Deception Island Page 18

  “Ha. It sounds like the French Foreign Legion.”

  He shot her a look, his eyebrows hunkered.

  “Okay, you’re giving me your neither-confirm-nor-deny look, which usually means confirm.”

  He dropped his gaze to his plate, and stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth.

  “You mean...what? That’s not actually a thing anymore, is it—the French Foreign Legion? I’m getting images of Brendan Fraser in The Mummy. All floppy hair and seriously sexy shoulder holsters.” Rafe with floppy hair? No. That didn’t work at all. His buzz cut suited him—masculine and no-nonsense. Not styled, no forethought, just pure unadulterated man.

  “Not familiar.”

  “Actor, played a guy who was ex–French Foreign Legion in The Mummy. Which is a movie. But that was set in the 1920s or something. So it’s seriously still a thing—the French Foreign Legion?”

  “It’s a thing, as you say, though in France we call it the Légion étrangère.”

  Was it her imagination, or was his voice huskier when he spoke French? It did twingy things to her belly. God, he could recite her rap sheet in French and she’d have to restrain herself.

  “You like movies, don’t you?” he said.

  “The best escapism there is. As a kid I used to sneak into the movie theatre and watch whatever was on. In prison, it was one of the few things that would transport me out of there, for a couple of hours. I guess you wouldn’t have seen movies, growing up.”

  “Some. There was a hut in the last refugee camp I was in, with a satellite dish on top. You’d spend an entire day searching the nearby village for a coin, so you could squeeze in with everyone else—usually it was the film The Karate Kid. Have you seen it?”

  “Maybe once or twice.”

  “Or we’d watch football, what you call soccer. That’s what we played, all day, at the camps—there was nothing else. This was before the soldiers came. We heard once of a kid who got picked straight out of a camp for the English Premier League. I doubt it was true, but it made us train like the scouts were watching. This is why Americans will never win the World Cup—kids like that grow up with a ball attached to their feet. I cleaned shoes every day for months to afford a Man U shirt—counterfeit, of course.”

  He sounded wistful. She smiled. “Man U?”

  “Manchester United. English football team.”

  “Oh, wow. Globalization, huh?” She wrapped chunks of fish and mango in a lettuce leaf. Cutlery would spoil the joy of it—and she didn’t want anything ruining the simple pleasure of this last supper, with this man. “Have you tried to find your family—your birth family?”

  “Without even knowing my real name, it’s impossible. So many of my people died, I’m not likely to find more than a mass grave. When you have a past like mine, it’s easier to leave the whole thing behind.”

  “Oh, yeah—I get that.” She nodded at the rectangular scar on his forearm. “Do you remember how that happened?”

  “I remember very clearly. I did it.”

  “How?”

  He covered the scar with the palm of his other hand, as if to heal it. “I was fourteen. I heated up an iron bar and pressed it into the skin.”

  She choked on a lettuce leaf. “And I thought I was a messed-up teenager. Why would you do that?”

  “Same reason you got rid of your tattoo. Erasing the past.”

  “Hey, I had a local anesthetic—and that was painful enough. What were you erasing?”

  “When I was inducted into the militia I was branded with the initial of our leader. An S. After I left, I needed to get rid of it—it was the mark of the devil. I found the bar in a pile of rubbish in a wasteland near my school, lit a fire and heated it up. I had to do it several times, to get rid of the outline of the letter.”

  She pressed her lips together. She got that—the urge to erase your miserable past—but branding yourself? “Holy shit, Rafe. That took a lot of guts.”

  He shrugged. “It was necessary. It made a hell of a mess, and the smell... The smell is something I’ll remember all of my days. But at least it was my mark, my choice. It was almost a...pleasure to get rid of it, to feel that pain and anger but not give in.” He poked the embers with a stick. “I imagined the fire forcing its way into the dark part of me that had allowed me to do all the unspeakable things I had done as a child soldier, and destroying it. I hoped that place had been destroyed, or that I at least had the strength to never return to it, no matter how tough things got.” He threw the stick in the fire and linked his hands behind his head, staring into the flames. “When I snapped, today, when I went for you, I knew for sure. This place is still there.”

