Untamed

* * *

The flight to Barrera was long and tedious. Rourke caught the plane at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. It was sixteen hours and eight minutes to the Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus. He tried to sleep for most of the flight, only fortifying himself with food and champagne in between. He was impatient. He had to conduct this like a battle campaign, he thought. Tat wasn’t going to be welcoming, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent years tormenting her.

Finally the plane landed. The tropical heat hit him in the face like a wet towel, and it was something he wasn’t accustomed to. Kenya was mild year-round.

He went through passport control and customs, with only the carry-on bag and his suit bag. He always traveled light. He hated the time spent waiting for luggage at baggage claim. Much easier to travel with only the essentials and buy what he needed when he arrived. He didn’t advertise it, but he was quite wealthy. The game park kept him in ready cash, from tourism. Not to mention what he’d made for years as a professional soldier, risking his life in dangerous places. It was wonderful that K.C. was his father, but Rourke didn’t need his father’s financial support. He’d made his own way in the world for a long time.

He walked through baggage claim and looked for the appropriate sign, which would be held up by a limo driver he’d hired from Nairobi on his cell phone. He could easily afford the fees and he hated cabs.

The man spotted him and grinned. Rourke, dressed in khakis, tall and blond and striking, with the long ponytail down his back could never be mistaken for anyone except who he was. He looked the part of an African game park owner.

He smiled as he approached the man.

“Senhor Rourke?” the small dark man asked with a big grin.

Rourke chuckled. “What gave me away?” he asked.

“You do not remember?” the little man asked, and seemed crushed.

Rourke had an uncanny memory. He stared at the man for a minute, closed his eye, smiled and came up with a name. “Rodrigues,” he chuckled. “You chauffeured me around the last time I was in Manaus, just after the Barrera offensive. You have two daughters.”

The man seemed to be awash in pleasure. “Oh, yes, that is me, but, please, you must call me Domingo,” he added, wringing Rourke’s hand. Imagine, a rich cosmopolitan man like this remembering his name!

“Domingo, then.” He drew in a breath. Jet lag was getting to him. “I think I need to get a hotel room for the night. I’m flying out to Barrera in the morning. General Machado is having an awards ceremony.”

“Sim.” The man nodded as he climbed in under the wheel. “Several people are to be honored for their part in overthrowing that rat, Arturo Sapara,” he added. “My cousins were tortured in Sapara’s prison. I danced with joy when he was arrested.”

“So did I, mate,” Rourke replied solemnly.

“One lady from Manaus is to be awarded a medal,” Domingo said with a smile. “Senhorita Carrington. I knew her mother. Such a saintly lady,” he added.

“Saintly,” Rourke said, almost grinding his teeth as Domingo pulled out in traffic.

“Creio que sim,” Domingo replied, nodding. “She was kind. So kind. It was a tragedy what happened to her husband and her youngest daughter, Matilda,” he added.

Rourke drew in a long breath. “That was truly a tragedy.”

“You know of it?” Domingo asked.

“Yes. I’ve known Tat...Clarisse,” he corrected, “since she was eight years old.”

“The senhorita is a good woman,” Domingo said solemnly. “When she was younger, she never missed Mass. She was so kind to other people.” His face hardened. “What that butcher did to her was unthinkable. He was killed,” he added coldly. “I was glad. To hurt someone so beautiful, so kind...”

“How do you know her?” Rourke asked.

“When my little girl was diagnosed with lymphoma, it was Senhorita Carrington who made arrangements for her to go for treatment at the Mayo Clinic. It is in the United States. She paid for everything. Everything! I thought I must bury my daughter, but she stepped in.” Tears clouded his eyes. He wiped them away, unashamed. “My wife and I, we would do anything for her.”

Rourke was touched. He knew Clarisse had a kind heart, and here was even more proof of it.

“You will see Senhorita Carrington in Barrera, yes?” Domingo asked with a wise smile.

Rourke nodded. “Yes, I will.”

“Please, you tell her that Domingo remembers her and he and his family pray for her every single day, yes?”

“I’ll tell her.”

