The Impossible Alliance (12 page)

Well, it would take answers before
he
believed in
hers.

Jared nudged his brow a notch higher as he stared at her. “Well?”

Alex sighed. “After he removed my stitches, we ordered supplies.”

They what?

She nodded. “Medical supplies. You saw how desperate they are.” She shrugged. “I had Roman write out a dream list. Drugs, surgical supplies, diagnostic equipment. I happen to have access to them, or at least, I have a good friend from college who does. I called in a marker. And now we have another hook into Orloff. They should begin arriving by a global courier in the morning.”

It was simple, stupid—and bloody brilliant. Aiden Swift would be proud.

So why wasn't he?

More importantly, why didn't he believe her? Jared stared into those light green eyes for what felt like hours. Days. He sifted through the mist, picked through the lingering shadows. Try as he might, he couldn't find so much
as a hint of subterfuge. So why was his gut telling him she was lying? At the very least, withholding something.

She finally sighed. “Red blood cells.”

He stiffened. Surely she hadn't—

But she nodded. “I also arranged to have 250 units of packed red blood cells flown in. Eight are B negative.”

He sucked in his breath against the inexplicable shaft that stabbed his chest, his heart. Just as it had that afternoon. For a brief moment beside that kid's cot, he could have sworn she'd been concerned about more than just their mission, that she'd been concerned—deeply concerned—about him. While that had been alarming enough, what had terrified him even more was the realization that he actually wanted her to care.

But he shouldn't.

Dammit, he
didn't.
If anything, he should feel relief.

He'd nearly convinced himself he did when her fingers snagged his forearm. “Promise me—”

He jerked his gaze up as she swallowed softly.

“Promise me you'll take the first unit.”

The stark whisper hung between them.

He didn't know what to say, let alone what to think. When was the last time a woman—hell, when was the last time anyone—had been truly and solely concerned for him?

He knew the answer. He was just afraid to voice it. To her. Much less himself. The warmth in her fingers spread up his arm until it damned near ignited the air between them. She had to have noticed it, too, because she stepped forward at the precise moment he jerked back.

He clamped down on his tongue as the hurt entered the soft mist of her eyes, cooling it rapidly. He refused to respond to it. Dammit, he couldn't. It was for her own good, even more than for his.

The mist finally cleared, and he breathed easier.

So did she. “Well?”

He blinked.

She held out her hand again. The empty one. “Strip.”

He thought about holding out for the syringe, then decided against it. His leg had been locked into place for so long he no longer cared who stabbed that needle into his backside, so long as one of them did. He tucked his hands beneath the sweater Orloff lent him and grabbed the brass stud on his jeans.

“Boots first. I intend to see the entire man.”

He tipped his head. “Yes, ma'am.”

She flushed.

Knowing he'd pushed it further than he should have lest he risk her invading his dreams again, he turned. He scraped his boots heel to booted toe, then heel to sock as he doffed first the right, then the left. His switchblade thumped out onto the braided area rug. His favorite throwing knife followed, as well as the two spares he'd brought along for the occasion. He was in no shape to retrieve them. Fortunately his ankle holster had the decency to remain attached to his leg along with his backup piece.

Her gaze scanned the rug. “Nice cutlery collection.”

He shrugged. “It comes in handy.”

“I'll bet. Remind me never to challenge you to darts.”

He ignored the dry twist to her lips and what they did to his gut as he tucked his fingers beneath his sweater, locating the stud on his jeans again as she moved around behind him. This time he released it, praying silently as he pushed his pants down to his calves. If he was lucky, either his leg wasn't as bad as he thought or her knowledge of chemistry didn't extend to the organic kind. At least, not far enough for her to diagnose it.

“Sweet Jesus.”

Evidently it was. He frowned.

“How long has your leg been infected?”

Long enough.

“Well?”

