Lucia inched back against Sara, ducking from under Lucas's hand. His face smoothed, eyebrows pulling apart again with as much studied concentration as a major weight-lifting feat. "Sorry. I don't know much about being a dad. I'm more used to being the boss, and sometimes that means I have to be grumpy. Maybe, uh, you could teach me what papas do."
Lucia clung to her mother's shirt. Sara struggled to suppress the urge to tuck her child under her arm, away from anyone who might step on her tender baby feelings, even inadvertently. She wasn't used to sharing her child, but she'd better get used to it.
Lucia peered up at Lucas from under her lashes, toes of her hiking boots turning in to touch. "Papas are supposed to buy toys and give their kids candy and read stories and play horsie."
Well, hell. Sara checked those cute little toes angled in. No doubt deliberately. Her Machiavellian daughter wasn't so scared she couldn't manipulate a battle-hardened veteran.
Could Lucia's acceptance of the changes in her life be that easily accomplished? She hoped so, for all their sakes, but she would still have to hold strong for both of them, because she refused to see her baby girl hurt ever again.
Scratching his forehead, then plowing his fingers through his stream-dampened hair, he finally nodded. "We can shop for candy when we get out of the jungle. I read pretty well, but I've never played horsie."
"I guess we kinda played horsie yesterday when you carried me. You didn't even get tired." She looked up at Sara. "I gotta go."
"What?"
"I gotta go use the bushes."
Of course. She'd only just woken. Still the conversational jolt jarred her in the middle of such an intense moment. Standing, Sara extended her hand. "I'll take you, then we can start our walk. You'll get to play horsie all day long."
Ramon whipped off the camo cover shrouding the Jeep inside the bunker where he and the woman had hidden through the night. Gunfire still sputtered sporadically, frightening even the monkeys silent.
And the woman.
After startling from the bushes, she hadn't spoken beyond saying that she'd been Padilla's captive, that she'd stowed away in one of the trucks when Padilla's troops had left to launch their attack—and she would do anything to survive. He believed the last part at least.
If she'd lied about the rest, he couldn't let her leave and alert Padilla. If she spoke the truth, then he couldn't turn his back on her. His enemy might sink to abusing women, but Ramon would not allow himself to live like an uncivilized animal.
He'd busted his ass, sacrificed years of his life living on the run and fighting for the right to protect what was his in the guerilla days. He wouldn't turn his back on all he'd fought for by ignoring a woman's plea. He refused to be less of a man for the sake of his own survival.
However, if she was a traitor, she could make a valuable bargaining tool to exchange for Sarafina and Lucia. If Sarafina and Lucia were dead, then the woman would also offer a means with which to strike back at the bastard who'd massacred his family.
Rage threatened to pierce his thin veneer of calm. He wouldn't surrender.
His gun weighed heavier in his hands these days, but he couldn't let the enemy—or this woman—see signs of age or weakness. He needed to keep his eyes on her at all times so she wouldn't knife him in the back.
He'd trained his Uzi on her and led her to the bunker where they'd hidden through the night. He recognized the survivor spirit in her, stirring unwilling respect. The woman was toned, young and fit, a long-legged blonde in running shorts and a black T-shirt. Barefoot. But that wouldn't pose a problem as long as his stored Jeep started.
Still, she needed to be ready to run on his order. Reaching under the backseat, he unearthed the duffel stored for just such an emergency. He unzipped, not even needing to check the inventory—a change of clothes, dried food, water purification tablets. A knife and gun.
He passed her an oversize pair of sandals. "Do you have a name?" he finally thought to ask, not that it mattered.
She was simply a means to an end, Padilla's whore, willingly or not. Although she didn't look abused. Health hummed from her.
Her lips pursed so tightly he wondered if she would answer, found that anger seethed within him in spite of his resolution to stay numb and in control. He thought about slapping her—but knew his rage was misdirected, and he prided himself on being fair.
She reached for the shoes, careful not to touch him. "Nola."
"All right, Nola. Do what I say and you will live. Hesitate for even a second and you will die. Is that understood?"
She nodded, taking the shoes and following his every move with those wide wary eyes. Again he studied her flawless skin. He'd seen Padilla's handiwork before. The man enjoyed pain, knives, cigars.
Padilla also used electrodes, which left no marks.
Ramon swallowed down rage, and even relief that his family hadn't been captured. He couldn't think over-long about Sarafina or he would go insane. Financing her expensive, difficult pregnancy had delayed work completing his compound for almost six months, a sacrifice he would make again and again to save a woman who was like family to him. He couldn't let her and Lucia suffer for his sake now.
"Get in the Jeep." He hauled himself into the driver's seat. "Buckle up. The ride will be bumpy."
Once she settled inside, he tugged a bandanna from the bag and tied her wrists to the armrest, tight. She didn't even wince. Her submissiveness spooked him. He had women of his own, always willing and never mistreated beyond a simple slap if they forgot their place. He was better than Padilla after all.