Authors: Sara Craven
He tossed the snake’s body into the forest, turned, pointed his machete at her face. “Next time, listen. If you’re interested in living, that is.” He stepped closer, his eyes drilling into hers. “I’m giving you the choice, Sarah. You have to
want
to live.” He pointed his blade to the green abyss behind him. “You have to choose to tackle that jungle with me, or you won’t survive.” He watched her face, allowing his words to sink in. “It’s that simple.”
He turned abruptly, strode back down the beach.
Sarah sank to the sand in a heap. She was at his mercy. Completely. She was dependent on this brute of a man for every aspect of her existence. She felt sick. She reached for the comfort of her cross at her throat…and felt nothing.
Her heart stopped.
She fingered her neck wildly, searching for the delicate gold chain.
It wasn’t there.
The little crucifix she’d worn every single day since she was fourteen years old was gone. It must’ve been ripped from her throat in the river.
Her brain went numb. She clutched her naked neck with both hands. The Congo had stolen her last link to civilization, the last vestige that helped her define her notion of self, of who she was as a human being in this primitive environment, of where she’d come from.
And now this man had stripped her to her very core.
Hunter glanced at the sky. It would be dark within fifteen minutes. Working mechanically, he started packing his gear.
Sarah was sitting in the lengthening shadows at the edge of the beach, silent, watching the river. She had barely moved since he’d told her to get out of the sun and to eat and drink something. She’d obeyed like a zombie. At least she
had
eaten.
And she’d rested. But she hadn’t uttered a word. And the blank look in her eyes bothered him.
He tried to shut out thoughts of her as he worked. But as he scooped his stiff, dry shirt off the rock, he caught sight of the pair of white socks with their little yellow pompoms. His heart gave an odd spasm. He felt terrible. No matter how he tried to shut himself down, he hated the way he’d handled her. But the truth was, he didn’t have a clue how to deal with this woman. Or how to cope with the things she was making him feel.
But Hunter did know one thing. He wanted to bring Sarah Burdett out alive. And for them to succeed, it was absolutely imperative that she obey his orders. And it was essential that she
wanted
to succeed. Because the journey was going to physically challenge every molecule in her body and test the limits of her mind. Without willpower at this point, she quite simply wasn’t going to make it. And if his actions and his words had belied his intent, if they’d spooked her and made her think, so much the better.
Hunter cinched his backpack closed. Gear packed, he scooped up her socks along with her cotton pants. He strode along the beach, held her clothes out to her.
She lifted her eyes slowly. The bruised look in them almost choked him but he said nothing. Neither did she. She just took her clothes, and that’s when he noticed the delicate gold cross that had nestled in the hollow of her throat was missing. He crouched down beside her. “Sarah,” he said gently. “Where’s your crucifix?”
She swallowed and blinked a little too fast. But other than that, she showed no emotion. “Lost it in the river, I guess.” Her voice was flat.
Hunter’s chest tightened. He’d seen what that little gold symbol had meant to her. And he knew the power of symbols, especially in a place like this. In losing her icon, she’d lost a
basic belief in herself. He reached for her hand, covered it with his own. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes cut sharply to his. “Why? What’s it to you, anyway?”
“I understand,” he said simply.
Her brown eyes probed his. “How could a man like you possibly understand?”
Her question forced him momentarily to seek an answer within himself. It pushed him, once again, toward the slippery murk of his past, but he pulled himself back. It would serve no purpose. The answer, his reason for understanding, was not going to help her. She’d lost a trinket that had linked her to her psyche, to who she was as a person, and with it she’d lost her motivation to survive. He knew the signs well. And in this state, she wouldn’t last another day.
What Sarah needed most was a vivid mental picture of herself making it out of the Congo. She had to
believe
she would. She needed faith in herself. And he alone had to give that to her.
He looked away, studied the river, trying to come up with something. It was tougher than he’d thought. He turned back to her. “When you get home, Sarah, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
Her eyes widened. Good, he’d elicited some kind of emotion, even if it was surprise. It bolstered him. He flashed her the warmest smile he could muster and settled back onto the sand beside her, his hand still covering hers. “Think about it, Sarah. Picture it.”
