feel.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t think so.”
She hissed at him like a snake.
“You’re not that kind of doctor, anyway,” he said. The truth was, he didn’t want to let go of her hand. He couldn’t have explained it, but he felt that if he did, she’d disappear into the desert and he’d never see her again.
“No, I’m not that kind of doctor, but I can help you if you let me, you dufus.”
The American slang sounded incongruous, preceded as it was by a long stream of furious Spanish, and Rafe had to bite back a smile. Dufus? He couldn’t think of a Spanish equivalent. Now, psycho —
He let go of her hand, then realized his was sweaty and wiped it down his pant leg.
“Lift your shirt.”
He gingerly lifted his black shirt, and heard her gasp.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she said in English.
He watched her curiously as she bent over and ripped the bottom half of her long skirt along the slim strip of embroidery that attached it to the top half. She straightened.
“What are you doing?”
“Applying first aid,” she said.
“With your dress?”
“Well, I could take off my bra and snap it to your chest, but then you’d have a lot to explain to your cell-mates once Ernesto throws you in jail.”
She clamped the bottom of her skirt to his chest with one hand and began wrapping the material tightly around him.
“If you don’t hurry, he will throw me in jail,” Rafe said, sucking in his breath as she touched a sore spot.
“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying, you ungrateful pain in the neck.”
He heard her mutter in English, and he smiled over the top of her silky hair.
“Good thing I was wearing a skirt like a proper damsel. Good thing I’m not a respected scientist or anything. Then this would be absolutely absurd. Oh, if my parents ever find out about this…Oh God, and Dr. Eames—at least he won’t make me do any more press conferences—” She tucked the end of the fabric into the wrapping and stood back. “There,” she said, switching to Spanish again, proud of herself.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t have to go with you.”
He put his chin on his chest to check her bandage. Good field dressing. “Yes,” he said. “You do.” He moved experimentally. His ribs did feel slightly better. They’d be able to move much faster now. Before she could think to run, he clasped his hand over her wrist.
“No, you’ll be safe now,” she insisted. “I’ll go back down the mountain, divert their attention, tell them you went in the opposite direction.”
It made perfect sense, Rafe knew. And he wouldn’t have let her do it in a million years. She was not going back to Cervantes. Not only did the thought of the bastard touching her again make Rafe nuts—for some ungodly, Neanderthal reason that he’d need a psychiatrist and an anthropologist to explain to him—but Cervantes was one slip-up away from being taken down by the United States Drug Enforcement Agency and a half-dozen cooperating Mexican law enforcement organizations. No way was Rafe letting any woman, willing accomplice or not, rush back into a situation as volatile as that. His mother would murder him.
Olivia Galpas had saved his life tonight. And she was an American. A spoiled and wealthy American who had an obvious knack for getting herself into trouble, but an American nonetheless. She deserved some consideration from a DEA agent such as him.
“You’re coming with me, Doctor,” he said.
Olivia put her foot down, such as it was. “No,” she said quite firmly—even barked the word, she might have said. “I am not.”
Rafe leaned forward. “Once again, princesa, you’re wrong.”
Suddenly, his head whipped up like that of a wolf scenting prey, and she heard the sound of men coming through the desert.
“Come on,” he said, and began to run.
Olivia had no idea when the bottoms of her feet began to bleed, or when the blisters on her heels popped. Or when the moon came up. Or
He eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t think so.”
She hissed at him like a snake.
“You’re not that kind of doctor, anyway,” he said. The truth was, he didn’t want to let go of her hand. He couldn’t have explained it, but he felt that if he did, she’d disappear into the desert and he’d never see her again.
“No, I’m not that kind of doctor, but I can help you if you let me, you dufus.”
The American slang sounded incongruous, preceded as it was by a long stream of furious Spanish, and Rafe had to bite back a smile. Dufus? He couldn’t think of a Spanish equivalent. Now, psycho —
He let go of her hand, then realized his was sweaty and wiped it down his pant leg.
“Lift your shirt.”
He gingerly lifted his black shirt, and heard her gasp.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she said in English.
He watched her curiously as she bent over and ripped the bottom half of her long skirt along the slim strip of embroidery that attached it to the top half. She straightened.
“What are you doing?”
“Applying first aid,” she said.
“With your dress?”
“Well, I could take off my bra and snap it to your chest, but then you’d have a lot to explain to your cell-mates once Ernesto throws you in jail.”
She clamped the bottom of her skirt to his chest with one hand and began wrapping the material tightly around him.
“If you don’t hurry, he will throw me in jail,” Rafe said, sucking in his breath as she touched a sore spot.
“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying, you ungrateful pain in the neck.”
He heard her mutter in English, and he smiled over the top of her silky hair.
“Good thing I was wearing a skirt like a proper damsel. Good thing I’m not a respected scientist or anything. Then this would be absolutely absurd. Oh, if my parents ever find out about this…Oh God, and Dr. Eames—at least he won’t make me do any more press conferences—” She tucked the end of the fabric into the wrapping and stood back. “There,” she said, switching to Spanish again, proud of herself.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t have to go with you.”
He put his chin on his chest to check her bandage. Good field dressing. “Yes,” he said. “You do.” He moved experimentally. His ribs did feel slightly better. They’d be able to move much faster now. Before she could think to run, he clasped his hand over her wrist.
“No, you’ll be safe now,” she insisted. “I’ll go back down the mountain, divert their attention, tell them you went in the opposite direction.”
It made perfect sense, Rafe knew. And he wouldn’t have let her do it in a million years. She was not going back to Cervantes. Not only did the thought of the bastard touching her again make Rafe nuts—for some ungodly, Neanderthal reason that he’d need a psychiatrist and an anthropologist to explain to him—but Cervantes was one slip-up away from being taken down by the United States Drug Enforcement Agency and a half-dozen cooperating Mexican law enforcement organizations. No way was Rafe letting any woman, willing accomplice or not, rush back into a situation as volatile as that. His mother would murder him.
Olivia Galpas had saved his life tonight. And she was an American. A spoiled and wealthy American who had an obvious knack for getting herself into trouble, but an American nonetheless. She deserved some consideration from a DEA agent such as him.
“You’re coming with me, Doctor,” he said.
Olivia put her foot down, such as it was. “No,” she said quite firmly—even barked the word, she might have said. “I am not.”
Rafe leaned forward. “Once again, princesa, you’re wrong.”
Suddenly, his head whipped up like that of a wolf scenting prey, and she heard the sound of men coming through the desert.
“Come on,” he said, and began to run.
Olivia had no idea when the bottoms of her feet began to bleed, or when the blisters on her heels popped. Or when the moon came up. Or
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