A Baby For Mommy

Stunned, she looked around to see a dark-haired man wearing combat fatigues and boots. A pistol was in a holster on his right hip and a machete hung from his belt on his left side. In his hands was an automatic weapon that he carried with a nonchalance that said he was familiar with its use. He was only a few feet away, coming toward her.

Stepping forward, she swung the satchel again, striking him and sending him staggering back. He swore and raised his weapon as the two men fled into the trees.

Gasping for breath, she faced the man over the barrel of his rifle. Blood oozed from a cut on his temple where the bag had struck him, and he reached up, wincing as he touched his head.

“Damnation. You’re lethal, lady! You don’t need me.”

She stared at him in uncertainty. Was he a threat or would he help them? Tall and broad shouldered, he had a stubble of beard; his dark hair was pulled back and tied behind his head. There was a menacing air of command and strength about him. From his last remark, she guessed he must not have been with the other men, but still she didn’t trust him.

“Who are you?”

“Micah Drake. And you must be Raffaela Granillo,” he said while he pulled out a handkerchief, twisting it to tie it around his bloody head. His gaze rested on the ruby pendant at her throat, and she touched it hesitantly.

The girls came close behind her to tug on her slacks and peer around her at him.

“I don’t know you.” She knew her voice sounded frightened, and she took a deep breath and looked into eyes that were such a dark brown they appeared as black as their pupils. She trembled and gripped the bag, ready to swing again if she had to.

“I own Drake Security. Your brother hired me to find you and your children and your sister and get you back to Texas. Your husband is in Paris on business and he’ll meet you in Texas,” Micah explained, more gruffly than necessary, his thoughts on her. Even with her rumpled state, her torn clothes, smudges of dirt on her face and throat, she was an attractive woman with an earthy sensual air about her. Her actions confirmed that she was not the shy sister. His head pounded. And the ruby pendant confirmed her identity as Raffaela.

He looked around. “Where’s the bodyguard?” As if she needed one.

A puzzled frown furrowed her brow while she shook her head. “There’s no one else with us.”

To Micah she looked as if she didn’t know he was talking about Brogan. And she also looked as if she didn’t trust him or believe anything he had said to her. Why wasn’t she welcoming him as her rescuer? Instead, she appeared frightened and on the verge of swinging at him again.

“What the hell are you packing there?”

It took her a moment to realize what he was asking, but then she followed his glance to her bag, still dangling from her hand. She slipped it over her shoulder and lifted the baby into her arms. The child clung tightly, burrowing against her neck.

“I’m carrying cans of formula.”

He rolled his eyes as he pulled off his backpack, rummaged in it and handed her insect repellant. “I’m glad you didn’t take my head off. We’ll talk later. Use the repellant quickly and we’ll get going. Those two might have friends or change their minds and return. Also, I brought fresh socks for all of you. Clothes that get wet in this moisture just stay wet.”

Thankful for the dry socks, she helped the girls change. As she used the repellant, he opened a canteen and drank, then offered it to her. She gave the girls a drink, waiting and wondering whether to trust him and go with him or try to get away.

Was he who he said? she wondered. He was rugged and fierce. The girls were silent, and she knew they were as frightened by him as she was. Yet could she get all three of them away from him safely? While uncertainty plagued her, she saw little choice. As he watched the trees beyond her, she drank, feeling rejuvenated by the tepid water. His gaze raked over her. “Any bad injuries before we get underway? Any broken bones?”

“I have some cuts and my head hurts. I’m bruised, but I don’t have any broken bones.”

“What about the girls? Sophie? Or the baby, Angelica?”

“They have cuts and bruises, but otherwise we’re all okay.”

Replacing his canteen and repellant, he jerked his head and put the rifle in the sling on his back. “Let’s go.”

Hesitating, tempted to try to run from him, she didn’t move.

He glanced around and scowled. “Are you coming?”

Picking up the small bundle of leaves that held the remaining bananas, she shifted the baby, Angelica, and took Sophie’s hand to follow him. He strode ahead without glancing back, as if he didn’t question that she would follow and could keep up with him. He swung a machete, cutting away vines, and she heaved a sigh of relief because it looked as if he had been telling the truth.

