Her Last Line Of Defence

Claire curled her lip at the crack about her “family estate.” “Where do I get a machete?”

“I have several. You can borrow one for now.”

She was already bringing medical supplies for the hospital and educational supplies for the school, but she’d have to talk to Dr. Schmidt about how to bring machetes. She didn’t suppose she could throw several foot-long knives into her airline carry-on.

“And your other bag?” He lifted the smaller duffel bag. “Don’t worry. Now that I know you have no upper-body strength I won’t throw this at you.”

“It’s a bit late for developing upper-body strength, don’t you think?”

He gave her an evil grin. “It’s never too late for push-ups. And no girl push-ups, either, where your butt’s sticking up in the air.”

“You want me to drop and give you twenty? That way you can check how my butt is.” She challenged him with her hands on her hips, knowing her loose nightgown would gape all the way down to her toes.

He noticed the same thing and backpedaled. “Maybe later.” He crouched and unzipped the smaller bag. “Ah, clothes from the discount rank-amateur-survivalist collection.”

“I did not shop discount,” she informed him. He held up a khaki shirt.

“Not bad—quick drying. But four of them? And one’s pink? No way I am going into the swamp with you wearing pink. Never hear the end of it.” He dug around further. “Six t-shirts, three pairs shorts, three pairs hiking pants. A packable poncho—good for making shelter. What looks like seventeen pairs of socks.”

“I blister easily.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “You kidding me? Bad feet in the jungle? What, you wanna get jungle rot or blood poisoning from a bad blister?”

“They’re special socks,” she informed him.

“Mon Dieu.” He shook his head. “Special socks. I’m beginning to sympathize with your father more and more, Claire.”

It was the first time he’d used her first name, but she figured they’d moved past a certain formality when he’d run his hands near her breasts and stared at her nipples. She liked the way he said it in his French accent, the R at the end a little purring noise.

She was too busy mooning over that to notice he’d moved on to the deepest corner of her bag. “Hey!”

He had a fistful each of her bras and panties and was examining them with a clinical eye. Of course it wasn’t any of her delicate, lacy things she had a secret weakness for—these were industrial-strength white or gray cotton sports bras and panties.

“Put those back, those are none of your business.” She grabbed for them, but of course he was too quick.

“Everything about you is my business now, down to your underwear.” He stuffed them into the bag. “Glad to see you brought one hundred percent cotton. Prickly heat and fungal infections are no joke.”

Claire winced but he had moved on to the hiking boots she’d left next to the door. He examined the specially vented sides designed to drain water and sweat, tested the soles’ flexibility and tugged on the laces. He stopped and examined one lace closely.

“Is it getting frayed?” She hoped not. She had gone online and researched her boots, knowing her feet would be her weak point. These were supposed to be the best jungle-trekking boots made.

Boudreaux unlaced one boot. She probably hadn’t laced it up to Green Beret requirements. He straightened, his face serious, the boot dangling from his hand. “What do you know about the plans your father has made for your training?”

“Oh, um, he said we would all drive down to Parris Island tomorrow and get started. I’m not sure how far that is.”

“It’s about two hundred and fifty miles. Ever been there?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the Marine Corps recruiting depot for the eastern United States. Big installation. The feds do their outdoor training there.” He eyed her closely. “Your father made reservations for the two of you to stay in the VIP quarters at night after you train with me during the day.”

“So we would go out into the woods for the day and come back every night?” It sounded cushy to Claire, but not particularly effective.

“You didn’t know about your hotel arrangements?”

“I figured we’d pitch a couple of pup tents so I could learn how.”

“Pup tents. Right.” He held up her boot. “Did you realize you have a tracking device here?”

“A what?”

“Somebody planted what looks like a GPS tracking device on the tongue of your boot. See this black disc? Your other boot doesn’t have it.”

Claire stared at the plastic circle. “I barely noticed that—I thought it was an antitheft device from the store.”

“It is. An antitheft device for you. Not your boot. Whoever planted this can log in to a GPS server and find exactly where your boot is, every minute of every day.”

“Who would want to…” Claire’s question trailed away. Of course she knew who wanted to track her—her father. Good grief, she’d seen ads for things like this, but to find lost children who’d wandered away at the playground, not keep tabs on a grown adult. Then a worse thought hit her. Had her father put trackers in her car, her purse?

She ran across the room and dumped her purse on the bed. “Check out my stuff. I need to know if I have any more electronic babysitters.”

Boudreaux methodically examined every thing she normally carried with her. Claire blushed briefly when he found the little pouch that held her tampons and a couple condoms she’d forgotten about. His black gaze flicked to her face but he didn’t change his expression.

