Hot Soldier Down Page 2

  “Where am I?” he mumbled.

  “In a hospital in St. George, Gavarone.”

  Gavarone.

  A jumble of images flooded his head almost too fast to process. Rebels. Revolution. Reconnaissance. The jungle. His guys. A helicopter. “Where are my--?”

  She pressed her fingers against his lips hastily and whispered, “Hush. No one here but me knows your…occupation.”

  Alarm roared through him. How did she know who the hell he was?

  She continued, “Your…friends…are safe. They visit when they can.”

  His men came here? To see him? What the hell? “Why didn’t everyone leave?” He frowned, trying to fill in the blanks. “I remember a helicopter…”

  A shadow crossed the woman’s face.

  “…It was supposed to take us out. Fly us to—” He broke off. Jesus. They must really have him drugged up. He’d almost divulged classified information.

  He lurched, or at least tried to lurch, upright. If this woman actually worked for the Gavronese government, was she some sort of seductive interrogator taking advantage of his confused mental state? Had he just compromised himself? Or worse: his team? Holy shit.

  “How did I get here?” he ground out.

  “I drove you here in my car.”

  Her car? So. She was a local. God damn it. “What happened to me?”

  “What do you remember?”

  Dangerous question. Probing for information. “Not much,” he answered cautiously.

  He did remember crawling through some of the thickest jungle he’d ever had the misfortune of working in. A tiny clearing. His guys riding up a steel cable into a helicopter. Somebody chasing them. No, a lot of people chasing them. The memory stopped.

  The woman was giving him a funny look. Oops. Better distract her. He asked, “What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

  “You have a number of broken bones. Three cracked ribs, both your legs fractured, your left arm broken. That was your most serious break. They had to do surgery to set it. Both bones in your forearm had to be pinned. But you’ve been unconscious for a while. The pins can come out in a couple of weeks.”

  Just how long had he been out for the count?

  She continued her grisly inventory. “Your jaw was fractured, right collarbone broken. You had terrible cuts all over the place, but they’re healing. I have no idea how many stitches it took to sew your hide back together. Thousands, if I had to guess.”

  His stomach sank. He’d never been a particularly vain man, but he didn’t relish looking like Quasimodo.

  She was talking on, oblivious to his distress. “…but I insisted on a good plastic surgeon to stitch you up. You shouldn’t get too many new scars out of it.”

  Fuck. She said that like she’d seen his old scars.

  “Anything else busted?” he asked cautiously.

  “One of your kidneys ruptured, but it’s stopped hemorrhaging. The doctors say it’s all right, now. I think you broke a couple fingers, too, but I lost track.”

  Maybe she should just list the things that weren’t broken. “How long have I been here?”

  “Forty-five days.”

  “What?” Disorientation swirled around him. Six-and-a-half weeks? All he remembered were a few snatches of consciousness. Mostly of this woman standing watch over him and promising to make the pain go away.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Going on where?” she asked cautiously. Too cautiously. If his hackles weren’t already standing on end, that tone in her voice would have put them there.

  He infused his voice with as much casual unconcern as he could muster. “You know, in Gavarone.”

  She smiled. “Why don’t you get a little more of your strength back before you dive into Gavronese politics?”

  “Is there war?”

  Her features tightened, grew serious. “Not yet.”

  “But it’s close.”

  She nodded. “Very.”

  He nodded. “Then you’re right. I will need my strength to get out of the country. By the way. Is there something to eat around here? I’m starving.”

  She laughed. “I’ll go see what you’re allowed to have.”

  “Just bring me some real food.” And he would pray it wasn’t drugged. But his stomach was gnawing a hole in his damned spine.

  He tried to stay awake until she returned. He really did. But the medications still coursing through his system called to him. He drifted off, cursing himself for his weakness as he passed out, wondering if she would be there when he woke up.

  SHE WAS. Sleeping in the chair beside his bed. The room was mostly dark. A small lamp burned on the table beside his head. He smiled at the picture she made, her feet tucked up on the seat, her head resting on her arm. She was pretty, her features soft over sculpted bones. No wonder he mistook her for an angel when he first swam toward consciousness.

  Who was she? A jailor? His interrogator? A babysitter? He had to assume she was a threat until she proved otherwise. He’d infiltrated Gavarone illegally and was still here illegally under a false identity. How his papers had held up long enough to get him into a hospital, he had no idea. Maybe the chaos of impending revolution.

  He caught sight of a water glass and tried to reach for it. Da hell? His left arm weighed a ton. He noticed that it was encased in a plaster cast. Huh. That was new. He hoped it signaled progress in his healing.

  The woman awoke with a jerk. She looked around for a second, as if trying to place where she was. He knew the feeling. A guy with a job like his woke up that way a lot.

  She smiled at him sleepily. Her golden hair stuck out messily, like she’d just had great sex. If only. “Hi, Tom.”

  Warning lights flashed wildly and alarm bells clanged in his head. How in the hell did she know his real name? Like all the Blackjacks, he carried a fake I.D. when he was in the field.

