Soft Sarafina didn't have half the steel of this woman, Nola, clearing away their camp with quiet efficiency. Watching her in action, though, he couldn't escape the sense that she'd picked up survival training somewhere.
She always scooped water from where it was moving. She even filtered it through her shirt. She watched the sun as if gauging their location.
So many small details that could mean nothing. He couldn't figure her out and that concerned him. He hadn't survived this long by ignoring instincts. Training only carried a man so far, and he'd reached the top.
Or almost. He'd been damned close to taking control of the country. He'd been patient in collecting power and cultivating allies. He had a vision for his nation, a return to the true values of his people, one where tiny Cartina would command respect and influence world affairs.
The weaklings in control now were too concerned with winning "friends." He spit to clear the acrid taste of failure from his mouth.
Somehow, he would make Padilla pay. Ramon tossed the empty gas can into the back of the Jeep and hitched his Uzi over his shoulder again.
Heaven help the man who'd dared take what little he had left.
A man could only take so much temptation, and last night had damn near done him in.
Lucas tossed the palm leaves back into the jungle, spreading them out to look like a natural falling and disguise their camp. Sara crouched by the river, waterfall splashing a too-tempting backdrop for an impromptu swim.
Not that they could indulge anyway with their tag-along tot and the ever-present threat of leeches. Lucia sat cross-legged in the shade of an oversize bush eating another banana with scrunch-nosed disgust.
She'd been a real trooper the past couple of days. He would have to reward her with a chocolate-covered bug feast when they made it to the States. He wasn't a big fan of worms or grubs, but ants actually tasted sweet.
Hadn't he even seen some of those gummy worm candy things in a store once? Maybe she'd get a kick out of those.
And what the hell was he doing going off on some freaking tangent about kid candy when he had lives to save? He yanked his eyes off Lucia before he started singing "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" as they skipped their way out of the jungle.
If they hauled ass, they should be able to make the safe house by nightfall. Which brought up a-whole-nother concern.
Did Sara have it in her to keep pace for a full day? He would insist on carrying the backpack and Lucia today. Their need for speed outweighed her prideful refusal to admit her limits. Sleeping in the jungle for another night posed too great a risk to their lives and his sanity.
Which meant tonight he wouldn't be holding her while she slept.
As much as he'd like to lose himself in her, there was too much to settle between them first. They'd been on the verge of calling it quits when she'd been shot, and their lives were only more complicated now.
For the kid's sake, they needed to stay as civil and calm as possible. Crawling back into Sara's bed would blast his objectivity and calm right out of the sky.
He pitched the lean-to bracing branches into a pile of rotting brush, scattering ants and sending a snake slithering into the water.
Yet, in spite of all his logical arguments, he wanted to say to hell with it all. Go for it with his wife anyway.
His focus narrowed on Sara's back as she knelt by the river. Damn it all, his instincts told him she was telling the truth. Her story didn't make a bit of sense factually, and he was certain she was leaving something out, but his gut insisted she'd been held against her will.
He depended on his instincts every day to ensure the safety of the men and women under his command. No one had died on his watch, although there had been some close calls with all the crap going on in the Middle East. Two planes had been shot down but thanks to the top-notch, damn-well-always-up-to-date training of his flyers, they'd managed to bring down the crippled craft safely. No loss of life.
He'd even insisted on post incident counseling for the aviators who'd been captured—Hunt, his copilot, Rokowsky, and the loadmaster, Price. They were all back on flying status and up to speed when captivity could have screwed with their heads for life.
So why not follow his instincts now when it came to Sara? If he didn't get his head out of his ass and start taking care of her, she could be scarred for life by the experience. He would have done twice this much for anyone in his command.
Once they finished breaking camp and hit the trail, he would start making amends. He wouldn't let one crappy experience with a drugged-up teenage girl mess with his head.
He also wouldn't let Sara carry that damn backpack.
Sara eased the insulin pouch from the backpack. She was feeling better today after a more restful night's sleep, but her blood sugar levels were still low.
At least she'd slept well. She'd expected to spend hours tormented by the feel of Lucas's arms around her. Instead, she'd curved against him and relaxed. Five years' worth of on-guard tension slid away as if her body understood better than her brain that this was a safe place to be.
Her body also remembered how very right they could be together. The kiss had been everything she remembered—and more. Because now she knew to appreciate the rare gift of such a beautiful sensation.
He wanted her on at least some level. Certainly that wasn't enough to build a relationship, but she remembered more about Lucas than just the power of his kiss. She also knew to be patient, let him find his pace and feelings.