“Mr. Drake—”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Micah. We’re going to be together a lot, Raffaela.”

“You’ll have to slow your pace,” she said to him.

He fell back and knelt down to look at Sophie.

“Will you let me carry you?” His voice was gentle, a change from the brusqueness he had shown before. Sophie’s eyes were wide with fear that Raffaela understood too well. Sophie looked up at her, and she nodded.

“Yes, sir,” Sophie whispered.

“That’s a good girl.” He swung her up in his arms and strode ahead.

In an hour he was still moving steadily through the moist, dense undergrowth. In agony Raffaela—she’d decided that name would do—straggled behind him. Angelica had fallen asleep in her arms and her deadweight was becoming a dreadful burden. With each step, searing pain raked along a gash on the back of her right thigh. The steamy heat of the tropics was suffocating. The first day she had switched to her charred sneakers and tossed away her low-heeled sandals. She had bruises that made her ache with each jolting step, and a blinding headache added to her misery. She had cuts on her shoulders and back and the backs of her legs, but it was the cut on her thigh that was hampering her walking.

She wanted to keep up with him. And she suspected if she suggested halting, she might have an argument on her hands. She looked at his broad shoulders that tapered to slender hips and long legs. His stride was as steady as it had been the moment they started. With his long hair, the bloody bandage and all his weapons, he looked like a fierce warrior in spite of Sophie asleep in his arms with her head on his shoulder. In addition to Sophie he carried a pack and the pistol on his hip and his rifle—all of which had to be heavy. In this heat she would think he would be ready for a rest.

As time passed, her leg throbbed unbearably until she knew she had to stop. Clutching Angelica, Raffaela tried to catch up with him.

“When will we stop?” She blurted out the words and wished she had said something first so she didn’t sound so desperate.

He paused and turned to look at her. She gazed into his dark eyes, feeling a fluttering inside.

“Are you hurting?”

“Yes, my leg hurts,” she replied, looking at the blood-soaked kerchief around his head. How much damage had she inflicted on him?

He set Sophie on her feet. “Show me what hurts.”

She set Angelica on the ground next to a still-sleepy Sophie, then turned around.

He swore. “You should have told me sooner how badly you’re cut. We’ll stop now.”

Still waking up, the girls mumbled quietly to themselves.

“I have a first-aid kit,” he said. “If I treat their cuts, will they start screaming?”

“Not if you’re gentle.”

“I can’t guarantee the stuff won’t sting. I don’t want a lot of noise, and I don’t want to attract attention. We’re not as far from those men as I’d like to be. There’s guerrilla fighting all through this country.”

“I can try to keep the girls quiet, or we can try to go on, but my leg hurts badly.”

“You need attention before we go farther. I’ll treat the girls’ cuts now. Just keep them quiet.”

“You just remember to be gentle,” she snapped. He looked too tough to give much thought to pain.

One dark eyebrow arched. “I’ll remember to be gentle,” he said softly, and suddenly she had a feeling he was not referring to the girls. Nodding, she called to them. “Mr. Drake is going to put some medicine on our cuts to make them better,” she said.

“I have a first-aid kit,” he explained to the girls, motioning them to come closer. “Let me get some antiseptic on your scratches, so we don’t have any infections.” He spread a canvas ground cover. “Who is going to be the big brave girl and go first?”

“Angelica, let’s start with you,” Raffaela said cheerfully, sitting on the cover. As she sat down, she groaned, biting her lip when it hurt to bend her leg. She took the child on her lap as Micah opened the metal box. Sophie came close to watch, her fingers resting on Raffaela’s arm.

“Are you a doctor?” Sophie asked him.

“No, I’m not. But I learned something about caring for wounds when I was a soldier.”

“I’ll tell you about the three bears that lived deep in the woods,” Raffaela said, trying to distract Angelica.

While she talked, Angelica never noticed the ointment Mr. Drake put on her cuts. When he finished, he touched the tip of her tiny nose with his finger. “You were a very brave patient,” he said in a tone warm enough to melt ice. Raffaela felt a fluttering response, watching him while he brushed a kiss across Angelica’s forehead.

