Seduction Under Fire

“Throwing a doorknob at them is better than nothing, but hardly game changing, MacGyver.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You’re a dense man. We’ve been over this already. I hate nicknames. Take off one of your socks so we can put the doorknob in it. We can do serious damage to someone’s head that way.”

Aaron grinned, genuinely impressed. Even so, he couldn’t stem the urge to tease her. “I didn’t think a chick would be so handy to have around.”

She jumped to her feet and rushed him. With fiery eyes, she poked him hard in the chest and waved the underwire beneath his nose. “You ought to show more respect to the person who’s saving your life.” She poked him again. “I’m not one of those helpless cupcakes you waste your time with. I graduated head of my class at the police academy and was the first female Special Forces Officer in San Diego. Those sons of bitches have no idea what a mistake they made messing with me.”

Aaron held up his hands in surrender. The gesture lost significance by the fact that he was chuckling. For some sick and twisted reason he didn’t care to analyze, he liked her when she was all riled up this way. “Cupcakes?”

Camille snorted and went back to work on the doorknob screws. “Yeah, well, that’s what they look like to me with their poofy hair and fake nails and fluffy clothes—little pink frosted cupcakes with sprinkles. Completely free of substance.”

Aaron gawked at her. Not for the first time since their ordeal began, she’d rendered him speechless.

She was right. Most of the women he knew were a bunch of cupcakes compared to her, a woman so self-sufficient and physically capable that she was the one planning to save his life. She was the one fashioning tools out of her bra and improvising weaponry. He supposed he hadn’t noticed sooner because they’d never been in a clinch situation before, but the lady was a badass.

He was fascinated … and irritated as hell to realize it.

Well, he had no intention of standing around and letting Camille be the only hero. While she finessed the external doorknob to stay in place, he removed his sock, slid the interior knob inside and took a few practice swings. As far as bludgeons went, this one would do nicely.

“The guard’ll have a gun, so the trick will be to catch him unaware,” he deliberated.

Camille stood and adjusted her skirt. “I thought of that, too. That’s where our rope will come in handy.”

Their animosity forgotten, they scooted their chairs together and hashed out a plan. Stripped of sarcasm and defensiveness, Aaron was surprised by how similarly their minds worked. Within minutes, they knew how to proceed and the role each would play.

They took positions on either side of the hallway door and waited. Feeling more confident than he had since being taken hostage, he smiled at Camille, who responded with a sly grin of her own.

In the two years he’d known her, this was the first time he’d ever seen her smile. He liked the effect it had on her features. It didn’t soften her but made her look more powerful and capable and all those things Aaron was discovering this extraordinary woman was beneath her cold exterior. He studied her, mesmerized by her complexity, as she stood with a rope in hand, ready to spring at her enemy.

They had plenty of warning when it was showtime. Boots in the hallway, a lock rattling. With the click of the second lock, Aaron’s muscles tensed. Camille crouched, leaning toward the door, the rope tight in her hands.

This was going to be fast.

The whole choreographed sequence would take less than a minute. The placement of their footfalls and the timing of their moves had to be exact. He and Camille would have to work as though they were breathing in unison.

The door swung wide, hiding Aaron behind it. Holding his position, he gripped the bludgeon and prayed.

Camille let the man get both feet in the room and register that the chairs were empty. She dropped the rope over his head and pulled him against her, strangling him as she moved backward three steps.

The guard played his part perfectly. He ran into the room and faced Camille and her hostage, his finger on the trigger of his rifle, shouting at her in Spanish.

“In,” Camille said.

At her cue, Aaron kicked the door closed. With unflinching purpose, he brought the bludgeon down on the guard’s head, felling him instantly. Then, working in perfect synchronization, Aaron straddled the guard and swung the bludgeon as Camille pushed her captive toward him. It took two thumps with the doorknob before he crumpled atop the unconscious guard.

