Had Gabriel already started Theo’s training? The thought socked him in the gut. The beatings, the emotional abuse, the humiliation—an unbearable onslaught that would flip the boy’s understanding of right and wrong, and leave him convinced no one gave a damn about him but his commander. How quickly could Gabriel brainwash him into believing his papa didn’t care, that he was all alone, with no choice but to succumb?
Rafe closed his eyes. Theo would know that wasn’t true, wouldn’t he? Rafe hadn’t prayed since his English missionary-school days. But, God, if you’re up there, give me another chance to be a father. He’d held out longer than most when he’d been inducted into the Lost Boys. But he’d already been toughened up by a lifetime of forced independence—trucked from refugee camp to refugee camp as the soldiers closed in, wishing always that at the next stop he’d find the parents he had no memory of, he’d find out where he came from and where he belonged. Until the militia had taken him and Gabriel, they’d survived by polishing shoes in villages near the camps, mostly for food or coins, but sometimes in exchange for lessons in English—the language of movies and escape and dreams. They’d vowed to never leave the other alone in that hell.
No wonder Gabriel sought revenge and had taken the only thing that mattered to Rafe. Deep inside, Rafe could still feel the hatred and violence the militia had beaten into him, like a core of molten lava. Every day he fought to keep it dormant. The last time he’d lost control, had allowed himself to retreat into that dark place of numbness where he could disengage from his conscience and do unspeakable things, an innocent woman and child had died. More than twenty years on, he could still smell the spilled blood, could still feel the anguish and self-disgust that had ripped through his chest when he’d come back into himself, when he’d realized what he’d become. It had turned him into a coward who broke a promise to his only friend.
Oh yes, he knew exactly what fueled Gabriel. The one thing that separated them was that Rafe had found a way to control the demon, by shutting himself off from anger and fear—the dangerous emotions that led to the dark place. If other feelings were shut off at the same time, so be it.
“Don’t suppose you have any cards?” In the hammock, Laura linked her arms behind her head.
Doing nothing would do his head in. He never let his company rest for too long. Rest invited doubt, bickering, impotence. What would he do if his men were sitting here, instead of the heiress? Article five of the Code of Honor: Soldat d’élite, tu t’entraînes avec rigueur, tu as le souci constant de ta forme physique. As an elite soldier, you train rigorously and you take constant care of your physical form.
“Do you run?” he said.
“Run?”
“As in jog, sprint...”
“Have been known to. Is this you making light conversation?”
“Get some running gear on.” He began yanking on his socks and combat boots.
She swung her legs onto the floorboards and took him in with blue eyes so bright they were almost painful to look at. “Seriously? It’s a gazillion degrees out there.”
Which made running an even better prospect. “It’ll be cooler under the canopy. And the snakes will be sleepy.”
“Isn’t there some law against torture of prisoners? The Geneva Convention or something?”
“Only if we were at war.” He tied the lace on his second boot and leaped up, welcoming the energy sparking in his veins.
“Some might argue that we are.”
He marched inside, grabbed her sneakers and backpack and threw two bottles of water in it. Then another two, followed by nut bars and chocolate, though it’d probably melt after a minute. As he stepped back outside, he yanked off his T-shirt. No point creating dirty laundry.
He sensed her stillness before he saw it. She was staring at his chest, her mouth open. What was it—a spider? His gaze darted down, his throat drying out. Nothing amiss.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.” She spoke too quickly, casting her eyes down. Pink flushed her face, from neck to forehead. Because he’d removed his shirt? Oh. A grin tugged at his mouth. He clamped down on it. She hadn’t struck him as the blushing type. She was more I’ve seen it all, and I don’t give a damn. Perhaps it wasn’t just his body that was responding in inappropriate ways.
All the more reason to run it off. He tossed her sneakers over. He’d stashed the comms gear in a place she wouldn’t dare go hunting, but he’d learned the hard way not to let her out of his sight.
“Put on sunscreen. And a baseball cap. I don’t want you dying of sunstroke before the day’s out.”
She leaned down and pulled on a sneaker. “Oui, Capitaine.”
His stomach knotted. One offhand comment from Uriel and now she had a clue to Rafe’s identity. If the guy wasn’t already dead, Rafe would have wrung his neck. It wouldn’t take a genius to narrow down the options—a non-French native with a French rank. He jumped off the veranda.
She stood. The blush had settled, leaving her skin the color of pale honey and just as smooth. Her blue tank top intensified her eyes, and her frayed denim shorts ended far too soon. He turned his back on her.
“Hurry it up,” he said.
Footsteps padded down the steps. “Where are we going?”
“A trail circles the island.” Recon plus a workout. That should stop his mind straying to places it shouldn’t.
He set off down the hard-baked path behind the villa, going slowly for Laura’s sake, though his body urged him to push harder, to the point physical effort consumed thought. As a child soldier he would spend weeks on the move, hauling a rifle, his legs whipped if he slowed. His Legionnaire training had him marching eighty kilometers from the Pyrenees almost to Carcassonne in full patrol gear, and then every year the two hundred kilometers from one end of Corsica to the other with a fifty-kilogram backpack. After Simone died, he would spend his rare leave days running near-marathon distances. Anything to get out of that haunted house with a silent son and a mother-in-law whose stoicism thinly veiled her heartbreak. Losing a child had almost broken her. Losing the grandson who’d kept her functioning would be the death of her.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Hey, Usain Bolt, slow down. Some of us like to breathe occasionally.”
“You go in front,” he said, hanging to the left to let her pass. He stared at the back of her head, forbidding his gaze from trailing down her body again. He hadn’t even looked at a woman that way since Simone. Their relationship had been a failed experiment, and that part of him had died with her. Or so he’d thought.
After his upbringing, he should have known better than to drag anyone into the twisted debris of his life. Not only had he dragged a woman into it, but a child, too. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He’d rescue Theo, then spend the rest of his life doing nothing but protecting him—even if it meant disappearing with him and leaving behind the Legion and Simone’s family. He might never be able to show Theo the love his mother had, but he could keep the boy safe, which was more than Rafe’s own parents had been able to do.
He frowned. But a kernel
