Captive of Fate (8 page)

He grew serious, pulling his utility cap from his pocket and throwing it back on his head. “That isn’t funny. I’m sure you have enough common sense to keep him from finding out.”

“I do,” she promised fervently. But what about Cauley? For an instant, she wanted to confide the conversation she had had with the chopper pilot. Then, thinking better of it, she decided to say nothing. There was no sense in causing trouble between the two men, and Cauley hadn’t been vicious in his criticism of her investigation. He possessed an honesty similar to Matt’s, and she couldn’t hold that against him.

Matt halted at the door, opening it for her. He pushed the cap back on his head, studying her frankly. “Care to dine with me tonight, Miss McIntire? Or are you getting your fill of the Marine Corps?”

She smiled. “No, I’d like that.”

He scratched his head. “Maybe you ought to keep wearing those utilities, lady. I think I’m making a friend out of a former enemy.”

“I was never your enemy, Matt,” she answered, her eyes darkening.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. “I knew that, but I don’t think you did. Anyway, we’ve got a truce right now, let’s keep it that way. I’ll have Captain Jackson make sure you get down off that mountain by nightfall. Be careful around those crates. Some of these laborers aren’t stacking them carefully, and I’ve already had a couple of injuries.

She nodded, secretly thrilled by his touch. “I’ll be careful,” she promised huskily.

Later Alanna was standing near some newly delivered crates when a violent aftershock occurred. Panic-stricken Costa Ricans could be seen scrambling out from under the tent as crates tottered and began to fall from their poorly stacked positions. Alanna froze, unacquainted with safety procedures during a tremor. Screams and cries sounded nearby. Another shock jolted the village, and one wall of supply boxes tumbled downward, smashing apart.

She was knocked to the floor of the collapsing tent as a crate grazed her shoulder. Blackness edged her vision as she lay helplessly trapped beneath several crates, her legs feeling numb from the weight. Vaguely, Alanna was aware of quickened Spanish voices. She gave up trying to pull her legs free and yelled for help instead. A trickle of blood flowed down her right temple. She raised her hand to check the bleeding and succeeded in only smearing it across her cheek in the effort.

If she hadn’t been trapped, Alanna might have found the whole rescue effort laughable. The police were highly excited, gesticulating wildly, their voices reaching an octave higher when they discovered Alanna. She lay on her back, calmly answering them in Spanish, trying without success to reassure them she was all right. It seemed like hours before they removed the last of the offending crates and she was able to sit up. A porter handed Alanna a dirty cloth, and she pressed it against the cut on her temple.

Her feet were throbbing, and she took off her shoes, rubbing the toes tenderly. Matt suddenly appeared at the end of the hall of scattered crates, striding quickly toward her. His narrowed gray eyes were black with an intensity that frightened her. The Costa Ricans quickly retreated as he knelt by her side.

“What happened?” he demanded huskily.

She made a weak gesture. “I was stupid enough to stay in the tent when the tremor began. They told me afterward I should have run for an open area. I’m sorry, Matt, I didn’t mean to cause such a fuss.”

His eyes lost their hardness as he anxiously searched her features. He removed the cloth from her bloodied fingers. “Head wounds always bleed heavily,” he offered. He pulled out his own clean handkerchief and pressed it against the injury. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re pale as hell.”

She felt incredibly stupid and embarrassed. “Just get me out of here. I can’t stand all these men staring at me.”

The corner of his mouth tugged into a semblance of a smile. “Want me to carry you, or can you walk out under your own power?”

“I’ll walk,” she promised hastily, gripping his hand and standing.

As Matt escorted her out into the dusk, Alanna heard one of the policemen yelling excitedly in his native tongue. She halted, twisting around.

“What is it?” Matt demanded, frowning.

“Something…wait. He’s saying that some medical supplies in at least a half a dozen boxes are missing. Oh, my God,” she said, automatically walking quickly toward the raised voice.

Matt remained at her side, saying nothing, a scowl deepening on his unreadable features. Alanna hurriedly entered the conversation as Matt prowled around the broken crates, sifting through the contents. He looked over at her.

