He reminded himself of that as he trekked back to where he’d left the woman. He was relieved to see that she had calmed down measurably. She was leaning against the pickup, braiding her hair. The long, dark mass of hair—she had enough for about six people—was pulled over one shoulder. She was working it deftly through her fingers to form a braid as thick as his wrist.
That hair. It was one reason he’d been attracted enough to go with her last night. Hell, the last thing he had needed was a woman. He had wanted one, yes. He’d been in Monterico for six weeks. But he was too fastidious to quench his basic male desires with the tavern whores who nightly bedded soldiers from both sides of the conflict. He’d never been that horny.
Last night, of all nights, he had avoided company of any kind. He’d had only one thought in mind: catch that airplane. All he had really wanted was the numbing effect of a few drinks and to get on that airplane and put as much distance between himself and Monterico as possible.
But the liquor, potent as it was, hadn’t been able to wash away the memories of the atrocities he’d witnessed in the past six weeks. So he’d kept drinking the foul stuff. And though it hadn’t dulled his memory, it had severely clouded his judgment.
When the woman with that dark hair, lustrous even in the foggy light of the bar, had approached him, his common sense had surrendered to the swelling pressure in his pants. The kiss had been the deciding factor. One taste of her mouth, which had proved to be just as sweet as it had looked, had tipped the scales of his judgment.
Now, he was somewhat relieved to see that he hadn’t taken complete leave of his senses last night. She was pretty. She was clean. Her figure was good, though a trifle slender, much too slender for that ridiculous dress. His instinct for women was still intact.
But how he could have mistaken her for a whore, he’d never know. He looked more like a mercenary than she did a prostitute. Her hair was dark, so it had been easy to mistake her for one of the local women. But in the dappled sunlight of the clearing, he saw that her eyes weren’t brown as he had originally thought. They were dark blue. And her complexion was too fair to belong to a woman of Latin descent. It was almost too fair to belong to a brunette.
Mainly, she didn’t have that hard, embittered, weary look of the women who had taken to prostitution to buy something to eat. The Monterican women who were forced to sell themselves for the price of a loaf of bread grew very old very fast.
This woman still looked fresh and wholesome, and, in the sunlight, unmistakably American. She should be living in a nice house in a Midwest suburb, organizing the Junior League’s spring tea. Yet, here she was in a jungle clearing, the morning after pulling off a dangerous escapade. In spite of himself, Linc was curious about her.
“How’d you get the truck?”
She didn’t seem surprised by his abrupt question and answered without hesitation. “I stole it. It was parked in front of the cantina. The keys were in the ignition. I disguised you as an officer with the jacket and cap left on the seat.”
“Ingenious.”
“Thank you.”
“And you just drove us through the checkpoint, pretending that I was your client for the evening.”
“Right.”
He nodded in acknowledgement of her cleverness. “I’ve got a knot on my head.”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry about that. You were...I was trying to—” She suddenly broke off.
Linc got the distinct impression that she was keeping something from him, something she was glad he’d obviously forgotten. “Go on.”
“You bumped your head on the dash.”
“Hmm.” He studied her for a moment, but let her lie of omission pass. There was no sense in pursuing the subject since their adventure together was drawing to a close. He was now certain that he hadn’t had her last night. Drunk as he had been, he wouldn’t have forgotten lying between those thighs, whose provocative shape he could see beneath her dress.
Before he got distracted by any more pleasurable thoughts, he turned his attention to what he was going to do once he reached the city. He hoped he would catch El Presidente in a good, receptive mood. “Well, I’m glad we’ve got the truck. It’ll make getting back to the city easier. Are you riding back with me, or do we say our farewells here?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said with a cheerful smile.
“What?”
“Driving back to the city.”
He assumed an impatient stance. “Look, I’ve given you my answer. Let’s not play any more games, okay? Just give me the keys to the truck and I’ll be on my way.”
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere, Mr. O’Neal.”
“I’m going back to town. Now.” He stuck out his hand, palm up. “The keys.”
“The film.”
“Huh?”
She inclined her head, and he followed the direction toward which she had gestured until he sighted the curls of brown film, now worthless, exposed to the fatal tropical sun.