Soldier Under Siege Page 10

“Since we met, you’ve made it clear you don’t trust me. And yet...”

  Her cheeks grew pink, but he couldn’t be sure if it was due to embarrassment or the humidity thickening the air. “And yet what?” he pressed, his voice low.

  “You act like you want to go to bed with me,” she murmured. “You would have done it last night, wouldn’t you? If I’d given you the green light?”

  Arousal, hot, thick and relentless, traveled down his body and hardened his cock. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “And that’s what I don’t get.”

  Her naïveté both surprised and appealed to him. “Oh, I see. You think sex and trust go hand in hand.” When she nodded, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, sweetheart, how wrong you are.”

  She frowned. “So you’re saying you don’t need to trust me in order to sleep with me?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Eva fell silent, her gaze shifting from his face to the opening in the branches. She watched the rain hammer the vines and shrubs and decaying matter littering the jungle floor, looking perturbed as her teeth dug into her bottom lip.

  “I couldn’t do that,” she said, her voice soft and distressed. “I can’t sleep with a man I don’t trust.”

  He took a step toward to her, bringing a wary glint to her eyes. “So if I gave you the green light, you would turn me away?”

  Her breath hitched.

  He moved even closer. Only a foot separated them. Her long-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, so he had a clear view of the tight white tank top she wore beneath it. White wasn’t a color you wanted to wear in the rain—in Eva’s case, the wet fabric had become transparent, revealing her flesh-colored bra and the unmistakable puckering of her nipples.

  “You’re turned on,” he said silkily, making no attempt to hide the focus of his gaze.

  “I’m cold. From the rain.”

  “The rain is as hot as the air, sweetheart.” Tate brought his hand to her cheek, enjoying the spark of heat that flared in her eyes.

  His hand took on a life of its own. Even if he’d tried, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from stroking Eva’s smooth skin, from dragging his fingers to her mouth and tracing the seam of her lush lips. He didn’t trust her, but damn, how he wanted her.

  When he eliminated the final inches of distance between them and gripped her slender waist, her blue eyes widened.

  “Tate.” Her voice was throaty, lined with apprehension and...need.

  It was that needy pitch that snapped the last thread of his control.

  With a desperate growl, he took possession of her mouth and kissed her.

  Christ, she tasted so damn good, and her body, lush and supple, felt like sheer heaven pressed against his. Curling one hand over her hip, he raked the other one up her body, grazing the side of one firm breast before traveling higher to cradle the back of her head.

  He came up for air and searched her gaze, satisfied by the glaze of passion he glimpsed. Then he slanted his mouth over hers again and deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue inside without waiting for permission.

  Eva’s moan tickled his lips and quickened his pulse. Her hands clung to his shoulders, her blunt, unpolished fingernails digging into the fabric of his T-shirt and stinging his skin. When their tongues met, shock waves pounded into him, scorched his nerve endings and made him groan in desperation. Shoving his hands underneath her tank top, he stroked her flat belly, then moved higher to cup her breasts over her bra.

  “Tate.” His name left her lips, half a whimper, half a moan.

  He couldn’t remember ever being this hard. Ever wanting a woman this badly. Mindless with lust, he slid his hands out from under her shirt, brought them to her ass and hauled her up against him.

  “Oh, God,” she choked out when her core came in contact with his unmistakable erection.

  Her legs wrapped around his waist, hands clinging to his neck as Tate backed her into the trunk of the tree. Driving the kiss deeper, he rubbed his lower body into hers, thrusting his hips in time to the thrusts of his tongue in her mouth.

  Screw it. Keeping his hands off this woman clearly wasn’t gonna be an option. He craved her on a dark, primal level he couldn’t explain, and nothing short of dying could stop him from claiming her.

  No sooner had the last thought entered his head than his instincts began to hum.

  Tate froze. His mouth lifted, hovering over Eva’s lips.

  “What’s wrong?” she murmured. “Why did you—”

  He pressed his index finger to her lips to silence her.

