Her Last Line Of Defence. Marie Donovan
did, her robe falling open to reveal her sheer cotton nightgown. His gaze fell to the rise and fall of her breasts, and she realized the dark circles of her nipples were visible.
Boudreaux swallowed. “Does it hurt?” His voice was thick and sweet as cane syrup.
“Does what hurt?” Her nipples were starting to hurt from being so hard. Despite his rough exterior, his hands had been gentle.
“Your chest. I mean, when you breathe.” His own breath was coming faster.
“You mean, here?” Some little devil made Claire massage the tops of her breasts and breastbone between.
His hands clearly gripped his jeans-clad knees. “Yeah. There. Do I need to call you an ambulance?”
She stopped, disappointed. “No. Are you trying to break my ribs so I don’t go?”
He leaped off the bed so smoothly the only evidence he’d ever been there was his imprint on the duvet. “Back to the duffel.” He crouched and unzipped it while she sat up. “Camping gear?” He lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. “What did you do, clean out the Bass Pro Shop?”
“No, of course not!” It had been the L.L. Bean catalog.
He pulled out each item, giving a running tally. “Sleeping bag, sleeping bag pillow, mess kit, ground sheet—okay, that might be useful…biodegradable dish soap?” He shook his head. “Planning on doing any dishes? A GPS unit—do you even know how to use this? Got any extra batteries? They go bad quickly in hot, damp climates. Oh, look, how useful. An unsharpened pocketknife. Got a whetstone?”
Claire shrugged. She wasn’t sure.
Boudreaux continued, “No compass, no whetstone, no machete—”
“Machete? What’s that for?”
“A machete, or ma-chay-tay, as our Spanishspeaking friends would call it, is the golden ticket to survival. You wanna make friends in the Amazon, you bring the natives high-quality machetes, and lots of them. If you’ve never seen the gardener on your family estate use one, they look like a really big knife curved on the sharp side.”
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.”