Midnight Rainbow (12 page)

“Sure,” he agreed lazily. “After all, they're yours.”

She gave him an irritated glance. “They're
ours
. Wait—here's a can of…” She pulled the can out and read the label, then grinned triumphantly. “Smoked salmon! And some crackers. Please take a seat, sir, and we'll have breakfast.”

He obediently sat, then took his knife from his belt and reached for the can of salmon. Jane drew it back, her brows lifted haughtily. “I'll have you know that this is a high-class eating establishment. We do not open our cans with knives!”

“We don't? What do we use, our teeth?”

She lifted her chin at him and searched in the backpack again, finally extracting a can opener. “Listen,” she said, giving the opener to him, “when I escape, I do it in style.”

Taking the opener, he began to open the can of salmon. “So I see. How did you manage to get all of this stuff? I can just see you putting in an order with Turego, collecting what you wanted for an escape.”

Jane chuckled, a rich, husky sound that made him lift his dark gold head from his task. Those piercing yellow eyes lit on her face, watching her as if examining a treasure. She was busy fishing crackers out of the backpack, so she missed the fleeting expression. “It was almost like that. I kept getting these ‘cravings,' though I seldom mentioned them to Turego. I'd just have a word with the cook, and he generally came up with what I wanted. I raided the kitchen or the soldiers' quarters for a little something almost every night.”

“Like that pack?” he queried, eyeing the object in question.

She patted it fondly. “Nice one, isn't it?”

He didn't reply, but there was a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes, as if he were thinking of smiling. They ate the salmon and crackers in companionable silence, with the food washed down by water from Grant's canteen. He ate his granola bar, but Jane decided to save hers for later.

Squatting beside the pack, she took her brush and restored order to her tangled mane of hair, then cleaned her face and hands with a premoistened towelette. “Would you like one?” she asked Grant politely, offering him one of the small packets.

He had been watching her with a stunned sort of amazement, but he took the packet from her hand and tore it open. The small, wet paper had a crisp smell to it, and he felt fresher, cooler, after cleaning his face with it. To his surprise, some of the face black he'd put on before going in after Jane had remained on his skin; he'd probably looked like a devil out of hell, with those streaks on his face.

A familiar sound caught his attention and he turned to look at Jane. A tube of toothpaste lay on the ground beside her, and she was industriously brushing her teeth. As he watched, she spat out the toothpaste, then took a small bottle and tilted it to her mouth, swishing the liquid around, then spitting it out, too. His stunned gaze identified the bottle. For five whole seconds he could only gape at her; then he sat back and began to laugh helplessly. Jane was rinsing her mouth with Perrier water.

J
ANE POUTED FOR A MOMENT
, but it was so good to hear him laugh that after a few seconds she sat back on her heels and simply watched him, smiling a little herself. When he laughed that harsh, scarred face became younger, even beautiful, as the shadows left his eyes. Something caught in her chest, something that hurt and made a curious melting feeling. She wanted to go over and hold him, to make sure that the shadows never touched him again. She scoffed at herself for her absurd sense of protectiveness. If anyone could take care of himself, it was Grant Sullivan. Nor would he welcome any gesture of caring; he'd probably take it as a sexual invitation.

To hide the way she felt, she put her things back into her pack, then turned to eye him questioningly. “Unless you want to use the toothpaste?” she offered.

He was still chuckling. “Thanks, honey, but I have tooth powder and I'll use the water in the canteen. God! Perrier water!”

“Well, I had to have water, but I wasn't able to snitch a canteen,” she explained reasonably. “Believe me, I'd much rather have had a canteen. I had to wrap all the bottles in cloth so they wouldn't clink against each other or break.”

It seemed completely logical to her, but it set him off again. He sat with his shoulders hunched and shaking, holding his head between his hands and laughing until tears streamed down his face. After he had stopped, he brushed
his own teeth, but he kept making little choking noises that told Jane he was still finding the situation extremely funny. She was lighthearted, happy that she had made him laugh.