“Ask him to get me the sheets on this shipment, will you?”

Hastily, Alanna translated. She bit her lower lip, watching Matt with building dread. Did he know about this? If he did, he was certainly masking it effectively. He looked upset, despite his ability to control his emotions in a tense situation. The policeman returned, giving him the documents. He got up, moving back to where she stood.

“They’re in Spanish,” he growled.

She wrote down the products and quantities that should have been in each crate. Matt personally counted each of the items against the bills of lading. It was growing dark when he finally called a halt to their investigation.

“Let’s get down the mountain,” he ordered. “We’ll complete the search tomorrow morning.”

Alanna agreed, aware of how taut his facial muscles had become. There was an air of tightly checked anger about him as he slowly escorted her to the awaiting chopper. To her relief, Jim Cauley wasn’t the pilot. Right now, she didn’t need his accusing stare or outspoken opinions to drive a wedge between them. She climbed in, her head aching dully where she was cut.

Silence hovered between them as they ate their dinner on the floor of the makeshift quarters. Outside the room, the squawk and chatter of the radios provided some relief from the brittle tension building in their room. She picked absently at the refried beans, wrinkling her nose.

“You’d better eat,” Matt suggested, setting his plate aside and leaning back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling softly.

Her heart wrenched as she watched his features grow haggard. She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t want this to happen,” she whispered. She took one last look at the food and laid it aside.

He managed a half-hearted smile meant to convince her that everything would be fine. But her instincts told her differently.

“It’s not your fault, Babe.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his drawn-up legs. “I’ve been running it over and over in my mind, trying to figure out how the theft could have happened and where it was occurring. Who might be heading up the scam.”

“Any ideas?” she asked, barely choking out the words.

He ran his fingers distractedly through his dark hair. “It probably occurred at the depot where supplies are taken off the ships or the cargo planes.”

“But the bills of lading aren’t typed up until the contents are checked.”

He gave a shrug. “Who says the foreman at the dock can count right when he’s getting money on the side?”

“Could they be stopping the truck en route and taking part of the supplies off?” she asked, hope in her voice.

“That’s a strong possibility,” he agreed.

“Could it be done here at the base camp?”

Matt got up, hands behind his back, pacing the length of the room slowly. “It would be much harder to do, and the risk of discovery is high. I have guards posted here and up at the supply depot in the village. Of course, who’s to say the guards can’t be bought? Damn.” He rubbed his jaw absently, halting at the window, staring into nothingness for at least a minute.

Alanna felt his mounting frustration. “It looks as if the guerrillas are after the drugs for the most part,” she provided.

He snorted softly. “I would be too if I were running a jungle campaign. Morphine can mean the difference between heaven and hell.”

She lowered her gaze, responding to the undercurrent of pain in his husky voice. “Did it happen to you once?” she ventured unsurely.

He said nothing for a long time, his shoulders slumped downward, head bent as if in prayer. Finally, with an effort he said, “More than once.”

She regarded him intently, trying to understand the anguish behind the spoken words. “This is going to sound stupid,” she began tentatively, “but I sometimes feel that we’re aliens, Matt. I mean,” she groped, “you’ve seen such violence and death that I don’t know how to respond to you. I can’t understand how you can walk around in the world I know as a functioning human being after what you’ve gone through.” She avoided his gaze as he turned, studying her in the light of the sputtering kerosene lamp.

Alanna tensed inwardly as she heard him move across to her. He crouched down, his gray eyes a curious slate color. “I know what you’re saying, Alanna,” he said, his voice strained. “Sometimes it isn’t easy. I’m lucky to be alive, and I always hold onto that thought no matter how bad the nightmares become.”

She met his gaze. “Despite your military background you seem to be able to cross over into my world. Why can’t I do the same?”

He picked up her hand, turned it over and thoughtfully traced the outline of her slender fingers. “You’re idealistic and innocent—that gives you a different perception of life and a unique ability to care.” A sad smile touched his mouth. “Those are two qualities that I find so terribly important. So you see, you have abilities that I don’t.”