He probed the lining of her purse and stopped. “Here.” He pulled out a razor-sharp-looking pocketknife and slit a seam before working something out with his fingers.

She leaned over his shoulder. “Another one,” she said dully. It was a match to the one on her shoe.

“Want me to check your duffel bags?”

“No.” She waved off his offer, slumping onto the bed, her shoulders hunching.

“You think it’s your father?”

“Who else?”

“Disgruntled boyfriend? Someone who’s unhappy you’re leaving him for so long?” He looked down at her in concern.

She let out a decidedly unladylike snort. “Not hardly. I haven’t even had sex in almost a year.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. Great. Now she sounded like some sort of desperate weirdo.

He bit back a smile. “If it makes you feel better, neither have I.”

Instead of clearing the air, their mutual admission of celibacy thickened it. The condoms on her bed beckoned. Condoms, bed and extended celibacy were a potent combination.

Who would need to know if she made a move on him? She was leaving for San Lucas in less than a month, where the sexual opportunities were probably slim. She’d never been so bold with a total stranger, but he had shown her flashes of gentleness under his tough exterior. “Luc.” His name was strange and wonderful on her tongue as she ran her hand up his muscled forearm to where his bicep met his soft cotton T-shirt.

He stood frozen as a statue, the only movement in his body under his tight zipper. Emboldened, she brushed her palm over his rock-hard pec, his nipple responding instantly. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Luc, you feel—”

“Dammit!” His eyes flew open and he caught her wrist.

“What?”

“I feel too good, that’s what. And you’d feel too good under me.” He shoved her hand away from him. “And this is why women are not allowed in Special Forces. Your skin is too smooth, your body is too soft—hell, even that sweet peachy smell coming off your hair is a dangerous distraction.”

“You think I’m a distraction?” Despite his rejection and backhanded compliments, she was pleased.

“I know so.” He pointed a finger at her. “And you don’t need any distractions, either. I will not be hanging around the jungles of San Lucas de la Selva ready to rescue you with my machete in my hand and my knife between my teeth. The only person you can depend on is you.”

“How sad.”

“What?”

“Don’t you depend on your family? Your team?”

“Family will not get you out of a jam if you’re far away, and your team, well…” He looked away for a second. “Sometimes your team is gone and it’s just you.”

“Oh.”

He stared at her. “If you don’t want to do this, back out. But if you want to have at least a fighting chance of taking care of yourself, come with me now.”

“Now?” she squeaked. It was almost one in the morning.

“Oui, now. That Parris Island training is bullshit. You can’t learn anything if you know you’ve got a hot shower and fluffy bed waiting for you at the end of the day. And don’t forget, your papa‘s going to hover over you with his little GPS tracker to make sure you don’t get lost—a real eye in the sky.”

Claire’s lips tightened. In the heat of touching Luc, she’d almost forgotten about that sneaky trick. “What do I need to do?”

“Do everything I tell you.” He pulled out a clean outfit for her and checked every item. “No tracking devices in the things. Get dressed.”

“Okay.” Some impish impulse made her shrug off her robe and stand before him in just her nightgown. He stared at her, his eyes dark and hungry. She started to push one strap off her shoulder when he snapped out of it.

“You, go in the bathroom, you. I’m going to my truck for a bag to pack your stuff.” He hurried out, checking the hall before he left.

He wanted her, she could tell. But discipline was winning over desire.

LUC RUSHED TO HIS TRUCK, his muscles practically quivering from the effort to restrain himself from showing Miss Claire Cook how nice that big bed could be. He leaned his forehead against the frame of his red truck. He was totally crazy in the head, to think going out alone into the field with this woman was a good idea.

Hell, he was totally nuts to have turned her down. Sweet Mam’zelle Claire had practically thrown herself at him, condoms at the ready, and what had he done?

Turned her down. Turned down a sweet-smelling, shiny-haired, pretty lady with full, plump breasts and dark, shadowy nipples that had poked out like his cock when he touched her.

He cursed again. If only he’d had even a few days to go out, have a couple beers, meet some good-looking chicks who were interested in checking out his battle scars in close, personal detail. Maybe the top of his head wouldn’t be about to blow off.

The guys on his team with girlfriends or wives didn’t have this problem. They’d all disappeared into their bedrooms and didn’t come up for air for at least a week.

But no girlfriend or wife for Luc. He’d seen too many relationships wrecked by Special Forces deployments, seen too many of his teammates dumped via e-mail or satellite phone. Green Berets weren’t supposed to cry but he’d seen his teammates break down. Living in some cave ten thousand miles away from everyone you loved gave a “Dear John” knife in the back an extra-deep twist.