Aaron stood over the two fallen bodies looking the part of a victorious warrior, surveying his conquered foes. Camille tried to be subtle about it, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He gripped the bludgeon in his hand, and her gaze followed the sinews of his arm to his massive biceps and broad shoulder—muscles that no longer seemed like a sign of his vanity, but weapons in his arsenal. Despite all they’d been through, the shadows of his dimples remained and his wavy blond hair still looked boyishly carefree, but the planes of his jaw were rigidly set and the expression on his face was one she’d never seen on him before—hard and dangerous.

He raised his eyes and caught Camille staring. She wrenched her gaze to the window, her whole upper body flushing hot.

The guard moaned, snapping Camille back to the moment. She lunged for his gun at the same time Aaron did, but he reached it first. The guard moaned again before Aaron knocked his head with the butt of the rifle, sending him out cold once more.

Camille searched the men for weapons and discovered a short-barreled .38 Special. She spun the cylinder to check for bullets, which was no easy task given the way her hand shook. Here we go, she thought, snapping the fully loaded cylinder in place. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal this weakness to Aaron.

You see, I have this condition called post-traumatic stress disorder …

She cringed. Then she had an idea. “Aaron, you mind trading guns?”

He tsked in protest, but held the rifle out. “I guess size really does matter to a lady.”

With the rifle, Camille felt better. She could hold it with both hands instead of one and steady it against her shoulder when she fired. Besides, one didn’t need to strive for accuracy with an M16. She slung the gun’s strap over her head and pushed the rifle around to her back. Squatting, she removed the guard’s shoes and black jeans.

“What are you doing?” Aaron asked.

“I hate wearing skirts.” She unzipped the offensive garment and pushed it down an inch before remembering her audience. Aaron’s face was frozen in a grimace. So she disgusted him, what else was new? She couldn’t escape shoeless, wearing a skirt. “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind that you’re about to put on those nasty pants? Hell, yeah. They look like a biological superweapon.”

“No, wise guy. Do you mind giving me some privacy?”

He faced the wall. Ignoring the foul odor wafting from the pants, Camille donned them and folded the waist to help with the fit.

“You can turn around now.”

She tried on the other man’s sneakers and was grateful they were a near fit.

“That’s quite a look you’ve created.”

She brought the rifle forward, gripping it tightly with both hands to keep the shaking to a minimum. “Yeah, I’m a real fashion maven. I’m calling this look Cartel Chic.”

Aaron chuckled and Camille surprised herself by joining in. She did look pretty awful.

Too soon, the moment passed as they remembered where they were and what they’d done. Both sets of eyes returned to the unconscious figures on the ground.

“That was almost too easy,” Camille said.

“We’re not done yet, Blondie. We still have to escape from the compound.”

Chapter 4

Camille was ready. She rolled her shoulders and felt the slide of her muscles against her camisole. Maybe it was only the effect of the adrenaline surging through her system, but she felt her position of power all the way to her toes. This random fate that had befallen her, to die at the hands of a bunch of criminals for a cause that wasn’t her own, was about to get the shaft.

She walked to the door. “Ready?”

Aaron stood behind her, the .38 Special brushing her shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

She opened the door a crack, listening. A television set blared from the direction she and Aaron had been brought into the building, with a woman shouting in Spanish like a game show announcer might, against a background of hooting and cheers from an audience. Unable to hear anything above the din, she nosed her head through the doorway.

Somewhere nearby, a door banged closed. Camille flinched and pulled back, listening until she picked up the barely audible sound of a man’s voice amid the television’s noise. Then a second person spoke. A child. At the sound of Rosalia’s pixie voice, Camille ached. She wanted to scoop the little girl up and run with her back to California, straight to the loving arms of her mother. But instead of acting impetuously and getting them all killed in a firefight, the best she could do for Rosalia was escape and tell U.S. authorities where to find her. Still, it was heart wrenching to leave her behind.

