Stomach crawling with dread, she stood absolutely still and looked for signs the ground around her had been disturbed. Intelligence gathered from the Somalis indicated the land all along the jungle trails was mined. If she lost a foot or leg out here, she’d die of exposure, animal attack, or infection if she didn’t bleed to death first. Amina and Rachel would probably survive without her until help arrived as long as the rebels didn’t attack again. They were both tough and resourceful, but Grif was already critical. He could go south at any second, and without a medic he’d never make it.

She backed away slowly, carefully retracing her steps along the route she’d taken from camp. She could just make out the first break in the canopy indicating the edge of camp when branches swayed directly in front of her where no breeze could penetrate. She ducked behind a tree trunk and aimed where she’d sensed movement. Five minutes. Nothing. She crept closer, mouth dry and heart hammering. Had the rebels circled behind her? Were they already in the camp? Had she been wrong about everything? Had the rebel forces been closer than she calculated? Had they returned before dark? Were Rachel and Amina and Grif already dead?

She halted just at the edge of the jungle and scanned the camp. All quiet. Keeping low, she ran to the side of one of the smaller tents, using it for cover. Stones crunched behind her and she spun around. Rachel knelt by an adjacent tent, her assault rifle angled across her chest. She glared at Max.

“I could’ve shot you, you know,” Rachel said.

Rachel’s bravado was so genuine, Max’s anxiety evaporated on a swell of relief. She grinned. “Getting pretty cocky, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t say it would only take one bullet.” Rachel straightened, her narrowed eyes still flashing. “Are you all right?”

Max shrugged, annoyance resurfacing now that she knew Rachel was safe. “Of course I’m all right. What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Jaw tight, Rachel stalked toward her. “What are you doing, going off by yourself into the jungle?”

Max felt her eyebrows climb. “I thought it might be a good idea to make sure our perimeter was reasonably secure.”

“And what would you have done if you’d wandered into the middle of a bunch of rebels? Fought them all by yourself?”

“I would’ve hightailed it back here. What was your plan if a dozen of them stormed into camp while you were out here playing patrol?”

“What you taught me. Point and shoot. A lot.”

Max smothered another grin. Rachel had done just what she would have done. Grabbed a weapon and gone out to check. All the same, she was prepared to die. Maybe Rachel was too, but she wasn’t going to let that happen. The thought of Rachel being hurt roughened her voice. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’m not a patient,” Rachel snapped. “And you’re not Rambo. Stop taking chances.”

“I’m sorry if I worried you.”

Rachel’s teeth ached from clenching her jaws. The woman was infuriating. Did she really think she was invincible, or did she just not care if some sociopath shot her or, worse, dragged her off to torture her first? Just about every scenario she could imagine had passed through her mind while she waited for some sign of Max. Only Max’s warning earlier not to stray into the jungle because of mines had kept her inside the camp. That and she hadn’t wanted to leave Amina alone. When Max had slipped out of the jungle, she’d wanted to shout with relief and run to her. Now she just wanted to throttle her. What if she’d never come back? What if she never saw her again? The sinking feeling in her stomach was far worse than the fear she’d felt at the idea of the rebels returning. She had a rifle—she could fight. The one thing she could not fight was death. Max took too many chances, and that scared her in a way she’d never been afraid before. “You didn’t worry me. You just pissed me off.”

“Well, that’s nothing unusual.” Max glanced up at the sky as if searching for something. When she looked back at Rachel, the startling blue of her eyes pulled Rachel in, and for just an instant, the war and death and fear disappeared.

“Did you find anything out there?” Rachel asked, determined to break the spell. Max de Milles might be an attractive woman—okay, an amazingly attractive woman—but she also had a God complex that was likely to get her killed. And she was controlling and authoritarian and just plain frustrating on every level. So forgetting about her incredible blue eyes and gorgeous grin was a very good idea.

Max hesitated. “A trail runs pretty near the camp. I think that’s the way the rebels came in this morning. No sign of them now.”

Rachel sighed, relief tinged with annoyance. “Damn it, Max. You might have run into them.”

“I also got through to the base.”

“Oh my God! Why didn’t you say something!”

Max laughed. “I would have, but you weren’t finished dressing me down.”

