To Love a Man (15 page)

Lisa figured that she had been in the camp about three weeks. During that time, her life had settled down into a kind of routine. She felt oddly at home in this army encampment surrounded by hired killers, with all hell liable to break loose at any minute. Although she knew that their existence was precarious, she felt almost totally safe. She supposed, reluctantly, that her sense of security in the face of all the facts had something to do with Sam. His very presence inspired confidence. She was certain that he would get her out of this mess in one piece if there was any possible way to do it. And she was content to leave her deliverance to him. Not that she had any choice. He had made it perfectly clear that they would leave when the job he had come to do was completed, and not a moment sooner.

Sam, whether she hated him, as she did one day, or merely intensely disliked him, as she did the next, was beginning to seem like a fixture in her life. It was hard to imagine that she had known of his existence for less than a month. Soon—she hoped—she would be home again, and he would be out of her life for good. All of this would seem like a slightly fantastic dream—or a nightmare, depending on how one looked at it.

She no longer even tried to compose stories suitable for the
Star
on her adventures. They had become too many, and too varied—and too wound up with Sam. She could not write about what had befallen her without revealing some part of their relationship, and this she was determined not to do. She thought of Grace Ballard at the
Star,
of the ladies of Annapolis’s upper crust who devoured the features she edited, of the titillation they would receive from ferreting out any hint of an intimate association between Lisa Bennet Collins and a hard-bitten mercenary soldier, of all things, and shuddered. The whispers, titters, and sidelong glances would be more than she could endure. And there was Jeff, who was still her legal husband after all, and her grandfather. They would be embarrassed as much as she was.

Lisa thought of her grandfather with a twinge of compunction. He would be frantically worried about her by now; she hoped he could somehow sense that she was all right. She was the only thing he cared about in the world, now that Jennifer was gone, and it would be extremely hard on him to imagine that something had happened to her, too.

Jeff might be superficially concerned about her disappearance, she acknowledged with a shrug, but he certainly wouldn’t lose a lot of sleep over it. Over the past year they had existed like casual acquaintances, living in the same house and still legally married, but hardly seeing each other from one week to the next. Now that Jennifer, the glue that had held them together, was no longer a factor, Lisa had no doubt that he would agree to a divorce with very little argument. And she was now very, very sure that a divorce was what she wanted.

Jeff would never have married her in the first place, she judged, if it hadn’t been for the pressure exerted on him by his family and her grandfather. Perhaps his family had some inkling of his secret, because they had certainly been eager to see him married to her, and then had been overjoyed when she produced Jennifer. Or maybe they had simply wanted him to marry her because she was A. Herman Bennet’s granddaughter—his name alone made her the ideal prospect for a wife in the eyes of most of the boys she had dated. Little Miss Perfect, that’s me, Lisa thought with a touch of bitter humor, then shrugged away all thoughts of the past.

She was sitting in the back of the jeep, her head thrown back against the top of the seat as she gazed up at the stars, a blanket huddled around her shoulders to ward off the night chill. The jeeps were parked in a small copse to shelter them from the view of any chance passersby—not that there were likely to be any in this remote place. The blowing branches above her head made strange patterns against the twinkly midnight-blue sky. Sam and the others had vanished into the thick jungle; they would return when they returned. The despised pistol was by her side. Its silencer had been removed so that she could use it to summon help if an emergency arose. A single shot was the signal they had agreed upon. Sam had decided, and she had whole-heartedly concurred, that if she actually tried to shoot someone, she would be putting herself and any chance bystanders in more danger than anyone who might be intent on doing her harm.

Just knowing that Sam was within earshot of her pistol made Lisa feel safe. Sitting there in the jeep, in the middle of the inhospitable African jungle, with fighting going on all across the country and the possibility of unfriendly soldiers appearing at any moment, she felt much as she had in the past when she had sat out after dark on the beach near her grandfather’s house: warm and peaceful and slightly drowsy.

