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his expression.
He probed the lining of her purse and stopped. “Here.” He pulled out a razor-sharp-looking pocketknife and slit a seam before working something out with his fingers.
She leaned over his shoulder. “Another one,” she said dully. It was a match to the one on her shoe.
“Want me to check your duffel bags?”
“No.” She waved off his offer, slumping onto the bed, her shoulders hunching.
“You think it’s your father?”
“Who else?”
“Disgruntled boyfriend? Someone who’s unhappy you’re leaving him for so long?” He looked down at her in concern.
She let out a decidedly unladylike snort. “Not hardly. I haven’t even had sex in almost a year.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. Great. Now she sounded like some sort of desperate weirdo.
He bit back a smile. “If it makes you feel better, neither have I.”
Instead of clearing the air, their mutual admission of celibacy thickened it. The condoms on her bed beckoned. Condoms, bed and extended celibacy were a potent combination.
Who would need to know if she made a move on him? She was leaving for San Lucas in less than a month, where the sexual opportunities were probably slim. She’d never been so bold with a total stranger, but he had shown her flashes of gentleness under his tough exterior. “Luc.” His name was strange and wonderful on her tongue as she ran her hand up his muscled forearm to where his bicep met his soft cotton T-shirt.
He stood frozen as a statue, the only movement in his body under his tight zipper. Emboldened, she brushed her palm over his rock-hard pec, his nipple responding instantly. He closed his eyes and shuddered.
“Luc, you feel—”
“Dammit!” His eyes flew open and he caught her wrist.
“What?”
“I feel too good, that’s what. And you’d feel too good under me.” He shoved her hand away from him. “And this is why women are not allowed in Special Forces. Your skin is too smooth, your body is too soft—hell, even that sweet peachy smell coming off your hair is a dangerous distraction.”
“You think I’m a distraction?” Despite his rejection and backhanded compliments, she was pleased.
“I know so.” He pointed a finger at her. “And you don’t need any distractions, either. I will not be hanging around the jungles of San Lucas de la Selva ready to rescue you with my machete in my hand and my knife between my teeth. The only person you can depend on is you.”
“How sad.”
“What?”
“Don’t you depend on your family? Your team?”
“Family will not get you out of a jam if you’re far away, and your team, well…” He looked away for a second. “Sometimes your team is gone and it’s just you.”
“Oh.”
He stared at her. “If you don’t want to do this, back out. But if you want to have at least a fighting chance of taking care of yourself, come with me now.”
“Now?” she squeaked. It was almost one in the morning.
“Oui, now. That Parris Island training is bullshit. You can’t learn anything if you know you’ve got a hot shower and fluffy bed waiting for you at the end of the day. And don’t forget, your papa‘s going to hover over you with his little GPS tracker to make sure you don’t get lost—a real eye in the sky.”
Claire’s lips tightened. In the heat of touching Luc, she’d almost forgotten about that sneaky trick. “What do I need to do?”
“Do everything I tell you.” He pulled out a clean outfit for her and checked every item. “No tracking devices in the things. Get dressed.”
“Okay.” Some impish impulse made her shrug off her robe and stand before him in just her nightgown. He stared at her, his eyes dark and hungry. She started to push one strap off her shoulder when he snapped out of it.
“You, go in the bathroom, you. I’m going to my truck for a bag to pack your stuff.” He hurried out, checking the hall before he left.
He wanted her, she could tell. But discipline was winning over desire.
LUC RUSHED TO HIS TRUCK, his muscles practically quivering from the effort to restrain himself from showing Miss Claire Cook how nice that big bed could be. He leaned his forehead against the frame of his red truck. He was totally crazy in the head, to think going out alone into the field with this woman was a good idea.
Hell, he was totally nuts to have turned her down. Sweet Mam’zelle Claire had practically thrown herself at him, condoms at the ready, and what had he done?
Turned her down. Turned down a sweet-smelling, shiny-haired, pretty lady with full, plump breasts and dark, shadowy nipples that had poked out like his cock when he touched her.
He cursed again. If only he’d had even a few days to go out, have a couple beers, meet some good-looking chicks who were interested in checking out his battle scars in close, personal detail. Maybe the top of his head wouldn’t be about to blow off.
The guys on his team with girlfriends or wives didn’t have this problem. They’d all disappeared into their bedrooms and didn’t come up for air for at least a week.
But no girlfriend or wife for Luc. He’d seen too many relationships wrecked by Special Forces deployments, seen too many of his teammates dumped via e-mail or satellite phone. Green Berets weren’t supposed to cry but he’d seen his teammates break down. Living in some cave ten thousand miles away from everyone you loved gave a “Dear John” knife in the back an extra-deep twist.
Luc wasn’t so smug in his current situation, though. He rubbed his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. He needed to get himself under control or else he’d be making his way through the swamp with his pecker pointing the way.
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” Claire was shouting since Luc had slipped in a CD of loud rock music. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t understand more than a third of the lyrics. The green dashboard lights showed Luc’s hard, set expression as he tapped his truck’s steering wheel in time to the beat.
“South.”
“Oh.” They had left the main road several miles ago and were passing small towns, their lights darkened for the night. “I should call somebody to let them know our plans.” She would need to use his phone, since hers had sported a tracking device, as well.
Luc lowered the stereo volume slightly. “You left two voice mails and a note for your father. I think he’ll be okay. Pissed off, but okay.”
“Yes, I know.” Claire twisted her fingers as she looked around the truck’s interior. She’d practically needed a ladder to climb into it, but the interior was almost as luxurious as her dad’s Euro luxury car—soft leather seats, totally digital controls, a smooth ride. Only her father’s German car didn’t have a gun rack in the back window.
“Where are your guns?” she asked.
“Why you want to know? You gonna shoot me?”
“No, of course not.” She was aghast.
“You might by the time we’re done.” He grinned. “I have a sidearm, a rifle and a shotgun in my bags. All properly unloaded and broken down, of course.” He shot her a look. “You know how to use any of those?”
“Uh, some target shooting. Oh, and my dad took me skeet shooting once but I wasn’t very good at it. The reporters kept distracting me.”
“Election year, huh?”
“Every year is election year when you’re