Her hand tingled fiercely as he gently massaged the palm with his thumb. “I can’t believe that you don’t care,” she murmured.

Reluctantly, he placed her hand back into her lap and rose slowly. “I had to retrain myself to care. You come by it naturally.”

“Yet you cared about me,” she protested.

“He smiled tiredly. “That’s because you’re special. Come on, let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll devise a plan to track down the missing drugs.”

She acquiesced without another word, huddling on the sleeping bag with the blankets drawn securely about her shoulders, missing Matt’s warmth and strong, protective body. Sleep came slowly because her mind dwelled on the events of the day. Tomorrow she would have to wire Senator Thornton and tell him that his suspicions about supplies being stolen were correct. She was going to make sure that Matt was not implicated. Not unless solid proof was found to condemn him. Shutting her eyes tightly, Alanna prayed that would never happen.

*

Alanna stood pondering over each carefully worded sentence of her message to the senator. Could any of it hint that Matt was guilty? Her stomach knotted, and she fought down a rising tide of panic. The paper trembled in her fingers, and she exhaled softly. When had she ever had such a problem making a decision? As Paul had said, make it black and white. Simplify. Yet how could she simplify this situation? She knew Thornton would leap at any suggestion of Matt’s guilt like a wolf leaping at the jugular of his enemy’s throat. And what about her unstable, growing relationship with Matt? God, she groaned inwardly, shutting her eyes. Realistically…no, pure logic told her she ought not to be involved with the Marine colonel.

She opened her eyes, their greenness darkening to jade with pain. The pain of truth: she was falling helplessly in love with Matt Breckenridge, against all her better judgment and reason. Alanna gently laid the message on the stained desk beside the radio operator. And what had Matt always told her? There were times to forget logic and go on gut instinct alone. What did her instincts tell her to do now? Alanna shook her head in despair, pushing the paper in front of the radioman.

“Can you send this, please?” she asked in a small, barely audible voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her stomach tightened nervously as she watched the man send it out over the airwaves. Dread enveloped her, and she took a step away, feeling as if she were a traitor. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, and she swallowed, blindly turning away.

Strong, warm hands closed around her arms, bringing her to an abrupt halt. Alanna’s eyes flew open.

“Matt—” she gasped.

He managed a quick smile. “Ready to hop a chopper to the mountain?” he asked.

A tumult of unleashed emotions roared through her as she stood within his grip. If he had seen her send the message, there was no hint of chastisement or bitterness in his eyes or the husky tenor of his voice. The knife of guilt sliced across her heart. He doesn’t deserve this! a small voice screamed inside her. Looking up into his drawn features, she saw for the first time the amount of pain and suffering he had managed to hide from the world at large. A tenuous thread of unspoken need flowed between them, and she responded.

“It’s going to be all right,” she murmured. “I know it is.”

The smile deepened slightly as he reached out, sliding his fingers down the clean line of her jaw. “Is that logic or instinct talking?”

Alanna smiled grimly, touching her breast. “I feel it here.”

He guided her out the door into the pale light of early morning. “It’s just another skirmish,” he returned.

“And you’re tired of fighting.”

Matt drew his cap down, shading his dark gray eyes. “Have you ever gotten up in the morning and felt fragile? So damn fragile you’re afraid that if one thing goes wrong during the whole day you’re going to snap in two?”

Alanna cast a sharp glance over at him, her heart thudding heavily in her breast. She licked her dry lips, slowing as they neared the awaiting chopper. “Yes. Several times when I was breaking up with Paul. Why? Is that how you feel today?”

Matt opened the sliding door of the chopper, helping her into the cargo area. “I’d like to deny it, but I can’t.” He made sure she was belted into the seat and then moved forward to the copilot’s position.

A new, desperate longing filled her: to reach out to protect him. How many times had he protected her in the last four days? She studied his grim, stony profile with compassion. She had never realized that perhaps a soldier got tired of fighting, got tired of death and destruction. In some unexplained way, she knew that Matt Breckenridge had reached that point.