Angelica smiled up at him and moved away cheerfully while Raffaela praised her.

“Now, Sophie,” he remarked matter-of-factly, “it’s your turn. Let’s see where the cuts are.”

“You won’t hurt me?”

“Angelica didn’t cry, did she?”

“No. But I don’t want to hurt.”

“I will try my very best not to hurt you,” he promised gently. She nodded, watching him with round, solemn eyes.

Barely listening to Raffaela’s story about three billy goats, Sophie clung tightly to Raffaela and started to cry when the antiseptic was sprayed on a cut. Raffaela’s soft voice soothed her, and in seconds Sophie was listening to the story.

As Raffaela talked to the girls about billy goats, she, herself, was barely aware of what she was saying. Micah Drake’s head was bent, only inches away as he leaned over Sophie. Dark stubble covered his jaw and throat. His sexy black lashes were thick. She looked at his dark skin, the black hair pulled behind his head.

“Good girl! We’re all through,” Micah announced, turning his head a fraction to look into Raffaela’s eyes, and her breath caught as she gazed back at him. She forgot time or place or circumstances, feeling caught in dark mysterious depths that almost seemed to hold animosity. Yet why would he dislike her?

His attention swung back to Sophie. “You were a very brave patient, too.” He leaned down to brush a kiss on her forehead. “You were a big girl.”

She smiled at him and moved away to play with Angelica while he looked at Raffaela. “Next patient. Where do we begin?”

“Before you start on my cuts, do you have anything for a headache? I took my last pill yesterday.”

He rummaged in the pack again and shook out a pill to give to her. His hand brushed hers, and his eyes narrowed. He reached out to take her hands and turn them over in his.

She was aware of the warmth of his hands. His fingers were blunt and well shaped, so much larger than hers. He leaned closer, his dark eyes studying her, and once again she felt caught in a current of tension that vibrated between them.

“Where are your wedding rings?”

She looked at her bare fingers and shook her head, biting her lips in uncertainty and glancing at the girls. “Can we talk later when they’re asleep?” she asked.

He nodded as he passed her his canteen. She gulped down the pill and handed back the canteen, watching as he took a pill and washed it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed.

“Your head hurts from my hitting you, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s nothing.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and replaced the canteen. “What do I treat first?”

She held out her arm where a long cut ran from her wrist to her elbow. His hand closed gently around her wrist. The moment he touched her, he paused to flick another glance at her, his dark gaze unfathomable. He sprayed the cut and bandaged it.

“Now we’ll do the ones on your back and legs. You can use one of my shirts to cover you, but you need to strip out of those slacks for me to tend your leg. That’s a nasty gash,” Micah said calmly as he fished things out of his pack. He handed her a khaki shirt and spread his bedroll.

“I’ll turn my back. Tell me when you’re ready,” he said. Raffaela nodded and watched as he turned his back and moved a few feet away, fiddling with supplies he had in the first-aid kit. She pulled off the slacks, her breath catching as they came free where they had stuck to her torn skin. She shed her blouse and pulled on his shirt, the long tail hanging almost to her knees.

She lay down on his bedroll, stretching out on her stomach and pulling his shirt over her bottom, tugging it down as much as possible.

“Micah.”

Micah turned around to meet her gaze, which had lost all its coolness. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, and he felt a twinge of amusement.

“Relax, Raffaela,” he said as he knelt beside her. “I’ve seen women’s backsides before, and I’m not seeing nearly as much as I would if we were on a beach.”

She turned her head away from him, and as Micah’s gaze roamed down over her, his insides clenched. He drew a deep breath. He had seen plenty of women’s legs and bottoms. And he had been on plenty of beaches, but the long shapely legs stretched beside him now made his pulse jump. And even though her bottom was covered completely with the tail of his shirt, his imagination was running riot.

The backs of her legs were covered with numerous small cuts, blue-black bruises and one ugly gash on her right thigh. The gash was deep and nasty and Micah thought legs and skin like hers should not have cuts and bruises. “You must have been out of the plane when it exploded and the pieces hit you,” he said, aware a hoarse note had come into his voice.

The girls came to stand on the other side of Raffaela and watch him. Sophie held Angelica’s hand as their wide eyes were fixed on Raffaela.