She felt her blouse and found it stiff, but dry. “You can have your shirt back,” she told him, turning her back to take it off. “Thanks for the loan.”

“Is yours dry?”

“Completely.” She pulled his shirt off and dropped it on her backpack, and hurriedly began to put her blouse on. She had one arm in a sleeve when he swore violently. She jumped, startled, and looked over her shoulder at him.

His face was grim as he strode rapidly over to her. His expression had been bright with laughter only a moment before, but now he looked like a thundercloud. “What happened to your arm?” he snapped, catching her elbow and holding her bruised arm out for his inspection. “Why didn't you tell me you'd hurt yourself?”

Jane tried to grab the blouse and hold it over her bare breasts with her free arm, feeling horribly vulnerable and exposed. She had been trying for a nonchalant manner while changing, but her fragile poise was shattered by his closeness and his utter disregard for her modesty. Her cheeks reddened, and in self-defense she looked down at her badly bruised arm.

“Stop being so modest,” he growled irritably when she fumbled with the blouse. “I told you, I've already seen you without any clothes.” That was embarrassingly true, but it didn't help. She stood very still, her face burning, while he gently examined her arm.

“That's a hell of a bruise, honey. How does your arm feel?”

“It hurts, but I can use it,” she said stiffly.

“How did it happen?”

“In a variety of ways,” she said, trying to hide her embarrassment behind a bright manner. “This bruise right here is where you hit me on the arm after sneaking into my bedroom and scaring me half to death. The big, multicolored one is from falling down that bluff yesterday morning. This little interesting welt is where a limb swung back and caught me—”

“Okay, I get the idea.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry I bruised you, but I didn't know who you were. I'd say we were more than even on that score, anyway, after that kick you gave me.”

Jane's dark chocolate eyes widened with remorse. “I didn't mean to, not really. It was just a reflex. I'd done it before I thought. Are you okay? I mean, I didn't do any permanent damage, did I?”

A small, unwilling grin tugged at his lips as he remembered the torment of arousal he'd been enduring on her account. “No, everything's in working order,” he assured her. His gaze dropped to where she clutched her blouse to her chest, and his clear amber eyes darkened to a color like melted gold. “Couldn't you tell that when we were standing in the stream kissing?”

Jane looked down automatically, then jerked her gaze back up in consternation when she realized where she was looking. “Oh,” she said blankly.

Grant slowly shook his head, staring at her. She was a constant paradox, an unpredictable blend of innocence and contrariness, of surprising prudery and amazing boldness. In no way was she what he'd expected. He was beginning to enjoy every moment he spent with her, but acknowledging that made him wary. It was his responsibility to get her out of Costa Rica, but he would compromise his own effectiveness if he allowed himself to become involved with her. Worrying over her could cloud his judgment. But,
damn, how much could a man stand? He wanted her, and the wanting increased with every moment. In some curious way he felt lighter, happier. She certainly kept him on his toes! He was either laughing at her or contemplating beating her, but he was never bored or impatient in her company. Funny, but he couldn't remember ever laughing with a woman before. Laughter, especially during the past few years, had been in short supply in his life.

A chattering monkey caught his attention, and he looked up. The spots of sunlight darting through the shifting layers of trees reminded him that they were losing traveling time. “Get your blouse on,” he said tersely, swinging away from her to sling his backpack on. He buckled it into place, then swung her pack onto his right shoulder. The rifle was slung over his left shoulder. By that time, Jane had jerked her blouse on and buttoned it up. Rather than stuffing it in her pants, she tied the tails in a knot at her waist as she had with Grant's shirt. He was already starting off through the jungle.

“Grant! Wait!” she called to his back, hurrying after him.

“You'll have to stay with me,” he said unfeelingly, not slackening his pace.

Well, did he think she couldn't? Jane fumed, panting along in his path. She'd show him! And he could darn well act macho and carry both packs if he wanted; she wasn't going to offer to help! But he wasn't acting macho, she realized, and that deflated some of her indignation. He actually was that strong and indefatigable.

