King's Ransom (Man on a Mission 2)

She looked up at him, her heart beating wildly. Not just from running, but from the emotions chasing through her at the sight of him in a way she’d never seen him before. He was dusty, dirty, disheveled. His clothes were a mess and almost certainly ruined, rips and tears that could never be invisibly mended. There was a bad scratch across one cheek that looked as if it needed attention—it had drawn blood. And his hands with their long, straight fingers—all except the pinkies and their odd yet endearing defect—his hands were bruised and grimy, some of the nails broken off at the quick. He’d obviously come directly to the chapel from the site of the landslide, directly from the rescue effort without bothering to stop and clean up.

He whispered her name, and she asked the question foremost in her mind. “How many?”

He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again she saw the undisguised grief in their depths. “Ninety-seven.” He breathed raggedly. “Ninety-seven dead, thirty-two of them children.”

“Oh God,” she whispered, appalled.

“The dead are mostly women and little children. The older children were all in school—the village does not have its own school, thank God, so the schoolchildren are bused into Drago. Most of the men were at work and away from the village when the landslide occurred, but many of them heard the rumble as the mountain let go and hurried back. It was a good thing they did—we needed those extra hands in the rescue effort.”

“How many wounded?” she asked softly.

“Nearly twice as many, some of them seriously. The seriously wounded ones are in hospital. The ones who had only minor injuries, or who were miraculously unharmed, are being housed in the surrounding villages and in Red Cross shelters, as are all the ones who were not there when it happened. The village of Taryna itself was destroyed. Not a single structure is safe to occupy.” His face hardened. “And even if the buildings were safe I would not let anyone stay there. We do not know if the mountain is done.”

“Do they know...? Have they found everyone?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek as he said in an undertone, “Do you think I would have left there tonight otherwise?”

And as he said it Juliana knew it was the simple truth. Andre wouldn’t have left the site until everyone—every man, woman and child—was accounted for. How she knew this she wasn’t sure. Eleven years had wrought changes in him she was just beginning to comprehend. He’d always had a compassionate nature—she couldn’t have loved him otherwise. But the selflessness involved in a search like this—ignoring the risk to himself—the empathy he obviously felt for the suffering of his subjects, were new to her. Sterling aspects of his character she’d never really encountered before.

She ached for him, knowing his pain as if it were her own. She wanted to raise her hand and brush away the dust from his golden-brown hair. Wanted to take a warm, damp cloth and soak the blood from his cheek. And she wanted—desperately wanted—to hold his head against her breast and let him ease his suffering in the shelter of her arms. But all she could do was gaze at him, her heart in her eyes. Telling him without words everything she yearned to do for him.

Andre caught his breath and mouthed her name. And the little thaw that had begun in the chapel turned into a strong Chinook blowing warmly across the frozen wasteland that was Juliana’s heart.

She would never forget this moment, she knew. Would never forget the need in his eyes. Not a physical need. This wasn’t wanting. This wasn’t desire. He felt those things for her, too, of course. He was a man, after all. She’d known he wanted her, desired her the night of the reception. But this wasn’t anything like that. This was raw, emotional need. Need, like the way a man admitted he needed a woman to complete him. Need, like the way a strong man needed a woman he could be vulnerable with. The kind of need that went hand in hand with love. The way Andre had looked at her eleven years ago, his brilliant green eyes alight as he whispered, “Now it begins.”

* * *

He would never forget this moment, he knew. Would never forget the soft compassion in Juliana’s eyes, would never forget the yearning he saw there. Not a physical yearning, but rather a desire to hold, to comfort, to heal. The way a woman looked at the man who held her heart when she knew he was suffering, the desire to take away his pain. The way Juliana had looked at him eleven years ago, when she came to him in the night, saying, “I heard you calling to me... Please, Andre... I love you... Let me give you tonight...” Her beautiful violet eyes telling him she loved him even without the words.