nations interfering in local politics.”
“This is an exception to the rule,” Rourke said. “I’d hang Mosane with my own hands if I could get to him.”
The other man chuckled. “It is our Africa, yes?”
“Yes. Our Africa. And we should be the ones to straighten it out. Years of foreign imperialism have taken a toll here. We’re all twitchy about letting outsiders in.”
“Your family, like mine, has been here for generations,” the other man replied.
“We go back, don’t we, mate?” he said, managing a smile. “How much farther?”
“Just down the road. You can see the tents from here.” They passed a truck with a red cross on the side, obviously the victim of a bomb. “And that is what happens to the medical supplies they send us,” he added grimly. “Nothing meant for the people reaches them, yet outsiders think they do so much good by sending commodities in.”
“Too true. If they’re not destroyed by the enemy, they’re confiscated and sold on the black market.” He drew in a breath. “Dear God, I am so sick of war.”
“You should find a wife and have children.” His friend chuckled. “It will change your view of the world.”
“No chance of that,” Rourke said pleasantly. “I like variety.”
He didn’t, actually. But he was denied the one woman he did want.
* * *
The refugee camp was bustling. There were two people in white lab coats attending the injured lying on cots inside the few big tents. Rourke’s restless eye went from one group to another, looking for a blond head of hair. He was almost frantic with worry, and he couldn’t let it show.
“She is over there,” Bob said suddenly, pointing.
And there she was. Sitting on an overturned crate with a tiny little African boy cradled in her arms. She was giving him a bottle and laughing. She looked worn. Her hair needed washing. Her khaki slacks and blouse were rumpled. She looked as if she’d never worn couture gowns to the opera or presided over arts ceremonies. To Rourke, even in rags, she would be beautiful. But he didn’t dare let his mind go in that direction. He steeled himself to face her.
Clarisse felt eyes on her. She looked up and saw Rourke, and her face betrayed her utter shock.
He walked straight to her, his jaw set, his one brown eye flashing.
“Look here,” she began before he could say a word, “it’s my life...”
He went down on one knee, his scrutiny close and unnerving. “Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.
She bit her lower lip and tears threatened. If she was hurt, in danger, mourning, frightened, he was always there. He’d come across continents to her, across the world, around the world. But he didn’t want her. He’d never wanted her...
“Yes,” she said huskily. “I’m all right.”
“Bob said you were captured, that they were going to kill you,” he ground out, his scrutiny close and hot.
She lowered her eyes to the child she was feeding. “A necklace saved my life.”
“That cross...” he began, recalling that her mother had given it to her and she never took it off—except once, to put it around Rourke’s neck in Barrera, just before he went into the capital city with Machado and the others, for luck.
“No.” She flicked open the top button of her blouse. She was wearing a seashell necklace with leather thongs.
He frowned.
“This little one—” she indicated the child in her arms “—has a sister. She was dying, of what I thought was appendicitis. I commandeered a car and driver and took her to the clinic, a few miles down the road. It was appendicitis. They saved her.” She took the bottle away from the child’s lips, tossed a diaper over one shoulder, lifted the child and patted him gently on the back to make him burp. “Her mother gave me this necklace, the little girl’s necklace, in return.” She smiled. “So the captain whose unit captured me saw it and recognized it and smuggled me out of the village.” She cradled the child in her arms and made a face at him. He chuckled. “This is his son. His little girl and his wife are over there, helping hand out blankets.” She nodded toward the other side of the camp.
He whistled softly.
“Life is full of surprises,” she concluded.
“Indeed.”
She looked at him with eyes that were quickly averted. “You came all this way because you thought I’d been kidnapped?”
He shook his head curtly. “I didn’t know that until I got here.”
“Then why did you come?” she asked.
He drew in a long breath. He watched her cradle the child and he smiled, without sarcasm for once. “You look very comfortable with a child in your arms, Tat.”
“He’s a sweet boy,” she said.
His mother came back and held out her arms, smiling shyly at Rourke before she went back to the others.
“Why did you come?” she asked him again.
He stood up, jamming his hands into his khaki slacks. “To get you out of here,” he said simply. His face was taut.
“I can’t leave,” she said. “There isn’t another journalist in this part of the country. Someone has to make sure the world knows what’s going on here.”
“You’ve done that,” he said shortly. He searched her eyes. “You have to get out. Today.”
She frowned. She stood up, too, careful not to go close to him. He didn’t like her close. He backed away if she even moved toward him. He had for years, as if he found her distasteful. Probably he did. He thought she had the morals of an alley cat, which would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so tragic. She’d never let anyone touch her, after Rourke. She couldn’t.
“What do you know, Stanton?” she asked softly.
His taut expression didn’t relent. “Things I’m not permitted to discuss.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Something’s about to happen...?”
“Yes. Don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Get your kit and come with me.”
“But...”
He put his finger over her lips, and then jerked it back as if he’d been stung. “We don’t even have time for discussion.”
She realized that he knew about an offensive, and he couldn’t say anything for fear of being overheard.
“I’m taking you home,” he said, loudly enough for people nearby to hear him. “And no more argument. You’ve played at being a photojournalist long enough. You’re leaving. Right