Compared to the harrowing day before, the hours passed quietly, without sight of another human being. She followed right on his heels, never complaining about the punishing pace he set, though the heat and humidity were even worse than the day before, if that were possible. There wasn't any
hint of a breeze under the thick, smothering canopy. The air was still and heavy, steamy with an almost palpable thickness. She perspired freely, soaking her clothes and making her long for a real bath. That dousing in the stream the day before had felt refreshing, but didn't really qualify as bathing. Her nose wrinkled. She probably smelled like a goat.

Well, so what, she told herself. If she did, then so did he. In the jungle it was probably required to sweat.

They stopped about midmorning for a break, and Jane tiredly accepted the canteen from him. “Do you have any salt tablets?” she asked. “I think I need one.”

“You don't need salt, honey, you need water. Drink up.”

She drank, then passed the canteen back to him. “It's nearly empty. Let's pour the Perrier into it and chuck the empty bottles.”

He nodded, and they were able to discard three bottles. As he got ready to start out again, Jane asked, “Why are you in such a hurry? Do you think we're being followed?”

“Not followed,” he said tersely. “But they're looking for us, and the slower we move, the better chance they have of finding us.”

“In this?” Jane joked, waving her hand to indicate the enclosing forest. It was difficult to see ten feet in any direction.

“We can't stay in here forever. Don't underrate Turego; he can mobilize a small army to search for us. The minute we show our faces, he'll know it.”

“Something should be done about him,” Jane said strongly. “Surely he's not operating with the sanction of the government?”

“No. Extortion and terrorism are his own little sidelines.
We've known about him, of course, and occasionally fed him what we wanted him to know.”

“We?” Jane asked casually.

His face was immediately shuttered, as cold and blank as a wall. “A figure of speech.” Mentally, he swore at himself for being so careless. She was too sharp to miss anything. Before she could ask any more questions, he began walking again. He didn't want to talk about his past, about what he had been. He wanted to forget it all, even in his dreams.

* * *

A
BOUT NOON THEY STOPPED
to eat, and this time they had to resort to the field rations. After a quick glance at what she was eating, Jane didn't look at it at all, just put it in her mouth and swallowed without allowing herself to taste it too much. It wasn't really that bad; it was just so awfully bland. They each drank a bottle of Perrier, and Jane insisted that they take another yeast pill. A roll of thunder announced the daily downpour, so Grant quickly found them shelter under a rocky outcropping. The opening was partially blocked by bushes, making it a snug little haven.

They sat watching the deluge for a few minutes; then Grant stretched out his long legs, leaning back to prop himself on his elbow. “Explain this business of how your father disinherited you as a form of protection.”

Jane watched a small brown spider pick its way across the ground. “It's very simple,” she said absently. “I wouldn't live with around-the-clock protection the way he wanted, so the next best thing was to remove the incentive for any kidnappers.”

“That sounds a little paranoid, seeing kidnappers behind every tree.”

“Yes,” she agreed, still watching the spider. It finally minced into a crevice in the rock, out of sight, and she
sighed. “He
is
paranoid about it, because he's afraid that next time he wouldn't get me back alive again.”

“Again?” Grant asked sharply, seizing on the implication of her words. “You've been kidnapped before?”

She nodded. “When I was nine years old.”

She made no other comment and he sensed that she wasn't going to elaborate, if given a choice. He wasn't going to allow her that choice. He wanted to know more about her, learn what went on in that unconventional brain. It was new to him, this overwhelming curiosity about a woman; it was almost a compulsion. Despite his relaxed position, tension had tightened his muscles. She was being very matter-of-fact about it, but instinct told him that the kidnapping had played a large part in the formation of the woman she was now. He was on the verge of discovering the hidden layers of her psyche.

“What happened?” he probed, keeping his voice casual.

“Two men kidnapped me after school, took me to an abandoned house and locked me in a closet until Dad paid the ransom.”