They crept into the hallway and turned right, toward three closed doors. It felt like Russian roulette, picking a door to open not knowing who or what was on the other side, but they had no other options.

Camille turned the knob of the first door. Aaron placed a hand on the small of her back and the barrel of his gun on her shoulder, angling it through the opening. She scanned the darkness. Someone slept on a cot along the wall. He stirred and rolled on his side. Holding her breath, she closed the door.

They tiptoed to the next room, though the blaring television program masked the sound of their movement. Aaron placed his hand on the doorknob. Camille wasn’t tall enough to aim her weapon over his shoulder, so she slid it along his side, under his arm. The knob turned; the seconds ticked by. Aaron stuck his face through the crack. He smiled at Camille and stepped inside. Camille followed, closing the door behind her.

This room was not as dark as the first. The window was uncurtained and unbarred. A row of wooden crates identical to those pushed out of the plane sat along one wall, stacked two high. On another wall stood a table weighed down with piles of American cash.

Camille walked to the crates and tried to lift one. “Help me with this.”

“What are you doing?”

“These guys are weapons smugglers, right? So what do you think’s in these boxes, donations to Goodwill?”

“You guard the door. I’ll look inside.” He tucked the gun into his waistband. Camille tried to ignore the zing of desire that hit her at that maneuver. What a stupid thing to think about when their lives were in danger. On second thought, it was a stupid thing to think about at any time. She had no business ever thinking about Aaron’s pants or what he put in them.

He lifted a box to the ground and dumped packing peanuts on the floor.

“This was the best idea you’ve ever had, Blondie.”

With her rifle aimed at the closed door, she walked backward until she stood over the box. Aaron was right. This was the best idea she’d ever had. She didn’t even care that he’d called her that terrible name again because in the box, nestled in a black nylon bag, were ten Smith & Wesson M&P 9 mm pistols. With silencers. And boxes of ammunition.

Aaron moved the .38 from the front of his waistband to the back. He screwed a silencer on to a 9 mm and loaded the magazine. Repeating the process with a second pistol, he handed it to Camille. She tucked it into her jeans.

“Don’t you want to trade up for the silent model?” Aaron asked with honest surprise.

Camille wasn’t about to admit her gun-handling defect. “Like you said, size matters.”

He snorted and moved the bag to the table. “I’ll look in the next box. You load this with cash.”

They set to work. Within the span of a few minutes, their luck had improved tenfold. Instead of two guns with limited ammunition, they now had two AR-15 assault rifles, four 9 mm pistols with silencers, countless rounds of ammo, four grenades and—by Camille’s hasty count—two hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars.

The grenades were an interesting find. Camille would have had no moral qualms against blowing up the compound and everyone in it if Rosalia hadn’t been present. Then she had another idea. It would be extremely risky, but still, it might work.

“Aaron, are there any more grenades in those boxes?”

The woman had balls, figuratively of course. Aaron was sure he couldn’t have come up with a better plan if given a week to think about it. He rummaged through the boxes until he found another grenade, which he handed to Camille. Replacing the lid, he moved the box under the window to use as a step.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.

Her destination was across the hall, to the room that had been their prison. They were about to kill two people and Aaron couldn’t find it in his heart to be upset. He was more disturbed that it didn’t bother him.

Rifle in hand and the game-changing bag of booty slung over his shoulder, he stood on the box. From the looks of it, the rear wall of the house ran parallel to the western wall of the compound, with about three feet between the two. Plenty of room to jump and run.

Camille returned, sprinting through the door and kicking it shut as the grenade detonated. The explosion was earth-rattling. Aaron’s ears rang and the door nearly came off its hinges. He slammed the rifle butt into the glass. He couldn’t hear it break over the din of the explosion but felt the pane give way. After sweeping the rifle across the window to clear it of glass, he moved out of Camille’s way.