Domingo nodded. He pulled up at the best hotel in Manaus and stopped. “What time shall I come for you tomorrow, senhor?”

“About six,” Rourke said. “I’ve got a ticket for the connecting flight to Medina.” He yawned and signed the slip Domingo handed him, retrieving his credit card and sliding it back into his expensive wallet.

“Sleep well,” Domingo said as he carried the bags to the bellboy’s station inside the luxury hotel.

“Thanks. I think I will.”

* * *

Rourke had strange dreams. He woke sweating, worried. There had been a battle. He was wounded. Tat was standing far away, crying. Tears ran down her cheeks, but not tears of joy. Her face was tormented, the way it had looked at their last meeting. She was pregnant...!

He got up and made coffee in the small pot furnished by the hotel. It was four in the morning. No sense in going back to bed. He swept back his hair, disheveled from the pillow. He took off the hair elastic and let his hair fall down his back.

Absently, while the coffee was brewing, he ran a brush through it. Probably he should have it cut completely off, he was thinking as he looked at himself in the mirror. He’d worn it that way for years, partly out of nonconformity, partly because he shared some beliefs with ancient cultures that there was good medicine in long hair. He’d been superstitious about cutting it. But he looked like a renegade, and he didn’t want to. Not tonight. He was going hunting, for lovely prey. Perhaps cutting his hair might show Tat that he was changing. That he was different.

* * *

He postponed his flight for five hours and had Domingo take him to an exclusive hair salon. He had his hair cut and styled. He was impressed with the results. It had a natural wave, which fell out when his hair was halfway down his back. The wave was prominent. The cut made him look distinguished, debonair. It also made him look amazingly like K.C., he thought, and chuckled as he studied himself in the mirror.

Domingo raised both eyebrows when he walked out of the salon.

“You look very different,” he said.

Rourke nodded.

Domingo smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. He opened the door of the limo for Rourke, and then climbed in under the wheel.

“What’s bugging you?” Rourke teased.

“It is that you have cut your hair,” he remarked. He laughed self-consciously. “I’m sorry.”

“You think I’ve damaged my ‘medicine,’” Rourke said with pursed lips and a twinkling eye.

Domingo flushed over his high cheekbones. “I am a superstitious man. What can I say? But you are a modern man, senhor,” he laughed. “You do not believe in such things, I am sure. Now we go to the airport, yes?”

Rourke was feeling something similar to Domingo’s apprehension as he ran a hand through his short, thick hair. In all the years he’d been a merc, there had been precious few close calls. He’d been shot a few times, never anything serious, except for the loss of his eye. He’d always felt that his hair had something to do with that. It was a primitive superstition, though. He was sure he was just being dumb.

“Yes, Domingo,” he said, and smiled. “To the airport. I have a busy day ahead.” And a busier night, he was hoping, if he could coax Clarisse into bed with him.

His hand felt in his pocket for the ring. It was still there. He knew she wasn’t going to be easy to convince, especially about the bed thing. But he had an ace in the hole. He was going to propose first.

He hoped he wasn’t going to have to go back to Nairobi alone. But, then, whatever it took, he was going to do it. If he had to follow her back to Manaus and court her like a schoolboy, he would. He was never going to let her get away from him. Never.

* * *

Medina, Barrera’s capital, was like most other South American cities, cosmopolitan and remote at the same time. The people were a mixture of races, and the official language was Spanish.

There was a regional airport and a bus terminal. There were no limousines here. Not yet. The general was only beginning to repair the damage to the infrastructure that Sapara had caused. The usurper had done a lot of damage during the time he’d been in power. Most of the money had gone into his own pockets and he’d spent lavishly on himself. The presidential mansion was worth many millions. Machado had wanted to tear it down, but the grateful populace, much of which he’d rescued from Sapara’s prisons, wouldn’t hear of it. Powerful foreigners would come here to help rebuild the country, one of his advisers had said. A luxurious presidential residence would reinforce the notion that Barrera was worth aid.

He didn’t agree at first, but he finally gave in. If he demolished it, he’d have to spend the money to rebuild it. He did, however, have all the solid gold fixtures that Sapara had imported melted down and minted. That had earned him much praise, especially in light of the social programs he’d implemented to give free health care to the poor. Machado was a good man.