  “Who are you?”

  She came over to his bed and bent down over him, a silky strand of her hair hanging down over her shoulder and threatening to tickle his nose. She murmured quickly under her breath, “My name is Ann O’Donnell. Most people call me Annie. I’m from the American embassy and I’m here to take care of you. To make sure the hospital doesn’t turn you in to the Gavronese governement, to translate if a non-English-speaking doctor needs information, that kind of stuff…”

  She was babbling. Why was she so nervous? Was she lying? And why was she whispering? He stared at her speculatively. “How did you know my name?”

  She did an odd thing. She laughed. “What a ridiculous…oh, I get it. Stop teasing me, darling.”

  His brows slammed together, and he opened his mouth, but she frantically gestured him to silence before he could speak. He watched, frowning, as she went to the door and opened it a crack, peeking out into the hallway. Then she went into the bathroom and did something to the toilet. It flushed, and continued to run.

  Background noise. She was creating interference in case the room was bugged. What the hell? If only he wasn’t a broken mess. He would get out of here and disappear into the night. But he didn’t even know if he could walk, yet.

  She came back to the bed and leaned close. Close enough to know she smelled like flowers. Close enough to see golden flecks in her dark green eyes. Close enough to feel her breath, soft and warm against his cheek. That corn silk blonde hair swung forward again, forming a curtain around their faces. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman. A very long time. His dick stirred with interest. Which was insane. He was clearly in terrible danger.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “Your cover. You had to have hospital care, but you couldn’t exactly be admitted under your own name.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “The American Embassy worked up papers for me, saying I’m your wife.”

  Wife? The word didn’t compute in his brain, fake or otherwise.

  She continued, “They backdated a visa placing me in Gavarone befo
re you got hurt. We told the authorities you fell in a rock-climbing accident.”

  “They bought the story?”

  “So far. But with the rebels getting more aggressive by the day, the government’s getting pretty paranoid. There’ve been some questions asked about you. I’m glad you’re getting better, because we may have to move you soon.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

  She jerked at the sharp tone of command in his voice. “Captain Ann O’Donnell, U.S. Air Force, Assistant Air Attaché, American Embassy in St. George to the principality of Gavarone. Do you want my serial number and date of birth, too?”

  “What level of security clearance do you hold?”

  “Enough to know your name, rank, serial number and date of birth, mister.”

  “Is that a fact?” He grinned. The kitten had claws. “Do you know what I was doing here?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess.”

  “Do you know how I got hurt?”

  She stood upright abruptly. The door to the hallway swung open, and a white-jacketed man stood there. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Excuse me, ma’am. But the toilet, it stuck. I fix, no?”

  Tom blinked as she smiled graciously and answered in Spanish as smooth and flawless as his own, “Gracias, señor. I’d have reported it, but I didn’t think anyone in maintenance would be awake at this hour.”

  The man disappeared into the bathroom.

  Interesting. That was certainly a prompt response to a running toilet. Two minutes at most. Just about as long as it’d take a guy to get from a listening post to this room. Somebody was suspicious about him, all right.

  He and his “wife”, Annie, she’d called herself, waited silently until the man fixed the toilet and left the room. She sagged with relief when the door closed behind the guy.

  Not accustomed to clandestine stuff, huh? His adrenaline had hardly budged. “Annie, I need to know. Exactly how bad am I hurt?”

  “Many of your less severely broken bones are technically healed already. Not that you should run around playing Rambo, just yet. But you’re recovering. They took the pins out of your left arm yesterday. It’s still got a couple of weeks until that cast can come off. Oh, and your ribs aren’t healed. But then, you probably know that, if you’ve tried to take a deep breath.”

  His ribs did hurt. Right side, front. “Can I walk?”

  “Not in those casts.”

  He looked down at both of his legs, encased in plaster. “I’m a wreck, aren’t I?”

  Relief and a hint of…guilt, maybe?…crossed her face. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “You mean I could’ve died.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah, not me. I’m too stubborn to die by falling off some stupid mountain.”

  She blinked and then nodded in comprehension.

  “How ’bout a kiss for your long-suffering husband?”

  Her eyes snapped green fire, but her voice dropped into that sexy drawl he remembered from his waking dreams. “Darling, I’m afraid the excitement of it might kill you.”

  He smiled widely at her. “Soon, though. When I’m stronger.”

  “Of course.” She flashed him a look that promised hell to pay if he ever tried it.

  Tom grinned. He never could resist a challenge.

  Her response was an expressive eye roll.

  “How much longer till I’m out of here?” he asked.

  “Hopefully, you’ll only be here a couple more weeks.” She leaned close and placed her luscious mouth practically on his ear, whispering, “I don’t think you’ll have that long before we have to get you out of here.”

  The sheet threatened to tent over his groin, and he pulled up a heavy blanket to weigh down his tent pole. He was losing it. Here he was in the middle of a blown mission, lusting over a woman. He had much more important things to concentrate on right now.