“Does it hurt?” Angelica asked, kneeling down beside Raffaela.

“Not much,” Raffaela answered brightly, and he knew she was lying through her teeth.

“Raffaela,” he said, hating what ought to be done, but knowing she would have a worse scar if he didn’t. “You have a gash here that needs stitches. I can spray something on it that will numb it slightly, but it will still hurt some if I take stitches. If I don’t, you’ll have more of a scar.”

She turned her head, twisting around and partially raising herself up on her elbows. The thick braid was over her shoulder, and suddenly he imagined her without his shirt, and with all that auburn hair tumbling loose. His mouth went dry, and he tried to focus on what she was saying. She frowned.

“I’m sorry, I was thinking about your cut.” Now he was lying. “What did you just say to me?”

“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”

“I’ve done it before.”

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey in my pack. Want a drink?”

She shook her head. “Just go on and get it done.” The tail of his shirt covered the top of the cut. “I have to move the shirt up slightly.”

“Do what you have to.”

Sophie knelt down beside Raffaela, and she turned away from him. “Mama, Aunt Rachel,” she said, promptly correcting herself, “do you want me to hold your hand? I’ll tell you a story, if you’d like,” she offered.

“You tell me a story, Sophie,” she answered.

Micah paused when Sophie used both Mama and Aunt Rachel. Was there a possibility this wasn’t Raffaela? He thought it was more likely that Sophie was confused. This woman wasn’t shy. His throbbing head attested to that. And even though she had removed her wedding rings, she wore the ruby pendant.

Returning his attention to Raffaela, Micah scooted the shirt higher and felt sweat pop out on his forehead. It was steamy hot in the forest, but he knew that wasn’t what was causing his temperature to jump. It was sexy as hell to have this woman stretched out beside him, wearing only his shirt and her underclothes.

He tried to focus on her injuries. He didn’t want to hurt her. When he had taken stitches before, it had been in tough men who had been fighting with him. Not in a beautiful woman with the longest, shapeliest pair of legs he had ever had the privilege to touch.

Silently swearing, he went to work. He saw her fingers clench, but she was quiet. The woman was gutsy. He had to touch her thigh to hold the edges of the cut together. His fingers moved deftly on her smooth, warm skin, and all the time he was too aware of where his hands were. Finally he finished bandaging the large gash and then began to disinfect the smaller ones.

“You hurt?” Angelica asked in her high voice, bending down and looking at Raffaela.

“I’m all right, sweetie.”

“The worst is over,” he said. “Unless you have any more deep cuts beneath that shirt.” He tugged the shirttail down, aware every time his fingers brushed against the backs of her thighs.

She sat up carefully. She looked pale as she faced him.

“Okay?” he asked softly, hunkering down to be at her eye level. Her luminous eyes were deep pools of green that held his gaze.

“I’m okay.”

“Good.”

“You didn’t give her a kiss,” Sophie said solemnly. “You gave us a kiss.”

“You were a brave patient,” he said quietly, and squeezed Raffaela’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you kiss her?”

“Sophie, he doesn’t have to kiss everyone he takes care of,” Raffaela answered, her face flushing. “He just does that for little girls.”

“Why? You always say everyone needs a kiss, including grown-ups.”

Amused. Micah caught her chin with his finger and turned her face to him. He leaned forward and brushed the faintest kiss on her cheek. “You were a fine patient.” He winked at her and then looked beyond her at Sophie. “Now, I have kissed all my patients.”

The girls smiled and moved away while he stood and reached down to pull Raffaela to her feet. She grimaced as she stood.

“Maybe I should have explained to them that their daddy wouldn’t like me kissing Mommy,” he said, knowing he should leave it alone, but unable to resist.

“They’ve forgotten about it now. If you had said that, they would be full of questions.”

“Hurt?” he asked, aware he stood too close, knowing he should put space between them. He released her at once, but he wanted to keep holding her arm and touching her.

Without looking at him, she nodded. “Thanks.” Her gaze was everywhere except meeting his.

“Now I’ll turn around. You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll disinfect the cuts on your back.”