Rourke checked into the only luxury hotel in the city. He wondered if Tat would be staying here, too. He hoped so.

He put his suitcase down and unpacked his dinner jacket. He smiled as he thought of the evening ahead. It was going to be the best night of his life.

* * *

Five doors and a floor away, Clarisse Carrington was looking at the dark circles under her eyes as she thought about the night to come. Rourke’s name was on the list of honorees, but she was certain that he wouldn’t show up. He hated society bashes, and he was a modest man. He wouldn’t be interested in having people make him out to be a hero, even though he was one.

Clarisse had hero-worshipped him from the age of eight, admired his courage, loved him to the point of madness. But Stanton Rourke hated her. He’d made it crystal clear for years, even without the horrible things he’d said to her when he got her out of Ngawa.

He was never going to love her. She knew that. But she couldn’t help the way she felt about him. It seemed to be a disease without a cure.

She studied her face in the mirror. The bullet wound had left evidence of its passage in her scalp, but a little careful hair-combing hid it well. The scars on her left breast were less easy to camouflage. Sapara’s henchman, Miguel, had put a knife into her, over and over again while trying to make her tell about General Machado’s offensive. She hadn’t talked. That was why she was getting a medal tonight. For bravery. Because she’d survived the torture and rescued not only herself, but two college professors, as well. They said she was a heroine. She laughed without humor. Sure.

She was standing there in a long slip. It would go under the elegant white gown she’d bought from a boutique for the event. It had simple lines. It fell to her ankles. The bodice wasn’t even suggestive. It was high enough to cover the scars on her breast. It had puff sleeves that reminded her somehow of a gown she’d seen in a period movie about the Napoleonic era. She looked good in white.

She thought how Stanton would have laughed to see her in the color. He would think it should be scarlet. He thought she was little better than a call girl. That was ironic, and it would have been amusing except that it was tragic.

She’d never been with a man in her life. She’d never been intimate with anyone, except Stanton, one Christmas Eve long ago, when she was seventeen. She’d loved him then and every day since, despite his antagonism, his mockery, his taunting.

She knew he hated her. He’d made it obvious. It didn’t seem to make any difference, though. She couldn’t get him out of her mind, any more than she could permit any other man to touch her.

She’d made a play for Grange, the leader of Machado’s insurgent troops. But that had been an act of desperation, and mainly due to antianxiety drugs that she’d taken after the tragic deaths of her father and her little sister, Matilda. Her life had been shattered.

Rourke had come running, the minute he heard about it. He’d handled the funeral arrangements, organized the service, done everything for her while she walked around numb and brokenhearted. He’d put her to bed, holding her while she sobbed out her heart. He’d called a doctor, her doctor, Ruy Carvajal, and had him sedate her when the crying didn’t stop.

She thought of Ruy and a question he’d asked her before she came here. She’d invited him to come, too, just on the chance that Rourke might show up. He’d had to go to Argentina, to treat a longtime patient who was also a friend. But he’d asked her to consider marrying him; a marriage of friends, nothing more. He knew how she felt about Rourke, that she couldn’t permit another man to touch her. It wouldn’t matter, he assured her, because he’d been badly wounded in a firefight on a mission with the World Health Organization. Because of the wounds, he could no longer father a child. He was, he added solemnly, no longer a man, either. He was unable to be intimate with a woman. This had led to many suspicions among his people, who revered a man’s ability to beget children above all other attributes.

He would be happy to put an end to the gossip. He could give Clarisse a good life. If she was certain, he added, that Rourke would never want her.

She told him that she’d consider it, and she had. Rourke didn’t want her. She couldn’t want anyone else. She was twenty-five, and Ruy was kind to her. Why not? It would give her some stability. She would have a friend, someone of her own.

It sounded like a good idea. She thought she might do it. It might sound like an empty life to some people. But to Clarisse, whose life had been an endless series of tragedies, the prospect of a peaceful life was enticing. She didn’t need sex. After all, she’d never had it. How could she miss something she’d never experienced?