Luc wasn’t so smug in his current situation, though. He rubbed his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. He needed to get himself under control or else he’d be making his way through the swamp with his pecker pointing the way.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” Claire was shouting since Luc had slipped in a CD of loud rock music. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t understand more than a third of the lyrics. The green dashboard lights showed Luc’s hard, set expression as he tapped his truck’s steering wheel in time to the beat.

“South.”

“Oh.” They had left the main road several miles ago and were passing small towns, their lights darkened for the night. “I should call somebody to let them know our plans.” She would need to use his phone, since hers had sported a tracking device, as well.

Luc lowered the stereo volume slightly. “You left two voice mails and a note for your father. I think he’ll be okay. Pissed off, but okay.”

“Yes, I know.” Claire twisted her fingers as she looked around the truck’s interior. She’d practically needed a ladder to climb into it, but the interior was almost as luxurious as her dad’s Euro luxury car—soft leather seats, totally digital controls, a smooth ride. Only her father’s German car didn’t have a gun rack in the back window.

“Where are your guns?” she asked.

“Why you want to know? You gonna shoot me?”

“No, of course not.” She was aghast.

“You might by the time we’re done.” He grinned. “I have a sidearm, a rifle and a shotgun in my bags. All properly unloaded and broken down, of course.” He shot her a look. “You know how to use any of those?”

“Uh, some target shooting. Oh, and my dad took me skeet shooting once but I wasn’t very good at it. The reporters kept distracting me.”

“Election year, huh?”

“Every year is election year when you’re a U.S. Representative.” How many times had Claire and her mother been trotted out at a campaign event? “If it’s not an actual voting year, it’s a fund-raising year. My mother did most of the events until I got out of high school, and then she took a job teaching anthropology at the local college and I volunteered to do more.”

“Wasn’t your job to do his work for him, Claire.”

“Public events always look better with family members.” That was what her father had said.

“Especially if the family members are photogenic young women. Hope you didn’t miss anything important.”

“Not much. A couple sorority dances, an honor society induction, a semester in Paris that happened to be the fall term of an election year.”

“A semester in Paris?” He gave a low whistle. “After all, how are you going to keep the girl on the Virginia farm, once she’s seen Paris?”

“All right, that one still bothers me. I studied French for seven years and never even studied anywhere French-speaking. It was too late to even make arrangements to go to Montreal.”

“You can practice your French on me anytime. Course, Cajun French is over three hundred years old, so you may sound a bit out-of-date.”

“Really? I did read that in one of my French classes, but our teacher was Parisian and all she would say is that it sounds strange. Then she sneered a bit.”

“Yeah, well, we Cajuns are the linguistic hillbillies of the Francophone world.”

Claire burst out laughing. “Madame la Professeur always was a snob.”

Luc grunted.

“Have you ever worked with French soldiers?”

He gave her an amused look. “Peut-être.”

“Maybe? Oh, right, you can’t say. Just like Janey. I’m sure she has lots of interesting stories to tell me but she can’t because they’re classified.” The only story Janey had told her recently was about her exploits with the sexually frustrated marine. If only Janey knew how close Claire had come to having an exploit of her own. But no, the darn man was determined to resist her. Rats.

“Loose lips still sink ships. Your friend is smart to keep her mouth closed.”

“That’s right, Janey will keep her mouth closed. Maybe I can call her really quickly to let her know what’s going on.” For some strange reason, Claire trusted Luc to keep her safe but she still wanted to talk to someone, anyone, before going into the deep, dark woods.

“Okay.” Luc dug in the console and handed her a phone. “Use this one to call your friend, and then we have radio silence. No calls unless it’s life or death.” He turned down the rock music.

Claire dialed her friend’s cell-phone number, hoping she wouldn’t get mad that Claire woke her.

Janey answered. “Hello?” she shouted over a pulsing country music beat.

“Janey, it’s Claire.”

“Claire? Why aren’t you asleep? Aren’t you leaving at seven?”

“I’m too nervous to sleep.” That part was true. “Where are you? I thought you were going to the Airborne Inn.” Claire had invited Janey to stay with her but her friend had decided to check in to the base lodging.

“Captain Olson kindly offered to show me around Fayetteville and I took him up on it.” Janey lowered her voice as much as she could, considering the loud music. “He went to the bar for some refills. Holy crap, Claire. He turned into some blond stud once all that hair was gone.” Like any good army officer, Janey preferred clean-cut men. “I almost fainted dead away when I realized who he was. What about you? Why aren’t you in bed getting ready for your big day tomorrow?”

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