The pink returned to her cheeks and she nodded, shooting a worried glance at him, and he felt his body tighten. She was aware of the tension snapping between them as much as he was. She is the married twin, he reminded himself, wondering if he was going to have to tell himself that every few minutes until they reached civilization.

He turned and waited, his imagination promptly running wild, envisioning her shedding his shirt. He inhaled and tried to shift his thoughts, listening to sounds around them. An army of men could have slipped up on him a few minutes ago, and he’d been so lost looking into her big green eyes that he wouldn’t have heard them until too late.

“All right,” she said quietly.

He turned and his pulse jumped. She was seated with her legs straight out in front of her. She wore her slacks again, and she held his shirt beneath her arms and in front of her, leaving her back bare. She was slender, her bones looked delicate, and he inhaled, his body reacting to the sight of her.

Trying to get himself under control, he moved closer, his gaze drifting down to her waist where the deepest cut disappeared beneath her slacks. Cuts were dark lines across her back, but none were deep enough to require stitches or as bad as the gash on the back of her thigh.

His gaze ran over her, and he leaned closer, noticing where her hair was matted with blood. “You’ve had a blow to your head. I’ll try to be gentle, but I think I should look at it.”

“Will you please unfasten this necklace? I’ll put it in my bag.”

He caught the delicate clasp in his fingers, his knuckles brushing her nape lightly. He inhaled, wondering why he was having reactions to every tiny contact with her.

The necklace came loose, and he dropped it into her open palm. His fingers brushed her neck as he moved his hand.

She sat quietly while he looked at the cut and disinfected it. She had a bump on her head, and he tried to avoid hurting her.

“Now your back.” He began to disinfect and clean her wounds, working silently, too aware of the bare nape of her neck—pale and smooth.

He swore, and she slanted him a glance over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I just hate hurting you,” he lied. He had not had this reaction to a woman since Shawna’s death a year and a half ago. And this was a damn poor time to come back to life. He had been numb and hurting over her loss for so long now, it had seemed to be a permanent way of life.

He was on his knees, and he sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you stretch out? You have a cut below your waist that I should disinfect.”

“Can I do it?” she asked, turning slightly, her cheeks flushing a fiery pink this time.

“I don’t think so. Look, I’m not making a play. We can’t travel if you get infected. Out here in this jungle and heat, you can get all kinds of things.”

She nodded and moved cautiously. He didn’t know whether she was being so careful because of her thigh or because she was trying to ensure that his shirt did not slip. She unfastened her slacks and then lay down on her stomach carefully. “I’m ready.”

He took a deep breath and tugged her slacks down as far as the cut went. And it went down over the small of her back across the rise of her bottom. He gritted his teeth. His body was reacting swiftly, and he couldn’t take his gaze from her and had to fight the idiotic urge to let his hand drift over her smooth skin. He ached to push those slacks down and bare the rest of her enticing bottom. As he looked at her, he wanted to sink himself into her softness.

Swearing silently, he worked quickly and stood. “I’m through.” His voice was hoarse, and he turned, walking away from her and trying to get his body under control.

“Thank you,” she said after a few moments. He glanced over his shoulder at her and then walked back. Moments later, she was dressed again and held out his shirt. He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers lightly.

“What about your head?” she asked.

“It’s all right.”

“I remember something to the effect that cuts can get infected easily here, in this climate.”

He sighed and unfastened the handkerchief. He was cut and had a lump that was turning a dark blue. She inhaled, swamped with regret. “I’m sorry! You have a big knot—”

“Forget it.” He grinned. Her breath caught in her throat as the smile transformed him from a formidable warrior into a charming male, and again she felt a strange stirring of awareness. He said she was married—if so, why was she having this reaction to Micah Drake? “You pack a mean wallop,” he said.

“I thought you were with those men. I didn’t know.”

He chuckled. “You got one of them full force. His head is probably about to come off about now. I’ve got a hard head.”

“I can well imagine,” she answered with amusement, and saw his brow arch. “You’re too tall. Sit down somewhere so I can reach your head.”

He handed her the first-aid kit and sat on the ground. She knelt beside him and began cleaning the wound. “I’m sorry I hit you.”