He was about to bend down to retrieve his pants. He stiffened, instead, as her slender fingers brushed the angry skin surrounding his gash, cooling the fire in his leg but at
the same time, stoking another in his groin.
Sweet Jesus
was right. He closed his eyes, and not against the ache. Not the one she was worried about.

“Are you taking something for this?”

He shook his head, breathing easier as her fingers left his gash to tear open the alcohol wipe. The cold swipe followed. He'd have missed the needle altogether had he not been waiting for it. She capped the syringe and tossed it onto the desk.

“I don't understand. Surely you've got antibiotics in that bag at the cabin.”

He nodded. “But they were meant for you. Ciprofloxin's the best broad-based antibiotic out there. But I'm allergic to it.”

“What about Orloff?”

“I warned him when you two returned from his office. Had to, otherwise the kid would be at risk. He's got the boy on Cipro now. He'll cull something else from the hospital's supply and bring it home for me.”

“That could be hours yet.”

“I'll live.”

His leg might not. Either of them. The muscles in his right leg were tired of compensating for his left during the impromptu surgery he and Orloff had spent fishing out lead swimming in some soldier's riddled gut. His good leg had completely locked up. At the gate, he'd noted two charley horses. He could now pinpoint three.

He sucked in his breath as Alex pushed his jeans down to his ankles to work the one in his upper right calf.

“That's not neces—”

“Stand still.”

He didn't have a choice. He stood there, silently grinding down on his molars as she worked the knot with her fingers.

A minute later his pique began to ebb.

The woman had good hands. Strong fingers. Nor was she afraid to use them. Still, it took another minute before he could feel the muscle loosening, the pain easing. He bit
down again, this time trapping his groan. He didn't care how good her hands were. She was not getting those fingers near the knot in his right quad, much less the one in his ass.

He inched away as she finished. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me yet, I'm not done.” She jackknifed up and swung around to his front before he could lean down to grab his jeans. “Lie down on the bed.”

“You've done enough.”

Pink stained her high cheeks as she folded her arms over her drab, gray sweater. “Look, buster. I got the message in the cabin, not to mention a couple of minutes ago. You're not interested. Guess what? I'll get over it. But if you don't stretch that leg out, it will cramp up so tight you'll take one step and you'll be lying flat on your face—on the floor. Then where will we be? Where will our cover be?”

He refused to answer. Much less admit how truly interested he was—in her.

She sighed. “Dammit, Jared. When was the last time you admitted you needed help, much less accepted it?”

He frowned as another face snapped into view. Another conversation. Another dare.

How long had it been? Six years.

Six years since a private investigator by the name of Kurt Miller had shown up at Fort Bragg to deliver the startling news. He'd won the biological lottery. The same loving grandfather who'd denied his right to bear the hallowed Sullivan name before kicking him out on his ass had taken his precious legitimate progeny sailing on his fancy yacht. Unfortunately his grandfather hadn't listened to the weekend weather report any more than the man had listened to him that day in his dank office years before.

The first time, his mother had paid the price.

The second, his uncle, his aunt and all three of their pure-white, Texas blue-blooded cousins, as well as Granddaddy himself, had paid. The only reason he'd agreed to listen to Kurt and step foot on that ranch again, much less accept it
as his rightful, if decades-late, inheritance, was due to another man. A man who'd been as sincere and determined as the woman standing in front of him now. He could still hear Samuel Hatch's taunt.
“Dammit, son. Take the help. You've got nothing to lose except a strip of pride—and only if you let 'em take it.”

Hatch was right then.

Alex was right now.

He shrugged, leaving his boots and knives on the rug as he shuffled to the foot of the bed. He turned, barely suppressing a groan as he lowered his frame to the mattress. He couldn't prevent the next from escaping, however, as he stretched his leg out so she could remove his jeans. A second groan crawled up his throat and tumbled out as he tugged the rubber band from his hair, raking his fingers into his scalp for the first time in fourteen hours.

“Lie back and turn over. I'll be right back.”