She mourned Rourke, but that would end one day, she thought. She gave her reflection a grim smile. Sure it would. When she died. She turned and went to put on her gown for the gala evening.

3

Clarisse walked into the building where the awards were being held, and several pair of male eyes went immediately to her slender, beautiful figure in the clinging white dress she wore. Her blond hair curled toward her face like feathers, emphasizing her exquisite bone structure, her perfect skin and teeth, her wide blue eyes. She was a beauty. In the gown, she looked like some Grecian goddess come down to earth to taunt mortals.

She didn’t even notice the attention she was getting. Her eyes were on the podium where the general would speak. There was an orchestra. It was playing soft, easy-listening sort of music while people gathered in small groups to converse. Most of the conversation was in Spanish here, not Portuguese, because Spanish was Barrera’s official language.

She smiled sadly at the little cliques. To Clarisse, who was always alone, it seemed like just one more gathering where she’d stand by herself while men tried to entice her. Sometimes she hated the way she looked. She didn’t want male attention.

She paused by a table where drinks were being served when her arm was taken by a tall man she recognized as one of General Machado’s advisers. He smiled at her. “We were hoping that you would come, Miss Carrington,” he said in softly accented English. “We have the other honorees backstage. The awards ceremony will be first, followed by dancing and drinking and utter pandemonium.” He chuckled.

She smiled up at him. “The pandemonium sounds nice. They shouldn’t have done this for me,” she added. “I didn’t really do anything except get shot and captured.”

He turned and smiled down at her. “You did a great deal more than that. All of us who live here are grateful to you and the others, for giving us back our country.”

“Are Peg and Winslow here?” she asked hopefully.

“Alas, no,” he replied solemnly. “Her father had to have surgery, just a minor thing, but they were both uncomfortable with the idea of not going to sit with him.”

“That’s like Peg,” she said softly, and smiled. “She’s such a sweet person.”

“She thinks quite highly of you, as well, as does her husband. And El General, of course,” he added with a chuckle.

“Where is the general?” she wondered.

He nodded his head toward where a tall, distinguished Latin man in a dinner jacket towered over a tall brunette in a striking blue gown.

“It’s Maddie!” she exclaimed. “She treated Eduardo Boas, who was shot before I was kidnapped.”

“Yes. She and the general are, I believe, getting married soon,” he whispered, laughing at her delighted smile. “But you must not mention this. I am not supposed to know.”

She smiled up at him. “I know absolutely nothing. I swear,” she added facetiously.

“Not true, Tat. You’re plenty smart enough,” came a deep, husky voice from behind her.

Her blood froze. Her heart started doing the tango. She didn’t want to turn around. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d show up.

“Señor Rourke will escort you to where the others are gathered backstage,” he said, nodding and bowing. Then he deserted her.

“Aren’t you going to turn around, Tat?” he asked very softly.

She took a deep breath and faced him. He looked different. She couldn’t understand why at first. Then she realized it was because his hair was short. He’d cut his hair. She wondered why. It had been in that long ponytail for years.

“Hello, Stanton,” she said quietly. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

He looked down at her intently, his one eye narrowed and piercing as he drank in the sight of her, the memory of her in his arms making his heart race. There were no more barriers. He could have her. He could hold her and kiss her. He could make love to her...

He shook himself mentally. He had to go slow. “I was at a loose end,” he said carelessly.

“I see.” She was uneasy. She kept looking around, as if she wanted to be rescued. In fact, she did.

He looked around, too. “Did you come alone?” he asked suddenly, and there was a bite in his voice.

She swallowed. “I’d asked Ruy to come with me, but he had to fly to Argentina to treat an old friend.”

“Ruy... Carvajal, your doctor friend.”

“That’s right.”

He scowled. “You aren’t dating him, for God’s sake?” he asked curtly. “My God, Tat, he’s twenty years your senior!”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s older than I am, yes.”

He felt his muscles tighten from head to toe. She couldn’t be getting involved with the doctor. Surely not!

His silence coaxed her into looking up. His expression confounded her. In another man, it would look like jealousy. But Rourke would never be jealous of her. He hated her.

