She replaced the cap and handed it back to him. “Thank you.”
His fingers brushed hers as he took the container and she sat back, rubbing her hand down her thigh.
“Trying to wipe away the germs?” He pulled off the lid and lifted the canteen to his mouth, drinking right where she had done.
Wipe away the tingling charge from his touch was more like it. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” she answered coldly. She shut her eyes. Crashing was exhausting work.
Eventually she felt him moving about in the minimal space in which there was to move. The motor was humming softly but they were doing little more than drifting in the congested water. She could hear him shifting the cargo, but kept her eyes resolutely shut.
When she heard a muttered oath cut short, however, she couldn’t help but look to see what he was doing. He was sitting there, uncommonly still, head bowed, arms braced. Then he lifted his head, and she hastily closed