Enamored. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
she faltered, her eyes helpless on his angry face as he bent over her. “I hit…something. Diego, those men, are we far enough away…?”
“For the moment, yes,” he said shortly. “Until they get reinforcements, at least. Melissa, I told you not to go riding alone, did I not?” he demanded.
His eyes were black, and she thought she’d never really seen him before. Not the real man under the lazy good humor, the patient indulgence. This man was a stranger. The mercenary her father had told her about. The unmasked man.
“Where are your men?” she asked huskily, her body becoming rigid as his lean fingers went to the front of her blouse and started to unbutton it. “Diego, no!” she burst out in embarrassment.
He glowered at her. “The bleeding has to be stopped,” he said curtly. “This is no time for outraged modesty. Lie still.”
While the wind whispered through the tall trees, she fought silently, but he moved her hands aside with growing impatience and peeled the blouse away from the flimsy bra she was wearing. His black eyes made one soft foray over the transparent material covering her firm, young breasts, and then glanced at her shoulder, which was scratched and bleeding.
“We are cut off,” he muttered. “I made the mistake of assuming a few rounds would frighten off a guerrilla who was scouting the area around my cattle pens. He left, but only to come back with a dozen or so of his amigos. Apollo and the rest of my men are at the casa, trying to hold them off until Semson can get the government troops to assist them. Like a fool, I allowed myself to be cut off from the others and pursued.”
“I suppose you’d have made it back except for me,” she murmured quietly, her pale gray eyes apologetic as she looked up at him.
“Will you never learn to listen?” he asked coldly. He had his handkerchief at the scraped places now and was soothing away the blood. He grimaced. “This will need attention. It’s a miracle that your breast escaped severe damage, niña, although it is badly bruised.”
She flushed, averting her eyes from his scrutiny. Very likely, a woman’s naked body held no mysteries for Diego, but Melissa had never been seen unclad by a man.
Diego ignored her embarrassment, spreading the handkerchief over the abrasions and refastening her blouse to hold it in place. Nothing of what he was feeling showed in his expression, but the sight of her untouched, perfect young body was making him ache unpleasantly. Until now it had been possible to think of Melissa as a child. But after tonight, he’d never be able to think of her that way again. It was going to complicate his life, he was certain of it. “We must get to higher ground, and quickly. I scattered them, but depend on it, they will be back.” He helped her up. “Can you walk?”
“Of course,” she said unsteadily, her eyes wide and curious as she looked at the small, bulky weapon he scooped up from the ground. He had a cartridge belt around his shoulder, over his white shirt.
“An Uzi,” he told her, ignoring her fascination. “An automatic weapon of Israeli design. Thank God I listened to my old instincts and carried it with me this afternoon, or I would already be dead. I am deeply sorry that you had to see what happened, little one, but if I had not fired back at them…”
“I know that,” she said. She glanced at him, then away, as he led her deeper into the jungle. “Diego, my father told me what you used to do for a living.”
He stopped and turned around, his black eyes intent on hers because he needed to know her reaction to the discovery. He searched her expression, but there was no contempt, no horror, no shock. “To discourage you, I presume, from any deeper relationship with me?” he asked unexpectedly.
She blushed and lowered her gaze. “I guess I’ve been pretty transparent all the way around,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t realize everybody knew what a fool I was making of myself.”
“I am thirty-five years old,” he said quietly. “And women have been, forgive me, a permissible vice. Your face is expressive, Melissa, and your innocence makes you all the more vulnerable. But I would hardly call you a fool for feeling an—” he hesitated over the word “—attraction. But this is not the time to discuss it. Come, pequeña, we must find cover. We have little time.”
It was hard going. The jungle growth of vines and underbrush was thick, and Diego had only his knife, not a machete. He was careful to leave no visible trace of the path they made, but the men following them were likely to be experienced trackers. Melissa knew she should be afraid, but being with Diego made fear impossible. She knew that he’d protect her, no matter what. And despite the danger, just being with him was sheer delight.
She watched the muscles in his lean, fit body ripple as he moved aside the clinging vines for her. Once, his dark eyes caught hers as she was going under his arm, and they fell on her mouth with an expression that made her blood run wild through her veins. It was only a moment in time, but the flare of awareness made her clumsy and self-conscious. She remembered all too well the feel of his hard fingers on her soft skin as he’d removed the blood and bandaged the scrapes. She thought of the time ahead, because darkness would come soon. Would they stay in the jungle overnight? And would he hold her in the night, safe in his arms, against his warm body? She trembled at the delicious image, already feeling the muscles of his arms closing around her.
He paused to look at the compass in the handle of his knife, checking his bearings.
“There are ruins very near here,” he murmured. “With luck, we should be able to get to them before dark.” He looked up at the skies, which were darkening with the threat of a storm. “Rain clouds,” he mused. “We shall more than likely be drenched before we reach cover. Your father is not at home, I assume?”
“No,” she said miserably. “He’ll be worried sick. And furious.”
“Murderously so, I imagine,” he said with an irritated sigh. “Oh, Melissa, what a situation your impulsive nature has created for us.”
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “Really I am.”
He lifted his head and stared down into her face with something like arrogance. “Are you? To be alone with me like this? Are you really sorry, querida?” he asked, and his voice was like velvet, deep and soft and tender.
Her lips parted as she tried to answer him, but she was trembling with nervous pleasure. Her gray eyes slid over his face like loving hands.
“An unfair question,” he murmured. “When I can see the answer. Come.”
He turned away from her, his body rippling with desire for her. He was too hot-blooded not to feel it when he looked at her slender body, her sweet innocence like a seductive garment around her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman, but to give in to his feelings would be to place himself at the mercy of her father’s retribution. He was already concerned about how it would look if they were forced to bed down in the ruins. Apollo and the others would come looking for him, but the rain would wash away the tracks and slow them down, and the guerrillas would be in hot pursuit, as well. He sighed. It was going to be difficult, whichever way they went.
The rain came before they got much farther, drenching them in wet warmth. Melissa felt her hair plastered against her scalp, her clothing sticking to her like glue. Her jeans and boots were soaked, her shirt literally transparent as it dripped in the pounding rain.
Diego’s black hair was like a skullcap, and his very Spanish features were more prominent now, his olive complexion and black eyes making him look faintly pagan. He had Mayan blood as well as Spanish because of the intermarriage of his Madrid-born grandparents with native Guatemalans. His high cheekbones hinted at his Indian ancestry, just as his straight nose and thin, sensual lips denoted his Spanish heritage. Watching him, Melissa wondered where he had inherited his height, because he was as tall as her British father.
“There,” he said suddenly, and they came to a clearing where a Mayan temple sat like a gray sentinel in the green jungle. It was only partially standing, but at least one part of