He was too tired to argue. Jared snagged the embroidered hem of one of the pillowcases, wedging his jaw smack into the middle of a feather pillow as he turned into the mattress. Lord, it felt good to lie down. The Demerol was beginning to take effect, too, the relief spreading across his hamstring, edging out the pain. He wasn't sure where Alex had gone, much less why, but he was halfway into his first dream by the time she returned. At least, he hoped he was dreaming. It wasn't the reality of the dip in the mattress or the warm compress that gently covered his gash that worried him, but the cool fingers that came with it. Especially when those cool fingers smoothed the rag across his hamstring before tucking the trailing edge snugly between his thighs. He tensed as her hands moved to his waist to peel his briefs down, baring his butt to the room and her kneading fingers.

“Just relax. Trust me.”

God help him, he allowed the husk in her voice to rasp through him, and he did. He closed his eyes, swallowing another groan as she pushed and prodded at the charley horse in his rear, working the aching muscle over and over
until, like the knot in his calf, this one too began to loosen and smooth out altogether. Damn, but she had
incredible
hands.

He could feel himself relaxing, drifting into a half dream, half hypnotic state, lured under by the Demerol and those deft, stroking fingers, as well as the exhaustion and light-headedness that'd been dogging him ever since he'd pulled that IV needle from his arm five hours ago. He didn't even argue as Alex finished kneading the cramp from his rear and pulled his briefs back up to his waist. Not even when she gently nudged him over onto his back. He stretched out willingly as she started in on the charley horse in his thigh, far enough gone to welcome the Demerol-induced fantasy that had somehow slipped into his increasingly fogged brain. By the time those amazingly agile fingers had finished massaging the final knot from his leg, he'd embraced the new ache that took over. Within moments, it consumed him.

There was no way he could resist it. Much less her.

Nor could he remember why he should.

 

Good Lord, she'd done it
again.

Alex stared at the extra “leg” that was once again stiffening mere inches from her body, riveted by the force of the man's latest reaction. She couldn't help it. It was just so…intense. It was definitely her fault, too.

Maybe Jared was asleep.

In all honesty, that had been her only goal. All she'd wanted to do was take enough of the edge off the man's pain to help him relax so he could fall asleep until Orloff arrived with the antibiotics. But would Jared believe her?

Given their track record, probably not.

She dragged her gaze up to his face.

He wasn't asleep.

She flushed as that hot amber gaze not only captured hers, but held it. “I'm sorry. I swear, I wasn't trying to—”

“I know.”

He reached down and covered her hands with his, carefully removing them from the proximity of his still-prominent erection. To her surprise, he didn't release her. Nor did he sever his heated stare. He cleared his throat. “I suppose my…interest…is rather obvious, isn't it?”

Her flush cooled, and another flame took its place. Desire.

He really did want her. She was certain of it when his gaze dropped to her mouth. The fire in his eyes burned hotter, until the amber practically glowed. She pulled her fingers from his and reached out to slip them through the loose strands of his hair. She half expected him to reach out and stop her. He didn't. But his gaze returned to hers. The glow in his eyes deepened as she slid the fingers of her right hand from that inky silk and dragged them across the late—evening whiskers that had sprouted along his jaw, not quite suppressing a shiver as the scruff rasped the pads of her fingers and then her entire palm. She was playing with fire and she knew it. Once more, she didn't care.

Dammit, she wanted to get burned.

She'd waited long enough for this man. If Janice didn't want him, she
did.

He didn't have to know about the hearing aid. Until she'd told him, her ex-fiancé hadn't. She pushed Don from her memory and focused on the present, instead. On Jared. She reached out again, this time boldly smoothing her fingers across his lips. She sucked in her breath as Jared finally reached up and did the same. He trailed his fingers down her cheek and hooked his thumb beneath the curve of her jaw to draw her closer. Within seconds they were inches apart, staring directly into each other's eyes, breathing the same swirl of erotically charged air.