  She swallowed, tasting smoke. “Place? You think it’s a physical part of you?”

  “That’s the way it makes most sense. A place my conscience retreats to while the anger takes over, so I don’t have to feel anything.”

  “Did the counseling help?”

  “Hard to say. I’ve twice had my brain reprogrammed—for evil, and then for good. After that much messing around, I had no hope of a normal life.”

  “Is that why you joined the Legion?”

  “Yes. That’s when my life began, when I finally found a place I could belong, where I could do good.”

  She stared at a flame curling around a piece of wood, as if it was embracing the thing it was destroying. “I’d like to find that place. I’ll consider my life starting when I get off this island. Hey, maybe I could join the Foreign Legion.”

  “They don’t take women.”

  “That’s not very twenty-first century of them.”

  A flicker of a grin slipped past his facade. “Half the legionnaires join up to escape women—their ex-wives, their lovers, their lovers’ husbands. If you wish, you can take a new name to make it harder for people to hunt you down.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did change Raphael to Rafe. In some languages this name means ‘wolf.’ It seemed more truthful than masquerading as an angel. Perhaps if I had changed completely, Gabriel might not have found me.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t a way I can help you? For your son’s sake.”

  In the fading light, his expression darkened. “Ma chérie, you don’t know these people. Knowing you are safe will help me do what I need to.” He sipped water. “I apologize for the rudimentary accommodation while you wait for rescue.”

  “Compared with what I’m used to, this is heaven. Seriously.”

  “Wait.” He laid down his plate and drew a champagne bottle from the cooler. He popped it, poured it into two cups and handed her one. “To our futures. May they be better than our pasts and our present.”

  “To rescuing Theo.”

  They leaned forward and clunked cups. She closed her eyes as tiny bubbles tickled her throat. Now that she could associate the sensation with Rafe, and not Jasper, she would forevermore let champagne be a small pleasure. “The present isn’t so bad. It’s the future I’m having trouble seeing.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I will fix things for you.”

  And how would he fix the fact that Nowheresville no longer seemed like the sanctuary she’d clung to for so long? She pushed away from the box, stretched out on the ground with her head on her backpack and closed her eyes. The sounds around her amplified—the rush of waves on sand in the lagoon, the occasional pop from the fire, a rustling in the undergrowth behind her, the call of a cricket nearby, backed up by a chorus of millions. Wood smoke mixed with sea air and the aroma of cooked fish and Rafe’s soapy-clean skin. Hey, if this was Nowheresville, it wasn’t so bad. Was twenty-nine too young to become a hermit? How long could she hide on the island, living on fish and bananas and coconuts, hiding from honeymooners, raiding the cabin for matches and sunscreen and medicine, and whatever else she couldn’t do without?

&nb
sp; ChapStick. She’d run out of that pretty quick. Even the thought of it made her lips sting. She patted her pockets. Damn, she’d left it in the cabin.

  A rush of movement jump-started her heart. She sat bolt upright, eyes wide. Something smacked her back down—Rafe’s body, on top of hers. What the hell?

  “Wow. You’re not at all subtle.” She tried to sound casual, but her pulse jackhammered.

  “Not with snakes.”

  “What?” The word caught in her throat. She followed his gaze to the ground beside her. Holy cow, a snake. She flinched, but he had her pinned. “Do someth—”

  “I already did.”

  She peered closer, tracking the blue coil of its body up to an unnaturally blunt end. In Rafe’s hand, a knife gleamed. He flicked the creature away—first its body, then its severed red head.

  “Was it poisonous?”

  Silence. Stillness. She turned back to Rafe. His eyes focused right on hers, dark and deep. He held himself up on one forearm, his chest brushing against her breasts each time he drew in air, his hips pressing into hers. Oh, God.