Sam had instructed her to stay awake while he was gone—after all, if she was asleep when an enemy closed in on her, she certainly wasn’t going to be able to summon help, was she—and Lisa tried valiantly to obey. But tonight she was so tired. . . . It had been such a hot day, and she had spent most of it sitting in this damned jeep. Then they had returned to the camp for a quick dinner, and here they were again. Lisa was almost ready to tell Sam that she would prefer to remain at the camp alone while they went out on their little forays. Almost. But she had a sneaking suspicion that as soon as the little cavalcade of jeeps disappeared from her view, she would regret it: she would undoubtedly be scared out of her skull.

If she didn’t do something, she would fall asleep, Lisa decided. Stretching, she unwound herself from the blanket and sat for a moment shivering in the cool air. Then she clambered over the side of the jeep. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to walk around a little; she would be sure to remain fairly close to the jeeps.

Crossing her arms over her chest for warmth, wishing now that she had brought the blanket with her, Lisa moved off a little way through the trees. The world about her was shrouded in a deep charcoal gray; outlines of trees and bushes stood out blackly like swaying ghosts. Lisa heard the scurrying of small animals in the undergrowth, and shivered again, but not from the cold. Then she heard a louder, more ominous crackling as something larger moved through the trees. She froze, her heart speeding up to pound deafeningly. She had horrible visions of a hungry tiger on the prowl. . . . Instinct warned her not to make a sound. Barely breathing, she shrank back against the nearest tree, her palms pressing flat against the rough bark. All at once it occurred to her that she had left the pistol in the jeep. . . .

Lisa literally stopped breathing when the creature suddenly emerged from the trees not ten feet from where she stood. For one horrible moment she thought the looming shape must be a gorilla; then she recognized it as a man. This realization should have made her feel better. Strangely, it had the opposite effect. Her heart was beating in slow, irregular thuds against her chest; her mouth was dry. Something, some inner instinct, warned her that she was in danger. She didn’t move so much as a hair.

The man stopped for just an instant, lifting his head to peer around like an animal testing the wind. Lisa closed her eyes, terrified that the faint light reflecting off them might make her visible in the dark. She opened them again when she heard him move. He was headed away from her, toward the jeeps, his movements stealthy.

Compelled by something she didn’t understand, Lisa followed him at a safe distance, stopping when he stopped, taking care to make as little noise as possible. He seemed unaware of her presence. . . . As she had thought, he was headed for the jeeps. They were parked together, six of them, in a little cleared area surrounded by dense trees.

He seemed to know precisely where they were; he was still moving quietly, but surely, when he emerged into the clearing. Lisa stopped at the edge of the trees, sheltering in their shadow. The man crept around the first of the parked vehicles; his object seemed to be the jeep farthest from where she stood—Sam’s jeep. The jeep she usually waited in.

Skirting around the edge of the trees, Lisa was able to keep the man in view. What could he want? To disable the jeeps? He didn’t act like it; he had made no effort to do anything to any of them. To steal something, like an engine cart? Perhaps . . . Ducking, he reached Sam’s jeep and moved swiftly alongside. Then suddenly he straightened. For a moment he stood motionless, staring at the inside of the jeep as if it was not what he expected to see. Then he swung around. Lisa was startled into taking a hasty step backward. A twig crackled under her foot. The small sound brought the man’s eyes straight to her. Gulping, she met his gaze head-on. With a little frisson of shock she recognized him: it was the man who had attacked her that afternoon down by the creek, the man Sam had identified as Lutz. And with a sudden, horrible quiver of fear, she realized that he had returned to the jeeps in hopes of finding
her.

They both stood frozen for an instant, staring at each other through the silvery darkness. Then Lutz took a step toward her. Lisa whirled, ready to run into the jungle. There was no doubt in her mind that he meant to finish what he had started down by the creek that day. . . .

“Lutz! What the hell are you doing here?”

Lisa nearly swooned with relief as Sam’s voice sounded irately from the other side of the clearing. Lutz swung around at the sound, facing Sam.

“I—finished up.”

“Your orders were to wait by the trail for the rest of us to join you.”