  Cocking his head, he willed his heartbeat to steady, letting pure instinct take over. The rain had stopped—he’d been so consumed with lust he hadn’t even noticed—but the abrupt silence wasn’t the reason for his raised hackles.

  Very slowly, he set Eva on her feet and peered through the tangled roots that surrounded them like a canopy. He didn’t see anything out of sorts, but his ears compensated for what his eyes couldn’t perceive.

  He heard the same familiar noises that gave life to the jungle—monkeys and birds and insects, clicks and wails and hoots and squawks. Branches snapping and leaves rustling and wind blowing.

  And footsteps.

  “Son of a bitch,” he hissed out, his arm snapping out to grab his rifle.

  “What’s going on?” Eva demanded.

  “We’ve got company.” With a grim look, he propped the rifle up on his shoulder. “Get down on the ground and stay here. Don’t come out unless I tell you.”

  “Tate—”

  Locked and loaded, he slid out and into the open—just as six armed men burst out of the brush.

  They took one look at Tate and started shooting.

  Chapter 8

  As a bullet missed his temple by an inch and a half, Tate hit the ground, rolled and took cover behind a gnarled tree trunk. The telltale rat-tat-tat of an assault rifle echoed in the air. Pieces of bark and branches flew over his head and landed on the ground with sharp smacks. The creatures that called this jungle their home didn’t appreciate the sudden uproar—a chorus of bird cries joined the gunfire and created a deafening cacophony that made it hard for him to hear himself think.

  His attackers were military. San Marquez military, to be precise, but not an elite unit, if their uncoordinated assault and disorganized formation were any indication. Bottom-of-the-totem-pole soldiers, then. Sent to...well, kill him, judging by the next round of bullets that slammed into the tree he’d taken cover behind.

  Gritting his teeth, Tate raised his rifle and ducked out for a second, pulling the trigger to unload a round at his attackers. Two blue-and-gold uniforms went down, lifeless bodies tumbling to the twisted undergrowth. He didn’t have time to high-five himself because the four men he hadn’t hit were closing in on him.

  He popped out again and sprayed bullets until his rifle clicked and emptied. Crap. Spare clips were in his backpack—which was sitting, oh, a yard away, with Eva, in the tree.

  Looked as if he’d have to make do with the pistol. Dropping the rifle, he swiped the H&K from his waistband and took a steadying breath. Two more soldiers had gone down during his last sweep. Two remained, unless there was a second military unit somewhere, ready to attack on command.

  Tate didn’t question why these soldiers had been dispatched. All he knew was that they were a threat. To him. To Eva. And he’d be damned if a bunch of poorly trained grunts took him down before he got his shot at Cruz.

  The gunfire had ceased. Only the sounds of the jungle remained now, to a civilian, anyway.

  To Tate, the presence of the enemy was clear as a cloudless blue sky. Soft breathing, the swish of pant legs as the soldiers attempted to move soundlessly.

  They were nearing the tree.

  Adrenaline spiked in his veins. He tightened his grip on the pistol. Said a prayer. Then burst out from behind the tree—only to get his gun knocked right out of his hand by a soldier who turned out to be much closer than Tate had realized.


  A gun fired, cracked in the air. He felt something hot whiz by his ear, which immediately began to ring, but despite the sudden loss of hearing, his equilibrium wasn’t affected. Grunting, he brought his elbow to the jaw of the man who’d nearly shot his head off.

  The soldier—lanky, black-haired and dark-skinned—made a guttural sound thick with pain and stumbled backward. Tate took advantage and did a leg sweep, knocking the soldier off balance. The man staggered, but before he could fall over, Tate grabbed him by the cuffs of his uniform shirt, spun him around and used him as a human shield.

  The remaining soldier growled with fury as he watched his comrade absorb the impact of the bullets he’d been aiming at Tate.

  “Se va a morir!” the man shouted. You will die.