  Like how to get out of this hospital in one piece and out of Gavarone alive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tom woke instantly, at full alert, when Annie laid her hand over his mouth in the predawn hours a couple of mornings later. Now where did she learn how to do that? It was the right way to wake him without getting strangled, but still.

  She whispered in his ear, “We’ve got to leave. Now.”

  He didn’t bother to ask questions. There’d be time enough for that later, assuming they got out in one piece.

  She continued, “It would attract too much attention if I pushed you out of here in a wheelchair. Can you walk if I cut off your casts?”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  The Blackjacks were trained to be capable of superhuman feats of strength and self-discipline. Walking on two broken legs sounded doable.

  Annie used a wicked pair of shears to cut away the plaster. While she worked, he methodically disconnected the tubes and needles still taped to him in various places. She whispered, “These were due to come off tomorrow, anyway. So you should be able to walk without injuring anything.”

  “No worries,” he murmured back. He wasn’t kidding when he said he would walk out of here on two broken legs if necessary.

  The last piece of plaster lifted away, and Annie helped him sit upright. He steadied himself with a hand on her shoulder while the dizziness of being vertical for the first time in nearly two months passed. The bones beneath his palm were slender. Feminine. But wreathed in the muscles of a fit woman. Nice.

  Stop that, pal.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gently eased his weight onto his feet. A thousand daggers stabbed his legs, as much from unused muscles as from protesting bones.

  Annie raised a questioning eyebrow.

  He nodded. She didn’t need to know he was gritting his teeth for all he was worth against the agony shooting up his legs.

  She dug under her coat and pulled out men’s clothing. He sat back down on the edge of the bed and let her pull the slacks up over his bare legs. Hoo baby, her hands felt good easing up his legs under the edge of his hospital gown. Cue the hard-on. He must be well on the road to recovery to react like that. He pushed her hands away and finished pulling up the pants himself.

  He noted with grim amusement the way her eyes went wide when he shrugged out of the hospital gown and reached for the shirt. Hopefully it was his muscles and not his scars that caused her reaction. He tugged the soft polo shirt into place and flashed several hand signals at her. She stared blankly. What was he thinking? Of course she didn’t know the Special Forces sign language.

  Instead, he swept his hand toward the door in the universal hand gesture for You go first.

  She nodded and placed her finger to her lips.

  Well, duh. He knew things about being quiet she hadn’t even dreamed of. He could walk, stalk, even kill, in utter silence.

  The hallway was dim and deserted. They glided past a nurse with her back to them, picking up speed farther down the hallway. Annie punched the elevator call button. He flinched when a bell dinged to announce its arrival. Before the door was barely open, he pulled Annie inside and pushed her out of the nurse’s line of sight, covering her body with his.

  Aww hell. She felt luscious pressed against him from neck to knees. But then she looked up at him with dark, frightened eyes, and he mentally cringed. The worst missions were the ones involving civilians. They never could be counted on to keep their wits about them.

  The hall remained empty during the eternity it took for the door to slide closed. Relief and chagrin warmed his skin. He swore at himself. He was going to get them both killed at this rate. This escape had disaster written all over it.

  Tom closed his eyes. He wasn’t a religious man, but he offered up a rare prayer for help in getting him out of this one alive.

  WHEN TOM finally relaxed against her, shifting from hardened steel to muscular—wowser—man, Annie closed her eyes and gave a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief. The elevator began its quiet de
scent.

  “Thank goodness that’s over! That was the hard part, Tom. Now we can just stroll right out the–”

  She’d spoken too soon. Two hundred plus pounds of man abruptly sagged against her. Her arms came up around him. Good grief, he was big. He was also trembling violently. “Hey. Are you gonna make it? My car’s right out front.”

  “Yeah. I’m just a little dizzy.” His voice was no more than a sigh. “I’ll make it. I gotta collect on that kiss you still owe me.”

  “If you walk out of here under your own steam, I’ll give you two kisses.”

  “Deal.”

  He kept his end of the bargain and resolutely walked out of the hospital. But he practically collapsed into the passenger seat of her car. She had to help him lift his legs inside, and his head lolled back against the headrest.

  She pulled away from the hospital and turned onto the street. “If you puke in here, you have to clean it up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His lips curved upward faintly but his eyes stayed tightly shut.

  What kind of pain must he be suffering? “Hang on. It’s not a long drive to the place I’ve rented.”

  “What place?”

  “An apartment. The owner of the building does a little work on the side for us.”

  “Do you trust him?” Tom asked

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me.”

  “You know this town better than I do.”

  That might be true, but it didn’t mean she’d ever done anything quite this clandestine before.

  The next hour passed in a nightmare of anxiety and physical strain as she drove around, verifying that they had no tail. Tom was grimly silent. He was obviously at the end of his strength, but he managed not to pass out.

  Somehow, she managed to half coax, half drag him up the stairs to the third-story apartment she’d rented under a fake name and paid cash for. To her vast relief, he fell into an exhausted slumber the second she got him horizontal in the flat’s single bedroom.