Iris Johansen - Star-Spangled Bride

"I find it very apt under the circumstances," he told her as he took the case. "Am I on a schedule for this too?"

She picked up the manacles and headed to the door. "Seven minutes. Your old friends should be here within ten to search the house."

"Let's hope they keep to your agenda and not their own." He moved toward the bathroom. "I trust you're going to wash off that black stuff and get into something more appropriate?"

"Of course. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not known to be stupid." He slammed the door and began peeling off his clothes. Dammit, he knew he should be grateful since the woman had saved his neck, but there was something about Ronnie Dalton that rubbed his nerves like high-grade sandpaper. Her air of crisp decisiveness and aggressiveness made him want to reach out and shake her.

He stepped beneath the shower and let the lukewarm water run over him. He wasn't usuallyso unfair. Women had the right to be just as aggressive as men in this world. Face it, he probably would have been antagonistic toward anyone whose hands held his life. He liked to be in control and he'd had a bellyful of pent-up frustration and helplessness during this last year. But that wasn't Ronnie Dalton's fault, and he would have to submerge his natural instincts and work with her if they were going to get out of this alive.

"Geez, can't you hurry up?" she called through the door.

He gritted his teeth. "You gave me seven minutes. It's only been five." Gratitude, he reminded himself as he turned off the shower. After donning his disguise and wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom.

He saw she was in bed, leaning back against a high oak headboard that was as scarred and chipped as the other meager furniture in the room.

He stopped in shock.

She looked not a day over sixteen. Her skin glowed with fresh scrubbing and seemed as rose-petal soft as a baby's. Her golden hair was short and curled riotously about her face. The sheet was pulled up to her shoulders, but she was obviously nude beneath the thin cover.

"You look-"

"I know, I know," she said impatiently. Like something from one of the old-time Gibson girl ads. I can't help it. Get into bed."

"I'm not sure I should," he said even as he slipped under the sheet and threw the towel aside. "How the hell old are you?"

"Twenty-four." She reached over to the bedside table and plucked a dark shining object from its surface, which proved to be a long black wig. After putting it on, she commenced to tuck her short blond curls underneath it. "This should make me look older."

"Wrong," he corrected. "Instead of looking like a Christmas-card angel, you've only turned into a nursery-school dropout."

"Really?" She frowned. "Well, it will have to do. Maybe they'll think you're one of those men who like young girls." She lifted the pillow to reveal a revolver. "A Magnum.357. We don't want to use it unless we have to, but it will blow a good-sized hole."

"Quite a good-sized hole. You're familiar with guns?"

"I grew up with them. When most kids were going to school, I was learning how to assemble an Uzi."

"Interesting."

"If I have to blow anyone away, head for the bathroom. That window opens onto the alley."

"You appear to have everything researched."

"I told you I wasn't stupid. I want to live as much as you do."

Her hand was opening and closing nervously on the sheet. "Now, when we hear them, you move over me and pretend we're doing it. Don't turn fully around, but it would be smart to let them get a glimpse of your beard."

"Misdirection." He stretched out and willed himself to relax. "I'll handle it."

"Do you speak Said Ababan? You should-"

"I said I'll handle it." He tried to keep the edge from his tone. "I assure you I learned to be very fluent in Said Ababan obscenities over the last year."

"You'll have to disguise your voice. They must be able to recognize it after all these months."

"For Lord's sake, I'm fully aware of-" He stopped as he noticed the rapid pounding of the pulse in her throat. She was frightened, he realized suddenly. Scared as hell and talking feverishly to keep from admitting it to him and to herself. The knowledge completely disarmedhim. Why, she was only a kid and about as tough as his six-year-old niece, Daisy. He felt a rush of protectiveness ripple through him. "I'll watch it," he said quietly. "Now relax. There's nothing to do but wait."

She drew a deep breath. "I hate waiting."

"So do I, but I've learned to cope with it." Her skin had a silky sheen like that usually seen only in very young children, and he suddenly felt an urge to reach out and touch her. He found an excuse. His index finger tapped a small scar on her right shoulder. "What's this?"

"Bullet wound." She moistened her lips. "El Salvador."

He felt an odd surge of anger. "Who the hell sent you into that hellhole?"

"I sent myself," she said absently, her gaze fixed on the door. "And I got the footage."

"Wonderful," he said, his voice caustic. "And you also got a bullet."

The rough edge to his words must have startled her, for she turned to look at him in bewilderment. "Why are you so angry? There were plenty of your reporters in El Salvador."

"But they weren't-" He stopped. He didn't know why he was so angry. She was right; he had sent many of his people into danger. Riskwas accepted as part of a reporter's life. Yet there was something so fragile and vulnerable about Ronnie Dalton despite her air of tough bravado that the thought of her in danger made him-

"It's my face, isn't it?" She grimaced. "I've had to fight this cherub's mug all my life. No one wants to take me seriously."

"You're still pretty young. It's not been a very long battle." He touched the scar again, his finger rubbing gently. "This isn't a fresh wound. How old were you when you got the scar?"

"Eighteen." She looked down at his finger. "I wish you wouldn't do that; it makes me feel… funny."

Touching her didn't make him feel funny, it made him horny as hell. He could feel himself hardening and was abruptly conscious of a lemony scent clinging to her, of her slight breasts thrusting beneath the thin sheet.

Crazy. He was probably only minutes away from another encounter with those Middle Eastern thugs and he wanted only to mount the woman and drive into her like a rutting stallion. Hell, maybe not so crazy. It was instinct for every species, when faced with death, to want to procreate. At least there was no doubt he wanted to.

"You're not-" She stopped when she heard the sound of raised voices in the hall. "They're here!"

He moved swiftly over her.

Warm hard flesh against her own.

Shock. Fear.

Ronnie was conscious her heart was pounding so hard it made her breath come in short, painful pants.

"You're shaking," he whispered. "Take it easy, everything will be all right."

"I know that." She swallowed and added, "Maybe."

His head lifted. "They're opening all the doors." He parted her thighs and moved between them. "Wrap your legs around me. Quick!"

She obeyed him without thinking, her thighs closing around his hips. Shocking hardness. Her eyes widened and her gaze flew to his face. "Why, you're-"

"Adrenaline has that effect on me. It doesn't mean anything," he muttered.

"It feels like it means something very-"

The door of their room flew open.

She couldn't see anything beyond his shoulder.

He turned his head so that only his bearded cheek would be revealed and shouted something in Said Ababan in a guttural tone.

There was an answering curse from the intruders and then the door slammed shut.

She went limp with relief. She whispered, "You'd better not move until we're sure they're gone."