  “Remind me to tell you how to deal with snake bites.” His husky voice heated her up from the inside. He stabbed the knife into the earth. “Later.”

  He didn’t freaking move. His eyes didn’t even flicker. Nervous energy wet her mouth. She swallowed and tentatively planted her hands either side of his waist. Under his T-shirt, thick knots of muscle flinched. He blinked, once, slowly, a wash of dark lashes.

  “Will you run away this time?” She barely recognized her own voice, it was so low. “Because I don’t think I could bear it.”

  “You genuinely want this? Because I would never take adv—”

  “I want this, like you wouldn’t believe. Rafe, we don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow—we’ll find out soon enough. Let’s just do what our bodies are telling us to. No strings, no awkwardness. We can wake up tomorrow and remember how screwed up our lives are, but tonight I just want to forget. I want to feel nothing but this—you, right next to me. You inside me.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  Sea water lapped. An owl hooted. She held his gaze until her eyes watered. He eased his full, delicious weight onto her, achingly slowly, moving his hands up to frame her head, smoothing her hair away. She closed her eyes—this was going to be all about the feel of him, the earthy, salty smell and taste of him. And the feel of her—her breasts pressed into his chest, their stomachs and thighs flat against each other. She slipped her hands under his T-shirt and slid them up his back, her fingers exploring the ridges and dips.

  “I need to forget everything but this...but you,” he said, touching the hollow at the base of her neck. He skated one finger slowly up her throat and over her chin, leaving her nerves somersaulting in his wake. He rested a finger on her lips, charging them up with a ticklish awareness. She parted them, slipping her tongue out to taste his finger pad, tracing the grooves of his prints. Mmm, wood smoke and mango. If only she could explore every part of his body this intimately, pore by pore, over days, weeks, months. She’d have to settle for hours.

  “How do I say ‘kiss me’ in French?” she whispered.

  “Embrasse moi.”

  Oh yeah, even that sounded better in French.

  Chapter 17

  Before Holly could repeat the words, Rafe covered her mouth with his. Stubble scraped her chin, the sensation competing for attention with the silkiness of his lips and the wet rasp of his tongue. He explored her slowly, sending her the message that he was prepared to take his time. This wasn’t the hot, desperate need for temporary oblivion, as on the park bench. It was the next step in their unfurling of secrets.

  He shifted slightly, and his erection pushed into the dip between her thighs, igniting desire deep inside her. Water whispered in and out of the lagoon as waves of arousal rippled through her, swirling and building.

  She moaned and drifted her fingertips up the curves of his back and shoulders to the soft suede of his hair, as he moved his hands down. As they kissed, he scooped under her butt, drawing her up so her damp heat ground into him, unleashing rivulets of hot, liquid pleasure through her, lighting her up to the soles of her feet. With both hands he kneaded her butt, slipping a couple of fingers under the hem of her shorts, and following the line of fabric to her sweet spot. Thank God she’d worn her shortest pair. He massaged her through the Lycra of her bikini as his tongue laved her mouth, exploring her top and bottom. Tiny explosive charges peppered under his fingers. She ached to feel his naked body against hers, but the effort of undressing seemed too great, with all her neurons focused elsewhere.

  She pulled her mouth away. “Take my clothes off,” she said, the words coming out half plea, half order.

  He hissed something in French, his eyes half-hooded.

  “I hope that means ‘yes.’”

  “Oui, princesse, avec plaisir.”

  She could have melted at his pronunciation, low and gravelly. “Call me that again.”

  “Princesse, princesse, princesse.”

  He eased down until his mouth was level with her waist, unknotted her T-shirt—his T-shirt—and pushed up the hem, just far enough to reveal her stomach. Oh, man, he was going to take this slowly. Capturing her hips in firm hands, he flicked his tongue over her navel. She shuddered. His lips traveled over the curve of her belly to her hip. He gently bit the bony part. How could that be erotic? But—oh, man. As his mouth meandered to the other hip, his hands glided up her waist, bunching her T-shirt. She sat and raised her arms. He knelt, his thighs flanking hers, and smiled lazily as he swept the T-shirt over her head. He yanked his off with one hand. Better and better.