Rachel gripped Max’s arm. “Are they coming?”

“I told you they were,” Max said. “The transmission was broken up, but they know we’re here. They’ll come.”

Rachel’s joy dampened, and she glanced toward the tent. “No word when?”

“No. Are Amina and Grif okay?”

“Yes. Amina says his vital signs are stable. He was still asleep when I came outside.”

“How about you? How are you feeling?”

“Hungry, but the thought of another packet of preserved chicken doesn’t really appeal.” Rachel realized she still held Max’s arm and let go. “And I’m still pissed off at you.”

“Uh-huh. We’ve got a little light left and the area is clear. Will it help if I stand guard while you take a shower?”

Rachel studied her. “I’m not sure two minutes under a trickle of lukewarm water is going to be enough to drown my annoyance.”

“It’s a start.”

Chapter Twelve

Rachel stepped into the three-by-three-foot square plywood enclosure and tilted her head back. A nozzle hung from a pole above her face and warm spray drenched her like gentle rain. The makeshift stall was open to the sky, and if she didn’t think about Max standing guard with an assault rifle, didn’t picture all that had happened, she could almost believe when she stepped out into the encampment, her friends would be gathered around the fires preparing for supper. Maribel would be recounting some story of Paris, her mellifluous French-accented voice floating above the low bass background rumble of Dacar and his men, while the conversation of Amina and the others filled in the melody, and the jungle night sounds provided a chorus. Pumping a handful of liquid soap into her palm and spreading it over her skin, she could almost believe life as she knew it would continue—night would fall after a long hard day, bringing the peace and satisfaction of a job worth doing. She might even imagine a shower such as this one, and indulge in the fantasy of the sensuous flow of hands skimming over her body. Fantasy, she admitted, rather than a pleasant memory, the fiction a reminder that she’d rarely been touched with love. Lust and desire, yes. Love and passion, not that she’d ever recalled. Not that she’d ever missed until the specter of death haunted her every moment.

She tilted her face to the blood-red sky again. Sunset would soon give way to the dark. Water sluiced through her hair and down her body, bravely etching inroads into the dust caking her skin. She’d left the wooden half-door open, needing an escape route if the enemy suddenly appeared. Through partially closed lids, she saw Max standing with her legs widespread, her rifle canted across her chest, her back to the shower. She’d seen the body beneath the armor that afternoon as Max dug the foxhole, and now she pictured the stretch of her thin cotton T-shirt across her sculpted shoulders, the tapering of her muscular back to her waist, and the faint flare of her hips. Beneath the uniform, Max was sensuous as well as strong.

“How much longer?” Rachel asked, rinsing away the last bit of suds.

Max turned and their eyes met. Rachel stilled, her hands cupping her breasts, water streaming down her torso, over her belly, and between her thighs with the sensuous glide of a lover’s skin on hers. Max’s gaze moved lower, then slowly rose and returned to hers.

“Two minutes,” Max said, her voice rough enough to be angry, but her eyes weren’t angry. Her eyes were flame. “I want you and Amina secure before sundown.”

Rachel let her hands fall to her sides, unembarrassed by her exposure. Max had seen her naked in far more important ways than this. Max had seen her terror and grief and anger, all the things she usually kept hidden behind a façade of control and unconcern. “Yes, all right. Is there time for Amina?”

“If she hurries.”

“I’ll get her.” Rachel twisted the clamp on the water line closed and shook out her dusty clothes. Max’s back was turned again, and as she dressed, she tried not to think about the way her nipples had tightened under Max’s perusal or the twisting in the pit of her stomach or the tingling between her thighs that pulsed even now. She’d been looked at by women before, by women she’d taken to her bed and by those she hadn’t. She’d seen appreciation, seen longing, sometimes even envy. She’d thought she’d seen desire, thought she’d seen hunger, but she’d been wrong. She knew what hunger looked like now, and she doubted anything less would ever stir her again. She drew a ragged breath. “What about you?”

Max turned around again, the blue of her eyes as black as the ocean beneath a storm-tossed sky. “Amina first. I’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” Rachel fumbled the buttons closed on her once-white shirt, stiff and yellowed with ingrained dust.

“Gather up the weapons and pack any loose ammo in one of the backpacks.”