In a flash of golden mane and lithe limbs, she jumped out the window. Aaron landed behind her and they ran, staying low under the windows along the north side of the building. Aaron peered around the corner at the crowd in the courtyard surrounding the crater that used to be their hostage-holding room.

A five-foot gap loomed between the house and a shed. Though Camille’s ruse was working, it was still a leap of faith to zip between the buildings in plain sight. If only one man looked in their direction, they were dead. Aaron went first, holding his breath for the three steps it took to make the pass. They followed the path of the compound wall to the end of the shed, which still left them with a solid two car lengths of empty space to reach the entrance gate.

A burly man with a full beard and a rifle was standing inside the locked gate, yelling and gesturing to the men at the explosion site. Aaron knew what needed to be done and said a prayer for forgiveness. He’d never been a particularly religious man, but he was about to murder someone pointblank. At least with the grenade, Aaron didn’t have to watch anyone die. This time, though, he was going to look a man in the eyes and shoot him.

“I got this.” He picked up a rock and threw it against the wall, waiting for the guard to investigate. His heart pounded out of control and his hands were sweaty, but he wiped them on his jeans and manned up. Their lives depended on this and he wasn’t going to act like a sissy by getting all shaky and nervous.

The guard’s shadow gave him away first. His stomach came into view, then his arms and gun. Aaron fired two rounds, one into his head and the other into his chest. Though the sound of the shots was blunted by a silencer, the plunk plunk still echoed between the shed and the compound wall.

Aaron worked hard to ignore the significance of what he’d done as he frisked the dead man for keys, finding them in a pants pocket.

“Anyone onto us?” he asked Camille, who had chanced a look around the corner.

“We’re good. They’re putting out a fire on the roof.”

“Then we keep moving.” He sprinted to the gate with a key in his outstretched hand. Please let this be the right key….

It was not. He jerked the key out of the padlock. His fingers found the next key on the loop and jammed it into the lock. It gave way this time. The chain dropped to the ground and they were through.

Aaron’s and Camille’s feet slipped on the loose gravel, but they maintained their breakneck speed to the lean-to. While he ran, Aaron scanned the half dozen horses. The dark brown steed appeared to be the healthiest of the bunch, with muscular legs that looked ready to fly over the terrain. He skidded to a stop and dropped their cache to the ground.

Camille was right behind him. “Okay, you’re the horse expert. Go for it.”

He hunted through a crate for a saddle, blanket, bridle and harness, and made quick work of readying the horse to ride. The memory of Camille’s struggle to mount their last horse was still fresh in his mind, so he grabbed her around the waist and tossed her up.

She yelped in protest.

Aaron pushed the bag of guns and money onto her lap, then swung up behind her. “If I’m in charge, then we’re doing this my way.”

Camille must have thought better about arguing because she silently lifted herself from the saddle so he could get comfortable, then settled onto his groin as she had the day before. Aaron reached around her, grabbed the reins and spurred the horse into a gallop.

Their destination was east, to the ocean. Once the compound was no longer visible, he slowed the horse, setting a reasonable pace to conserve the animal’s energy in the stifling, midmorning heat.

Aaron loved to ride and had been doing so since he could walk. There weren’t many activities for desert kids like him in a one stoplight town, but he had the State Park at his door-step. His parents took full advantage of that fact and made sure he and his younger sisters could ride and hike like pros.

Miles of desert disappeared behind them. Their steed easily avoided the thick blanket of shrubs and giant cardón cacti, which stood with long, green arms reaching for the sky like an army a thousand strong. Aaron found no signs of human existence, just acres and acres of pristine wilderness.

Camille’s hair was as untamable as the land. It whipped and tickled Aaron like a cruel taunt. Unable to resist, he covetously gathered it in his free hand. He was such a fool to do that. A certifiable idiot. But he did it anyway, burying his nose in the locks before letting them slip through his fingers to blow in the wind.