As Sam spoke, the other men came silently up behind him. At his curt gesture, they headed for the jeeps. Sam himself was moving toward his own jeep.

“I—forgot.”

“Don’t forget again.” Sam’s voice was hard. As he reached the side of his jeep, looking vainly for her, Lisa thought she heard the harsh indrawing of his breathing. He swung around. . . .

“Lisa?” he called, the necessary hush of his voice in no way mitigating its sharpness. Startled out of her momentary stupor, Lisa hurried toward him.

“I’m here, Sam,” she answered breathlessly.

He waited for her; when she reached his side, he said nothing, but stood back to allow her to climb into the back of the jeep. To her surprise, he motioned to Frank to drive, and got into the back with her, letting Malloy, the other man who usually rode with them, sit in front for once.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked gruffly once the convoy was under way.

“Yes,” Lisa answered quietly, touched by his obvious concern. Unobtrusively, she scooted a little closer to him on the seat. She found his hard warmth comforting after the scare she’d had.

“What were you doing out of the jeep? Lutz didn’t . . . ?”

“No.” The word was soft.

Sam took a deep breath, releasing it in what sounded like a sigh. “After tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about him anymore,” he said, speaking low so that the two in the front seats couldn’t hear him. “Tomorrow, we finish up, and then we go our separate ways. You should be home in a couple of days.”

Lisa didn’t reply to this. She had thought that she would feel jubilant when Sam at last told her that she would be going home, but she didn’t: instead, she felt kind of—empty. She supposed it would take a little while for the news to sink in . . .

Sam too was silent the rest of the way back to the camp. But once they were alone in his tent, he made love to her with an intensity that seared them both.

The men stayed around the camp the next day, packing up the tents and loading the jeeps. By the time darkness fell, there was nothing left of the camp except a small circle of dead ashes and several patches of flattened grass where the tents had been. Even those signs, Sam told her, would disappear within days.

Lisa was sitting on her favorite flat rock, waiting for Sam to join her. At his direction, she had exchanged the raggedy shorts and shirt for one of his old uniforms—a whole one. His flak jacket rested on her shoulders. They would be on the move all night, he had told her, and it would get cold. When she had protested that he might need his coat himself, he had merely shrugged and said that he was a lot more used to difficult conditions than she was.

All day Lisa had sensed the tension that permeated the camp. This was it, their faces seemed to say; they were unusually quiet as they waited to finish the job they had come to Rhodesia to do. Lisa herself was as nervous as a cat. Whatever they were engaged in was dangerous, she knew. She was worried about the outcome—about her own safety and, as much as she hated to admit it, Sam’s. Despite everything, she didn’t like to think of him being hurt or killed.

When Sam came for her at last, she gaped at him through the deepening gloom. His face was as black as pitch.

“What on earth . . . !” She gasped.

He grinned, looking for all the world like a black-faced performer in an old-time minstrel show.

“Shoe polish,” he explained laconically. “Makes you harder to spot at night. Want some?” He held out a small, flat can.

Lisa shuddered, shaking her head. Sam laughed and turned away, pocketing the shoe polish. But it wasn’t long before he was back, herding her and his men into the jeeps. The mission was on.

They returned to the same spot they had used the night before. Again, Lisa was left with the jeeps while the men melted away into the jungle. This time, she was determined to stay with the vehicle and keep the pistol close at hand. Last night she had learned a valuable lesson.

She waited for what seemed like hours, her nervousness increasing with every passing minute. What if something went wrong and Sam never came back? What if . . . ? Resolutely she banished these horrible conjectures from her mind. Sam was a professional, he knew what he was doing, she comforted herself. But still . . . Her nagging doubts refused to be silenced.

Lisa had no idea what time it was when a slight sound brought her upright in the seat. Her eyes strained toward the direction from which it had come. Surely Lutz wouldn’t be bold enough—or stupid enough—to try the same thing two nights running. Her hand closed over the pistol; a bullet was already in the chamber, so all she had to do was flick the safety off. This she did, her hand slightly unsteady. Then she turned back to peer into the woods in the direction of the noise.