She moved restlessly. “We should go backstage.”

“Are you going to be here overnight?” he asked as they walked.

“I fly back to Manaus in the morning,” she replied.

“I’m here overnight, as well.”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that he was going to avoid her like the plague, as usual.

“Which hotel are you staying in?” he asked abruptly.

“Why? Do you want to make sure you can get one at least half the city away from it?” she burst out.

He stopped dead. “I’ve got a lot to make up to you,” he said solemnly. “I don’t even know where to start. I’ve done so much damage, Tat,” he added in a husky tone. “Far too much.”

She looked up at him, shocked.

He reached out toward her face, only to have her jerk back from him and avert her eyes.

It hurt more than he’d ever dreamed anything could.

“Tat,” he whispered roughly, wounded.

“Don’t you remember?” she bit off. “You told me...never to touch you. You said that I was repulsive...” Her voice broke. She walked around him and moved blindly to the back, where a man in a suit was motioning to them to get with the other honorees. She didn’t look to see if Rourke was coming behind her. She didn’t want to see him.

He followed her, his heart torn out of his body at her words. Yes, he’d told her that; he’d been brutal with her. How could he have forgotten? He’d hurt her so badly. Now, after years of tormenting her and himself, he finally had a chance to start over with her. But judging by what she’d just said, it was going to be a very hard road back.

* * *

The award ceremony was lengthy. General Machado made a speech. His director of the interior made a longer one. The presenter made an even longer one. By the end of it, Clarisse’s feet hurt. She was glad she was wearing low-heeled shoes.

One by one, the honorees went out to receive their awards, made a short speech and shook hands with the general. Clarisse did the same, smiling up at him as he bent to kiss her cheek, the medal in its velvet case held tightly in one hand.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispered in her ear.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she whispered back.

She shook hands with him and carried her award off the stage.

She waited while the others received their medals. Rourke joined her, somber and quiet. He hadn’t liked the general kissing her. He was fuming inside.

Clarisse saw his expression and felt her heart sink. He was angry at her again. It was familiar, though. Nothing really changed, least of all Rourke’s bad opinion.

* * *

She left her award with her coat in the cloakroom and nursed a rum drink. She’d already refused half a dozen requests to dance. She bristled at the thought of strange hands on her skin, and the dress was low cut in back. So she stood by herself, watching other people enjoy the music on the dance floor.

She felt heat at her back and stiffened. She always knew when Rourke was close. She wasn’t sure how. It was rather uncanny. She turned, her whole posture defensive.

“You’ve never danced with me, Tat,” he said, his voice deep and velvety as he drank in the exquisite sight of her.

She sipped the rum, for something to do. “Have you had all your shots?” she asked with quiet sarcasm.

There was a pause. He drew in a breath. “How about a truce, just for tonight?”

She studied him with apprehension, her face wary, her eyes wide and worried.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. His face was taut, and not with revulsion. He looked as if he was hanging in midair, waiting for her to answer. At his side, his big hands were curled into fists. “Just for tonight,” he repeated in a voice so soft that she had to strain to hear it.

He’d tormented her for so long. The pain, the memories, were in her wide blue eyes, in her sadness. She bit her lower lip, hard, and twisted her small evening bag into an unrecognizable shape in her cold hands.

He moved a step closer, so that he was almost right up against her. His breath caught as he breathed in the floral perfume she wore, just a hint of it. His hands came up, very slowly, and went to her waist. He was hesitant.

“Trust me,” he said at her forehead. “Just this once.”

“You don’t like me to touch you,” she managed in a choked tone.

His eye closed on a wave of pain. “I lied.” He looked down into her shocked face. “I lied, Tat,” he whispered. “I want your hands on me. I want you close, as close as I can get you.” He drew in an unsteady breath. “Humor me.”

She hesitated. It would start the addiction off, all over again, just when she was thinking that she could finally get over him.

“Come on.” He took the drink from her cold hands and put it on the table. Then he caught the other small hand in his, linking his fingers into hers, and led her into the large room where the orchestra was playing. Couples were moving slowly to a bluesy tune.