Free Dangerous to Hold by Merline Lovelace Page B

delicate face without the white wimple and black veil framing it. Or to the long blond hair she’d pulled back and tied with a narrow strip torn from the hem of her habit. Jake had never thought of himself as particularly conservative, but at this moment he wasn’t sure he agreed with Pope Whoever’s Vatican Council. Hair like that ought to be worn short, he decided irritably. Short and straight, in a style that didn’t add several degrees of attraction to an already stunning face.
    â€œI’ll take the boys outside after they eat,” he announced, in a tone that warned her not to object. He was in no mood for arguments after his long, hot, nearly sleepless night. And he sure as blazes wasn’t about to offer up his boot again. The transmitter might be beyond repair, but rubber boots could save the life of someone tramping through the soggy, rotting vegetation that layered the rain-forest floor.
    The primitive latrine Jake had rigged would suffice for her and the little girl, but the boys could darn well use the stream. Besides, they needed exercise. He needed exercise. He felt restless and edgy and caged. He wasn’t used to sharing his quarters with a woman whose every move seemed to snag his gaze and whose breath fluttered softly in the darkness. Nor with three kids, two of whom, at least, appeared to be recovering from the terror of the raid. He turned away to dig out some water-purifier tablets for the canteens he’d just refilled.
    Sarah bristled at the gringo’s—at Creighton’s—curt tone, but decided not to challenge his assumption of authority over the boys. Actually, it sent a spurt of secret relief rushing through her. After a day and a night with three small children, she was feeling an accumulation of stress that had nothing to do with their uncertain position in the rebel camp. Didn’t kids ever run out of energy? Or questions?
    Struggling to her feet in the overlarge, if blessedly cool, cotton skirt she’d donned yesterday, Sarah moved toward the makeshift table. The mercenary stepped back, but not quite far enough. Her bare arm brushed his. The feel of his warm, taut flesh, liberally sprinkled with wiry dark hair, made Sarah suck in a quick breath. She sent him a wide, startled look.
    â€œJesus!” he muttered, shifting his eyes back to the canteens.
    â€œPlease don’t use the Lord’s name in vain around the children,” she admonished tartly.
    His answer was a scowl.
    Unsure what had put him in such a foul mood this morning, but sharing his sentiments, Sarah set out the battered tin plates and spoons their reluctant host had provided for them yesterday.
    â€œCome on, children, you need to eat.”
    While the three youngsters gathered around the crate, Sarah scooped the bananas out of the frying pan. Her taste buds tingled at the delicious aroma. Breaking off an end of one banana, she popped it into her mouth. “Mmm…these are good.”
    Teresa’s accusing black eyes stopped her in midswallow. Oh, hell. She’d forgotten again. Sarah gulped down the sweet, glutinous mass.
    â€œI was just testing them, Teresa. In case they were too hot for you to eat. But they’re okay. You can say grace now.”
    The little traitor shook her head, then smiled shyly up at the tall man standing beside her. “ You say it, Señor Creighton.”
    Sarah wasn’t sure which she enjoyed more—the painedexpression that crossed his lean, unshaven face whenever one of them referred to him by that name, or his startled look at the thought of leading a prayer. Good, she thought with malicious satisfaction. Let him struggle with the words for a change. She’d stretched her own skimpy knowledge of Catholic prayers, gleaned from Maria in the past two weeks, about as far as they would go.
    He cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Thanks Lord. Let’s eat.”
    His fervent efficiency won grins of approval from