  His mouth returned to hers, gently urging her back down. He palmed her breast, but the padded cups of Laura’s bikini were doing nothing for her. As if reading her mind, he slid his hands to her shoulders and eased the straps down, his fingers tracing their former path to the curve of flesh pushing up from the tightening cups.

  “You’re gonna have to take that off,” she murmured.

  “D’accord.”

  How did he get that sexy low R sound? He threaded his fingers behind her and navigated the clip, giving her an opening to arch up and lick his sweat-slicked collarbone. The tang hit her taste buds. So far it had been his tongue doing the exploring. That was going to change. In a little while.

  “How do you say, ‘Mmm, tasty,’ in French?”

  He released the clip, his torso reverberating with a laugh. Discarding the bikini top, he swept his tongue over her nipple and caught it gently between his teeth. “Mmm, délicieux.”

  Her thoughts dulled as he teased and pulled and tongued her, first one breast then the next. A groan rolled through her. His hands slid south, and she closed her eyes, only vaguely conscious of deft fingers flickering over the fly on her shorts and pushing them over her hips. She arched, her hands seeking his shoulders, feeling his muscles contract and release as he moved over her. He stroked the front of her bikini panties, strong and deliberate, and sucked a nipple against the hard roof of his mouth, lighting up a fuse between her breast and the apex of her thighs.

  He hooked a finger under the Lycra and drew circles deep into the flesh, the silky slide of his path and his deep growl telling her how slippery she was. Like she didn’t already know. With every slow circle, she rose to a new plateau. The sounds around her muffled, her own moans and sighs coming from a misty distance.

  He released her. Damn. She’d almost been there—what was he thinking? He yanked down her bikini and buried his mouth in the spot his fingers had just left. Oh, that’s what he’s thinking. His tongue resumed the circling motion, round and round, licking and lapping and sucking and sending her head spinning along with the rest of her. He plunged his fingers deep into her, moving inside to match the rhythm of his mouth. Heat and pressure and light b
uilt, sending her higher and higher and higher. With a crack, she exploded, bucking and panting and screaming and—holy shit, she didn’t care what else.

  As the world re-formed she realized he was laughing, a sexy chuckle so deep it might as well be subterranean. “Wow,” he said.

  “Wow, indeed.” She lay back and stared up through palm fronds to a black carpet powdered by stars. “When did it get dark?”

  “Somewhere between here...” He rose over her and kissed her. “And here...” He traced a path through her cleavage with his lips. “And here...” He slipped a finger over her most sensitive spot. She shuddered; the touch bordered on painful. He moved down and planted a line of kisses down her hip, her inner thigh, her outer thigh. Suddenly, he reared back. “Eugh,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “What is it?” She propped herself on her elbows. She’d had enough of nasty surprises in this jungle.

  “Insect repellent.”

  She laughed. He stretched over her, retrieved her champagne glass, long since knocked over, and refilled it. He took a gulp and leaned in for a kiss. She tasted the spark of champagne, the sting of Deet and the tang of...her. Wow was right. She’d had good sex before, but she’d never felt anything like that. Not just the violent orgasm but the feeling that she could surrender herself to him and trust that the memory wouldn’t be ruined by a future betrayal. As they kissed, she drifted her fingertips up the stubble on his jaw and cheek, to the smooth skin of his temple. Was she being naive?

  Whatever. She didn’t need to overthink it, not tonight. Tonight was an escape, for both of them. A delicious—délicieux—escape, but just an escape. A mosquito whined in her ear. She smacked at it, breaking the kiss.

  “Our defenses are down,” she said, nodding at the darkened fire pit.

  “Way down.” His gaze slid down her body.