She stared blankly at him.
“I hear Seattle has great coffee,” he offered. “Personally, I could do with an espresso. But I wouldn’t mind trying one of those—what do they call those things—lattes?”
Anger sparked in her eyes. “Don’t patronize me, McBride. How the hell do you know I’m from Seattle, anyway?”
He blinked. “Jeez, Sarah, I’m not trying to patronize. And
I’ve seen your Aid Africa file. They gave it to us after we’d intercepted your distress call.”
Her eyes flickered sharply. “So you know everything about me?”
“Hardly everything.”
She pulled her hand out from under his and looked away.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Okay, you want it straight?”
“Darn right I do. It’s not like you’ve tried to coddle me or anything. And it’s not like I have anything left to lose now.”
He winced. “Ouch. You don’t play fair.”
“And you do?”
He studied her carefully. This woman wasn’t just lost. Something elemental had shifted in her. There was a new rawness, a hint of lost innocence. “Look, Sarah, whatever I’ve done up until now has been purely in the interests of your physical survival. And I’m sorry if I hurt you. I truly am. I’m sorry you’ve lost your crucifix. I think I know what it meant to you—”
She opened her mouth to protest.
He held up his hand. “Hear me out. All I’m trying to do right now is to give you a goal to hang on to, something that’ll pull you through emotionally. You can handle the physical side of this, I don’t doubt that, but not without the right mind-set.”
Her mouth opened slightly. She stared at him, a range of emotions pulling at her features. At least he’d knocked her out of the zombie state. It was a start.
“It’s plain old survival psychology,” he explained. “When people are lost in the wilderness, I mean truly lost with zero hope of rescue, more often than not it’s the thought of home, the memory of a loved one, their children, something like that that pulls them through. People who have survived against ridiculous odds often say they did
it for
someone. For someone
waiting back home.
Home,
Sarah.” He purposefully emphasized the word. “I want you think about Seattle, about home.”
Her jaw tensed. She looked away from him and stared at the river. “I’m not going back to Seattle. It’s not my home anymore.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head, still not looking at him. “A man like you wouldn’t understand.”
A man like him?
There, she’d said it again. What man “like him” had hurt this woman, wrecked her notions of home? Hunter wanted to touch her. He picked up a twig instead, cracked it between his fingers. “Why don’t you try me, Sarah?”
She spun back to face him, her eyes luminous. “It’s none of your damn business, McBride.” She grabbed her socks, started to ram her feet into them. “If you want me to voice a reason to get out of this…” She swiped angrily at a tear that escaped and looked him straight in the eye. “It won’t be for
you.
Or for me. It’ll be for Dr. Regnaud. A man with integrity. A self-sacrificing healer. A man you could
never
match, McBride. And it’ll be for all the staff at the Ishonga clinic. Warm and generous people. People who
care.”
She lifted her chin, but couldn’t hide the husky catch of emotion in her voice. “And in spite of what
you
think, I don’t want the disease in that canister—” she pointed to the biohazard container “—to hurt anyone else like I saw it hurt the patients at the clinic.” She grabbed her runners, shook them out viciously, checking for scorpions. She yanked her shoes over those ridiculous socks and pushed herself to her feet.
She stood over him, legs braced, the sinking sun lighting her from behind, showing the curvy outline of her hips and the lean lines of her legs through the thin cotton of her skirt. The orange glow of the sinking Congo sun spun a halo of burnished fire around curls that had dried into a wild and springy mass. In spite of the situation, in spite of what she was saying, all Hunter
could think at this instant was that she looked unbelievably attractive. And the fire now flashing in her eyes and in her voice lit his soul.
Sarah Burdett had come back to life—and so had his body.
“Believe it or not, McBride, I actually
do
want to stop this thing you told me about.”
Part of him wanted to smile. But he controlled the impulse, leery of making her feel patronized. Because that was the furthest thing from his mind. This woman had just earned his respect. Some people, when you knocked them down, just got up tougher than before. He was beginning to see she was one of them. And it forced him to realize he may have been wrong.