  Tate kept a steady grip on the dead soldier he still had in a chest lock. “I don’t think so,” he said coolly.

  Before the enemy could react, he whipped the handgun from the holster secured to the lifeless man’s hip and fired at the last surviving soldier.

  He hit his intended mark—the soldier yelled in pain as the bullet sliced into his shoulder.

  Tossing his human shield away, Tate lunged for the remaining man. He knocked the AK-47 out of the soldier’s hand and tackled him to the ground. As the other man cursed and struggled, Tate pinned him down by jamming a knee into his chest and a forearm against his neck.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded, speaking in Spanish so his demand didn’t get lost in translation.

  A pair of brown eyes shot daggers at him. “Screw you” was the harsh reply.

  He bared his teeth in a mocking smile. “You want to live? Then you’d better answer the question.”

  This time he got a wad of spit that splashed his chin.

  “Suit yourself.” With a shrug, he pressed the barrel of his gun to the soldier’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  Silence.

  For a split second, the jungle actually went eerily silent, as if someone had pressed Pause on a heavy-metal CD.

  And then the play button clicked on, and the noise decibel returned to normal.

  When he heard the unmistakable sound of leaves snapping beneath boots, he drew his weapon and bounced to his feet, but it was just Eva, stepping out from behind the long, dangling branches.

  “That was...” Her gaze traveled over the six bodies strewn on the jungle floor. “Efficient.”

  Like Eva, he swept his gaze over the dead soldiers littering the ground. Taking them out had been no difficult feat; military training in San Marquez was far inferior to the rigorous training endured by members of the American armed forces, which was probably why the ULF rebels continued to wreak such havoc on the country—and why the San Marquez government had been relying more and more on its Western allies to help them contain this revolution.

  Tate eyed the dead men again, one by one. Mediocre soldiers, sure, but damn good trackers. Not a surprise, seeing as this jungle was their native turf; they knew every square inch of the place, every leaf, every tree, every vine and speck of dirt.

  “Were they following us the whole time?” Eva asked, her face going pale.

  “They probably picked up our trail back at the road, but they were smart. They must have hung back and covered ground when we camped for the night.” His jaw tensed. “They knew I’d sense them if they got too close, so they waited for a distraction, the right moment to close in.”

  “The rainstorm,” Eva mumbled.

  Suspicion clouded his face as he met her blue eyes. “How did they find us?” he asked in a low voice.

  She blinked. “What? You just said—”

  “I mean, how did they know we were on this island to begin with?”

  Her dark brows drew together. “I don’t know. Maybe someone spotted us at the port.”

  “That’s what I suspect, but that means someone was on the lookout for us. Expecting us to show up.” His eyes narrowed. “Why would anyone be expecting us, sweetheart?”

  Exhaustion washed over her beautiful face. She’d been hugging her own chest since she’d stepped out of the tree, and her hands seemed to curl tighter over her upper arms.

  “Who knew we were coming?” he demanded.

  Her cheeks took on an ashen hue, and she began swallowing repeatedly. “Tate...”

  He fixed her with a deadly glare. “Why were we expected?”

  “I don’t know,” she stammered. Gulp. Gulp.

  He moved even closer. “What’s the matter, Eva? Why do you suddenly look so nervous?”

  “I...”

  Another gulp. Her cheeks grew paler. And then her hands dropped from her chest and he saw the bright spot of crimson on her left sleeve.

  Blood.

  She’d been shot.

  “Tate, I don’t feel—”

  Her sentence died abruptly, and Tate lunged forward just in time to catch her as she fainted.

  * * *

  Someone was holding an open flame to her flesh.

  Or at least, that was the only explanation Eva had for the excruciating burning sensation in her upper arm, for the pulses of hot agony and the feeling that someone was poking a knife underneath her skin.

  When her eyelids fluttered open, she realized that was exactly what was happening.

  Tate was literally digging through her flesh with a pair of tweezers.

  As a wave of nausea scampered up her throat, she passed out like a light.

