The Art of Seduction (33 page)

W
hen the woman came flying over the gate, Mike couldn't have been more surprised—and disappointed. He'd expected to find his men. One, at least. She dropped to the ground, and he thought, that's gonna leave a mark. Then he heard the troops, the gunshots, and didn't think about his decision to help. But she fought him, landing a kick to his shin, and all he could do was drag her.

Out of sight, he gritted, “Stop fighting me, dammit.”

Clancy turned wide eyes toward the voice. An American. Where did he come from?

He didn't give her the chance to ask, moving on long legs, pulling her with him, then paused long enough to toss her unceremoniously over his shoulder and grab something off the ground. Then he was off again, running hard, each jolt punching the air out of her lungs and making her want to puke down the back of his trousers.

“Stop,” she choked. “Stop!”

He didn't.

So she cupped his rear and squeezed. He nearly stumbled. “Stop dammit, please!” she hissed. “I can run.”

Mike set her on her feet.

Clancy pushed hair from her eyes, then reached out when the world tilted. Her hand landed on his hard shoulder. “That was unnecessary. Nice butt, by the way.”

“We have to move.”

She met his gaze and thought
he's huge
. “Who are you?”

“Help?”

“Yeah well, I was doing okay, sorta.”

“If you wanted a bullet in your head, sure. Get moving.”

Clancy was about to bitch when she glanced back and, through the trees, saw troops. She looked at him. All he did was arch a dark brow.

Big, handsome,
and
arrogant? “Lead the way.”

He didn't wait for her, and Clancy struggled to keep up. For a big thing, he was agile, leaping chunks of ground while she raced over it.

“They took my jeep,” she said into the silence.

He glared at her and thumped a finger to his lips. He waded into the water, his machete in his hand as he turned back for her. She held out her hand. He stared at it for a second and she wiggled her fingers, her expression pleading for help. He grabbed her hand, pulled her the last couple feet to the shore. She smacked into him, her nose to his chest.

She met his gaze.
Thank you
, she mouthed exaggeratedly and his lips curved. She had a feeling he didn't do that often. He turned away, kept the steady pace, and she thought, somewhere at the end of this better be a bed and a hot bath, and lots of room service.

No such luck. Just more jungle.

Mike listened for her footsteps instead of looking behind himself. She barely made a sound. What the heck she was doing in jail was something he'd learn later. Right now, getting out of here was essential. He didn't want to be noticed, and pissing off the
Federales
wasn't good any way you looked at it.

When he felt they'd lost the troops, he stopped. She slammed into his back. He twisted, grabbing her before she fell. She was winded, sweating, not unusual in this country, but she looked like a drowned cat. Wisely, he didn't say so.

“Okay, chief, you're gonna have to cut the pace a little.” She bent over, her hands on her knees as she dragged in air.

“It was only a mile.”

“At top speed when it's a hundred ten out here?” She tried to put some force in her words, but it just sounded like whining to Clancy. She hated whiners. “I run five miles, three times a week for years. But you…you'd clean up in the Olympics.”

“Keep up or I leave you behind,” he said coldly, then frowned at the GPS.

Cute and crabby, who knew? “Well, that would just ruin my day,” she bit back.

His gaze flashed to hers. “You want to be a fugitive?”

“No, but I'm still wondering why they wouldn't let me contact the consulate.”

“Maybe because the nearest one is in the capital.”

“You're kidding.”

His frown deepened. “Who arrested you?”

“Some
jefe
…Richora?” His features smoothed and Clancy said, “What?”

“You pissed off the wrong guy, lady. He's corrupt as hell.”

She figured that out easy enough. “Abusive, too.”

Mike just noticed her swollen lip. “Richora won't let this go. This is his jungle.”

Clancy didn't need an explanation. He owned the people, not the land. Richora ruled and she didn't doubt that the smugglers who took her jeep handed it right over to him.

Mike's gaze moved over her slowly and she felt, well…so thoroughly undressed she looked down to see if her clothes had suddenly melted off.

“If they search you, what will they find?”

She cocked her hip. “Tits, ass and a gun.”

Both brows shot up this time.

“What could I be hiding? They killed Fuad, took my jeep and have my good panties and makeup.” She wanted to shout, to really let it loose, but that was just plain stupid. But whispering at him like a mad woman wasn't helping her case either.

Mike grabbed her bag, and since it was still looped around her, the motion pulled her close. He dug in it.

“All you had to do was ask,” she said, yet understood this man didn't ask for anything.

Mike fished and found what he was looking for. He opened her passport. “Grace Murray?”

“Here, teacher.” She grabbed for it.

He held it away, then found her wallet. It was empty except for some cash and a credit card. “No other I.D.? Who are you?”

Clancy just tipped her chin up, refusing to answer, and for a moment, she thought he'd give up till he pulled her close and ran his hands firmly over her body. A little gasp escaped when his hand smoothed between her legs, then up the back of her thighs.

“Shouldn't we date before you get this familiar?”

Mike ignored the sound of her voice, but this close, her words skipped down his spine. His hand slid over her tight little rear and his look went dark as the ocean floor.

“Interesting hiding place.”

His big hand dove down the back of her slacks and pulled out the passport. Inside it was her Virginia driver's license. He took a step back, examining it, then only his gaze shifted. “So Clancy Moira McRae, why two passports? CIA?”

“You know, that's the second time someone's asked me that. What is this area, spy central?”

“Other than intel operatives, people who are dealing in illegal contraband need more than one passport.”

“I'm neither.”

He studied both, then waved one. “This is the fake.”

She grabbed them back. “How did you know?” And did Phil screw it up on purpose?

“I just do.” He inspected her gun, checking the ammo. “Can you even fire this?”

She took it back. “Yes I can, and lay the hell off.” She cocked the slide and pushed it down behind her back. “I'm not your problem.”

“You are right now.”