Maybe, despite her naiveté, Sarah Burdett
did
have the goods to take on this jungle.
He got to his feet, came close to her, hooked a knuckle under her jaw, tilted her face so that the setting sun caught the gold flecks in her eyes. “Touché, Sarah,” he said softly. “You’re more woman than meets the eye, do you know that?”
She shivered slightly but didn’t back away, didn’t break eye contact. Her physical reaction to his touch, to him, sparked a shot of unwanted heat into his belly. And this time Hunter didn’t pull away, either. He kept his fingers against her skin, enjoying the softness, the closeness of the contact.
For a second, they just stood like that, embraced by the warm orange light of the sinking sun, separated momentarily from their environment, aware only of each other. It was as if an invisible and tenuous bond was being spun around them, a new level of unspoken understanding.
Sarah’s lips parted slightly as she looked up at him, and Hunter could see a sensual awareness darkening her eyes. A thrill rippled through him and he wanted to pull her into him, feel her curves against him. He wanted to press his mouth over
those warm, soft lips—lips he’d breathed life into only hours ago. But it would be flat-out wrong. This woman was vulnerable. She was also completely dependent on him. And if she was at all attracted to him physically, there was a good chance it was desire born out of the wrong kind of need. He pulled away slightly and a sudden look of nervousness skittered over her features.
“I…I’m not dumb enough to think I don’t need you right now, McBride,” she said softly, her voice layered with a husky thickness that made his stomach swoop. Just the thought of her needing him on
any
level was making him too hot, too hard.
“I’m dependent on you for every aspect of my existence. I know that. I haven’t got a clue how to get myself out of here. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it…and it doesn’t mean you have to be an ass about it.”
He raised a brow.
“And it doesn’t mean you have to try and prove it to me at every opportunity.”
A grin tugged at his lips. Look who was giving it straight now.
“But…” Her eyes flicked away for an instant. “Do we
really
have to go back into the forest tonight? Can’t we wait until morning?” She glanced at the wall of jungle, then at the biohazard container sitting under the palm tree. “We’d move faster in daylight, wouldn’t we? And maybe your people will come looking for us. If we stay out here on the beach, on the river, they’ll have a better chance of finding us. They’ll see us.” A pleading hopefulness lit her eyes. Hope he had to crush.
He sucked in a deep breath. “Sarah, no one is coming. Forget about being rescued. The FDS is not going risk flying a search party around Congo airspace now. They don’t even know if we’re alive. All they do know is that
if we’re
okay, we’ll head for the border. And they’ll be ready and waiting for us there,
in Cameroon.” He allowed his hand to drop from her face and trace down the column of her neck and along the smooth, taut skin of her arm. He encircled her wrist and pulled her gently closer, his body acting separate from his mind.
“We’re on our own. We have to do this ourselves, you and me. There is no other way out.”
She swallowed, her eyes still searching his, as if looking for a lie.
The sun was now a deep blood-orange and dipping behind the trees. The clock was ticking. Time was running out on them, on President Elliot, on the American people. Hunter cupped her cheek. “We
have
to go. Now.”
She stared at him in silence for a long while. “Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s go, then. Let’s get that canister to a lab.” She paused. “I owe it to some very good people.”
And in that instant Hunter felt a stab of something a whole lot different from lust, and with it a primal male urge swelled in him, an urge to protect a woman he was beginning to care about. There was just no way he could think of Sarah as a package anymore. And that, more than anything, unnerved him.
Because it could end up costing them both.
21:00 Alpha. Congo jungle.
Monday, September 22
Hunter adjusted his night-vision gear and swiped away the perspiration on his forehead. They’d been moving uphill along a narrow ridge for the last two hours. There was a sharp drop to the left, and it was hot, hard and careful work. Sarah was panting heavily behind him. She’d lost her footing twice in the last fifteen minutes, taking her shockingly close to the cliff edge. She was tiring and she needed a break.