  When she came to the next time, she got the foggy impression that Tate was threading a needle.

  Cue the black dots flashing in front of her eyes.

  The third time, she managed to stay conscious, which earned her a rueful smile from Tate. “See if you can pass out again, sweetheart. This is gonna hurt.”

  He was right. It did. In fact, it hurt so much she was actually quite stunned that she didn’t pass out. Getting stitched up without a numbing agent was no picnic. Each time the needle sliced into her skin, she experienced a sharp throb and fiery pinch. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t scream in pain. She bit her bottom lip instead, until she tasted the coppery flavor of blood in her mouth.

  Unhinging her jaw, she glanced at Tate’s intense green eyes and croaked out, “Am I going to live?”

  “Yes. Doesn’t seem to be any arterial damage. I got the bullet out and gave you a shot of antibiotics. You’ll have to take a dose every six hours if you want to ward off infection.”

  She felt another painful pinch in her arm, and her stomach rolled.

  Gulping down the rising queasiness, she shifted her gaze skyward and tried to distract herself by counting the veins on a leaf above her head. Tate cleaned and dressed the wound, taped the stark white bandage down with clear tape, and by the time he muttered a quick “All done,” she was close to throwing up.

  Stumbling to her feet only increased the nausea; pins and needles pricked her hands, and her vision grew so blurry she had to blink several times before everything came back into focus.

  “Sit down,” Tate said roughly.

  She drew in a slow breath, not answering him until she managed to fight the overwhelming need to empty the contents of her stomach.

  “No. We should go,” she insisted once the nausea passed. “We don’t know if those soldiers called for backup before—”

  She halted when she noticed that the six bodies were gone. For a second she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe nobody had rushed out of the trees. Maybe the bullet that had slammed into her upper arm while she’d been hiding had come from a rare breed of bullet-shooting monkey or something.

  But no, Tate must have carried her away from the scene of the assault, because the tree they’d sought shelter under was gone, too, and that cluster of sweet-smelling orchids definitely hadn’t been here before.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I know the only reason you didn’t leave me to die back there was because you need my help to find Hector, but I still appreciate it.”

  “That’s not the only r
eason I didn’t leave you.”

  For a second she thought he was implying it had something to do with the kiss. That hot, explosive kiss that had set fire to her body and robbed her of all common sense.

  But the edge to his voice spoke otherwise. As did the suspicion clouding his green eyes.

  Confused, Eva met his gaze head-on. “What is it?” she asked warily.

  He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his cargo pants. “It’s time we finished our conversation.”

  “And what conversation is that?”

  “The one in which you explain why anyone would be expecting me to show my face in San Marquez.” His jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth together. “Who’ve you been in contact with?”

  Shock traveled up her spine and slackened her jaw. “Nobody.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, please don’t give me the wide-eyed innocence routine right now. I just killed six men and then performed jungle surgery on your damn arm when I could’ve just let you die.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she snapped. “Clearly you think I’m responsible for those soldiers ambushing us.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Anger skidded up her spine. “No, I’m not. Obviously someone recognized one of us at the port and tipped off the military. Which makes no sense, because why would the San Marquez military be after either of us? You’re being hunted by our government, and me? I’ve done nothing to piss off San Marquez. Besides, my uncle would never—”

  He cut in sharply. “Your uncle? What are you talking about?”

  “My uncle Miguel. He’s the one who suggested I track you down.”

  The expression on Tate’s face frightened her. So did the way he began pacing in front of her, one fist clenched to his side, the other hovering over the butt of the gun poking out of his waistband. He could draw that weapon in a nanosecond and blow her brains out, and from the rage burning in his eyes, she got the feeling that outcome wasn’t so farfetched.

  “You never told me about this uncle.” He strode toward her, assuming an aggressive stance.

  “It wasn’t important,” she said defensively. “Miguel is my mom’s older brother. He lives in Merido. He had heard the rumors about a man asking about Hector, and he’s the one who told me your name.”