Camille hadn’t noticed, and while he was relieved, her obliviousness made him greedier. He felt himself harden and hoped she was oblivious to that, too. He gathered her hair again and glimpsed the creamy skin of her neck. His mouth watered at the thought of kissing it, which was even more certifiably idiotic, given that Camille was heavily armed.

At that inopportune moment, their horse lurched and he accidentally tugged her hair.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get your hair out of my face,” he replied gruffly.

“Oh, sorry.” She twisted it and stuck it down her shirt. “That’s the best I can do for now.”

That solved the hair problem. Now how was she going to stop the friction of her hips rocking against him or the agonizing heat passing from her body to his?

She relaxed against him, wiggling her backside as she settled. Choking back a groan, he looked heavenward, hoping they’d reach the ocean soon. He needed to get off this horse before he did something he’d spend the rest of his life regretting.

Aaron would never forget his first time meeting Camille at Juliana and Jacob’s engagement party, though not for its pleasantness. Aaron had taken one look at her standing on his parents’ patio and targeted her as his next bedmate.

Like the fool he was around pretty girls, he cranked up his charm wattage, swaggering and openly praising her voluptuous attributes. And there was a lot to praise about Camille’s body. She was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on, with legs that went on for miles, curves custom-made for a man to wrap his hands around and full, pouty lips. Then she opened them and it was all downhill from there.

Apparently, his charm was too much for Camille to handle because the more charismatic he was, the more pungent she became. After that party, they’d seen enough of each other to last a lifetime. Aaron decided that no woman, no matter how stunning, was worth battling with such a sour disposition.

He smiled at the memory and might have laughed except Camille would want to know what was so funny. He’d thought about it in the plane and it struck him again how ironic life could be. He was racing across the Mexican desert with the only woman he’d wished to never see again.

And he was more attracted to her than ever.

Finally, the horse crested a ridge overlooking the beach. A temperate ocean breeze puffed at them, cooling Aaron’s sunburned skin.

“We should ride in the surf to erase our tracks, in case they’re on our trail,” Aaron said as their mount picked its way down a canyon.

“Which direction do you think we should go?”

“If my bearings are correct, then the city we saw when we jumped is to the south. Let’s see what we find.” He tugged the reins.

Ahead of them stretched a pristine yellow-sand beach edged by cliffs and the endless ocean, which sparkled in the bright afternoon sun. It was lovely, really. Only a few hours earlier, he’d faced his own death, yet now he was riding horseback with a gorgeous woman along an empty beach. He closed his eyes and basked in the moment. Then the butt of Camille’s rifle poked him in the ribs.

“You know, when I fantasize about riding with a woman through the surf in Mexico, she’s not usually carrying a rifle.”

She twisted to look at him, wearing a wicked grin on her lips. “Sounds like you have boring fantasies.”

Aaron threw his head back and laughed. Leave it to Camille to surprise him again. He thought of a good comeback, something snarky and full of innuendo, but decided against voicing it. This is good enough for now.

He settled his arms more comfortably around Camille’s sides, took another furtive inhale of her hair’s magnificent scent and looked to the horizon, waiting for any vestiges of civilization to come into view.

Not five minutes later, he heard, then saw, an approaching vehicle in the distance. With a quiet curse, he turned their horse toward the cliffs lining the beach and found a concave section of cliff face. They dismounted, firearms ready. Besides the roar of the vehicle’s engine, Aaron heard voices whooping and hooting. Odd …

He tipped his face around the corner. “It’s a Jeep with at least four people.”

“Why are they shouting?” Camille asked.

“I have no idea.”

“I hear something else, too. What is that?”

Aaron shook his head. “I can’t quite make it out.”

They stood and listened. Aaron glanced at Camille’s hands, which had started to shake, but decided against asking her about it.

The sound that had been so faint over the thunder of the waves and the hollering and the Jeep’s engine became clearer to Aaron. “It sounds like … huh?”

He and Camille looked at each other, their faces screwed up in confusion.

“Bruce Springsteen?” they exclaimed in unison.

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