Her Last Line Of Defence. Marie Donovan

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      “You think so, huh.” His CO shook his head. “We’ll see, Rage. We’ll see.”

      Chapter Three

      A TAP SOUNDED ON CLAIRE’S hotel room door. She looked up from the San Lucas guidebook she had been reading and tucked a bookmark inside.

      She hadn’t ordered room service, and her father was still probably drinking bourbon and smoking illicit Cuban cigars at the hotel’s private men’s club with the esteemed senator for the state of North Carolina. She hopped out of bed and peeked through the peephole.

      A black-haired stranger stood in front of her door, his face turned to the side. Wow, was he a looker with a strong, clean jaw and firm, full lips. His short haircut indicated that he was probably military despite the fact he wore jeans and a black T-shirt. What should she do? It was past midnight. “Yes?” she ventured, tugging her peach-colored cotton robe around her.

      “Miss Cook?” He stopped scanning the hall and stared at the peephole.

      She swallowed hard. “Sergeant Boudreaux?” she asked faintly. Good Lord, the man cleaned up well. Better than well, magnificently.

      “You alone, ma’am?”

      “Of course.” She undid the chain and yanked open the door. “Who else would be here with me?” As if she’d brought a boyfriend when she had important preparation to do.

      He gave her an amused smile. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe your father or your friend the lieutenant.”

      “Oh.” Her mind had immediately jumped to things of a sexual nature and she blamed him. Worst of all, he knew what she’d assumed.

      “If you’re not comfortable letting me into your room, we can meet downstairs in the bar.”

      “No, no, that’s all right.” She stopped clutching the door and opened it for him. “Come in.”

      “Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped into her room and looked around. “Never been in this hotel before even though it’s not too far from the base. Fancy.”

      Claire supposed it was, with its high ceilings designed for hot Southern nights, creamy warm yellow wallpaper and matching bedding. She snuck a glance at the dark wooden four-poster bed behind her, which seemed to have tripled in size since she’d answered the door.

      His gaze followed hers. “Nice bed.”

      “Um, yes. Yes, it is, although I haven’t really tried it out yet. Since we just got here today.” She’d been too nervous to sleep, knowing she’d be out in the woods with him tomorrow, but that was nothing compared to having him in her bedroom. “You got a shave and a haircut.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

      “You suggested it, didn’t you?” He rubbed his chin. “Feels strange to have a smooth face after so many months.”

      Claire never guessed he was so handsome under all that hair. She couldn’t stop watching his hand rub his tight, tanned skin. Her nipples tightened and she gathered her robe closer. “What brings you here, Sergeant?”

      “You.”

      “What?”

      “I need to make sure you’re ready.”

      Oh, she was. But probably not for what he had in mind. “I’ll be at the base at oh-seven-hundred hours like we planned.” She thought her little foray into military time was pretty good, but he obviously disagreed.

      “Real training should start at what we call ‘oh-dark-thirty.’”

      “What time is that?” It sounded terribly early.

      “Whenever the CO hauls your ass out of bed—three, four o’clock in the morning.”

      “My goodness, that is early.”

      “The old army recruiting slogan had it right—’we do more before 9:00 a.m. than most people do all day.’”

      “Shouldn’t they have said ‘oh-nine-hundred’?” He gave her a strange look. “I mean, using military time and all that…”

      “Let me see your stuff.” Without getting permission, Sergeant Boudreaux hefted one duffel bag. “Crap! Can you even lift this thing?” He easily tossed it to Claire, but its weight pitched her backward onto the bed and she found herself staring at the underside of the yellow canopy.

      He muttered another curse and pulled the bag off her chest. “You okay?”

      She nodded as she tried to catch her breath. Before she knew it, he was kneeling next to her on the bed and running his hands expertly over her shoulders and arms. He hesitated briefly as his fingers brushed the sides of her unbound breasts, but continued his checkup. “Take a deep breath.”

      Claire did, her robe falling open to reveal her sheer cotton nightgown. His gaze fell to the rise and fall of her breasts, and she realized the dark circles of her nipples were visible.

      Boudreaux swallowed. “Does it hurt?” His voice was thick and sweet as cane syrup.

      “Does what hurt?” Her nipples were starting to hurt from being so hard. Despite his rough exterior, his hands had been gentle.

      “Your chest. I mean, when you breathe.” His own breath was coming faster.

      “You mean, here?” Some little devil made Claire massage the tops of her breasts and breastbone between.

      His hands clearly gripped his jeans-clad knees. “Yeah. There. Do I need to call you an ambulance?”

      She stopped, disappointed. “No. Are you trying to break my ribs so I don’t go?”

      He leaped off the bed so smoothly the only evidence he’d ever been there was his imprint on the duvet. “Back to the duffel.” He crouched and unzipped it while she sat up. “Camping gear?” He lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. “What did you do, clean out the Bass Pro Shop?”

      “No, of course not!” It had been the L.L. Bean catalog.

      He pulled out each item, giving a running tally. “Sleeping bag, sleeping bag pillow, mess kit, ground sheet—okay, that might be useful…biodegradable dish soap?” He shook his head. “Planning on doing any dishes? A GPS unit—do you even know how to use this? Got any extra batteries? They go bad quickly in hot, damp climates. Oh, look, how useful. An unsharpened pocketknife. Got a whetstone?”

      Claire shrugged. She wasn’t sure.

      Boudreaux continued, “No compass, no whetstone, no machete—”

      “Machete? What’s that for?”

      “A machete, or ma-chay-tay, as our Spanishspeaking friends would call it, is the golden ticket to survival. You wanna make friends in the Amazon, you bring the natives high-quality machetes, and lots of them. If you’ve never seen the gardener on your family estate use one, they look like a really big knife curved on the СКАЧАТЬ