Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(50)

His eyes were full of questions as she moved in close against him.

And then he got it.

“Carrie.” His breath was warm against her lips as she lifted her face to his. “You don’t want to do this.”

“What I don’t want to do,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes and wrapping both arms around his neck, “is regret that I didn’t.”

Her heartbeat was already wild from the fear and the danger and the risk. But when her lips touched his, wild didn’t even begin to cover the sensations that bolted through her blood and apparently slammed through his just as hard, just as fast, because there wasn’t an ounce of caution in his kiss. He wrapped his free arm tightly around her waist and lifted her flush against him, his body hot and responsive, his mouth hungry and fully, carnally engaged.

He was a big, hard man. Yet all she could think about was the softness of his lips, the sleekness of his tongue, the profound restraint with which he held her that both excited her and reminded her of the danger he was in because of her.

She wanted the kiss to go on forever. Wanted this intense exploration of mouths and tongues and sensations, which she’d initiated but that he’d taken to an entirely different level, to obliterate the harsh reality that once they set foot outside this tent their lives could very well end in an explosion of gunfire.

And in this moment she wanted him almost more than she wanted her freedom, because she was desperately afraid that freedom would come at the cost of his life.

Fortunately, there was a cooler head in this tent than hers. There was a man who would not allow her to give up the promise of a future for the price of one moment in time. No matter how amazing that moment promised to be.

He lifted his head on a groan, pressed her face into his chest, and held her against a heart that beat like thunder.

“If I were to pick a cliché,” he murmured against her hair, “wrong time, wrong place pretty much sums it up.”

She swallowed hard, willed her heart rate to settle. He was right. “I’m sorry.”

“That makes two of us,” he said gruffly.

Shouldering the rifle sling, he cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face so she could see his eyes. “So be warned, Carrie Granger. The next time I kiss you, you’re going to end up naked and flat on your back, and it’s going to take an army to keep me from making certain you never feel the need to say you’re sorry again.”

It was all she could do to keep her legs under her, let alone assemble a coherent thought.

“Nothing to say to that?”

“I… um… gulp?” She finally managed to answer his smile with one of her own.

He pressed another kiss on her forehead. “Well said.”

When he pulled back and searched her eyes he was all business again. “Ready to do this now?”

“Yeah.” She drew a bracing breath. “I’m ready.”

He squeezed her arm. “Like glue,” he reminded her.

Then he turned toward the tent flap and led her into the night, either to freedom or to death.





Eight

Gripping the rifle in his left hand, Cav crouched low to minimize his profile. He thanked God and good fortune that the sky was still cloud heavy and the night dark. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and motioned for Carrie to follow his lead.

She instantly mimicked his movements and, as promised, stuck like a tick as they skittered across twenty yards of open ground, then ducked down behind the relative cover of the five vehicles parked in a tight row in front of the silent cook tent.

Even though he’d clicked into combat mode, a small part of Cav’s body and brain—as well as a big part of his libido—was still engaged in that kiss she’d laid on him. The proper southern belle just kept surprising him. He had every intention of relishing that kiss for a long, long time… later.

Right now, he had more pressing issues. Like the sleeping dogs on the far side of the camp. And the two guards on foot patrol who, if he’d timed this right, would be walking down the path any moment and filing right past the jeep they were hiding behind.

He slipped the safety off the AK as quietly as possible, then touched Carrie lightly on her arm. When he had her attention, he pressed a finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. Then he dropped to his haunches behind the front wheel well, urging her down behind him.

Less than twenty seconds later the sound of voices and the muffled crunch of sandals drifted too close for comfort. The pair of guards walked toward them, AKs slung over their shoulders, their footsteps unhurried.

The guards walked directly in front of the jeep. Some six feet and the width of an engine block separated them. And then they stopped.

Cav barely breathed. While Carrie was still sleeping, he’d retrieved the KA-Bar Warthog from his backpack frame. Very slowly, he lifted his pant leg and pulled the knife out of his boot. Behind him, Carrie was statue still in the shadows. The gentle warmth of her breath against his back, where she huddled against him, told him she was doing fine.

Come on, come on, he willed the guards silently. Move on, you lazy bastards. Finish your rounds.

Just when he was certain they would be on their way, a match flared in the dark.

They were taking a smoke break.

Carrie’s hand tightened on his belt loop but she didn’t make a sound. Several more minutes passed. Sweat ran down Cav’s face and trickled down the middle of his back as they waited it out.