the final building. Resting momentarily, she felt the weariness but ignored it. It was time to confront Colonel Breckenridge. In the makeshift building that housed Costa Rican police personnel, she was provided with dispatches she had been expecting from Washington. Armed with them, she went directly to the Colonel’s quarters, feeling the tiredness slip from her shoulders to be replaced by a sense of power.
She found the Colonel back at his desk poring over several bills of lading and attempting to handle an argument between two Costa Ricans who were squabbling noisily. Alanna leaned back against the door momentarily, a grim smile on her face. He looked absolutely frustrated. Finally, he looked up, his eyes lighting with pleasure at the sight of her.
“I need your linguistic ability,” he coaxed. “Come over here and interpret for me, will you? Either that, or I’m going to throw both of them out the front door.”
She hesitated, thinking of the fiery kiss he had placed on her lips the day before. She hadn’t forgotten it for one hour or one minute since then. “It will cost you, Colonel,” she warned as she sauntered over.
“If you can get these two off my back,” he answered grimly, “you can have the moon if you want.”
“What I want will be close to that,” she promised sweetly. Within a few minutes, the entire matter was set straight, and she had to smile to herself, watching Matt’s face take on a look of relief. He looked harried, running his fingers through his hair more than once. After the pacified drivers left, he leaned back in the straight-backed wooden chair, sizing her up. He pointed at the yellow papers in front of him.
“You wonder why we have missing supplies? Here’s part of the answer.” He waved three sheets of official but tattered papers at her. “The truck driver receives a set of these when he picks up his load at the ship or airport. Then the warehouse provides another set which are invariably modified by the time the driver leaves the front gate.” His voice tightened with frustration. “I guess it’s too difficult to call a crate a crate instead of a carton, box, or container. When our men inventory the contents, we have four sets of numbers attempting to identify the same shipment.” He shook his head, slowly getting to his feet and stretching.
“I have my own set of numbers, Colonel,” she assured him briskly. “And I believe you owe me one.”
He nodded, moving around the desk and pouring a cup of coffee into a tin mug. “You want some?” he asked. “It’s instant, but it tastes a hell of a lot better than halizoned water.”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, you like stronger stuff? Wine? Maybe Scotch. I understand that’s the ‘in’ drink up on the Hill: Scotch on the rocks.”
She put a chain on her temper. “I prefer a light claret, Colonel. As I’m sure you don’t have any here, it’s pointless to discuss the subject. Anyway, I want you to look at these orders.” She stressed the word “orders,” because that was exactly what they were. Orders from Marine Corps General Frederick to Colonel Breckenridge. She watched with satisfaction as he languidly unfolded the crisp white papers and sat back down at the desk. Taking a sip of his coffee, he frowned as he read through them. The skin across his cheekbones tightened, and his mouth thinned into a single line. He looked up slowly.
“So, Senator Thornton got the brass over at the Pentagon to issue these orders. Your ability to manipulate impresses me,” he said in a dangerously low whisper. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I’m keenly aware of what I’ve done.” Her heart skipped erratically, and it wasn’t from anticipation. Her feelings bordered on fear as she saw the violent glint in his gray eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured. “Not this way and not now. I would have got one of the jeep drivers to take you up just as soon as the fog lifted. It wasn’t necessary, Alanna.”
She heard a note of hurt in his voice. Or was it disappointment? “The only thing you seem to understand and respect is power, Colonel. And that’s exactly the game we’re going to play here from now on. Politicians versus military. Dove versus hawk. Call it what you like. I want results. And I’m working for a senator who wants them now. You’re ordered to personally take me up to San Dolega. Right now. I’m sure you have an aide who can take over here while you drop me off. It should only take an hour or two of your time.”
Matt deliberately set the orders down, staring up at her. “I don’t believe this is the real Alanna talking to me. What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? Did Senator Thornton call you and start screaming at you to get some results? What?”
She felt the blush sweeping over her cheeks and silently cursed the telltale sign. “If I told you, you wouldn’t understand. You didn’t this morning, and I don’t think you ever will,” she said defensively. “We’re two different breeds of people. And all I want to do right now is finish this job and get as far away from you and this place as possible.”
He studied her for a long time. Finally, he stared back down at the orders. “Are you sure this is what you want? If you can’t wait twelve hours more until this fog lifts, I’m not going to be responsible for you or my actions.”
Alanna’s eyes widened at the softly spoken threat. He looked absolutely emotionless. His voice was as hard as tempered steel. A ribbon of fear jolted through her. What did he mean? Her throat ached with tension, but she forced the words out. “You’re not making sense. You have your orders, now carry them out.”
He stood, a hawk ready to make the kill, and she sensed the anger which up until now had been hidden. She took two steps back, stunned by his implacable determination. His hand shot out quickly, and she gasped as his fingers closed in a viselike grip around her upper arm. He guided her to the door, throwing it open and placing her outside it.
“You stay right there, Miss McIntire. I will be back in exactly five minutes, and then we’ll leave for San Dolega,” he snarled under his breath. “You want to play tough? We’ll play it your way.”
She stood there trembling, huddled against the hut, trying to keep out of the rain. She wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen next, but she tried to convince herself that she could handle it. She closed her eyes, trying to take a steadying breath. She would never understand the military or the minds that ran it! Damn them all!
In exactly five minutes, Matt Breckenridge drove up in a military jeep. It had no protective covering over the top of it to keep the rain out. He was dressed in his poncho, his cap drawn down over his eyes so that she could not see his expression. Perhaps that was a blessing. In the rear was a huge pack with a small shovel attached to the back of it.
“Get in,” he ordered tersely.
She slid onto the wet, slippery seat, gripping the metal siding as he yanked the jeep into gear. The vehicle slewed through the mud as he ground through a series of loud, noisy gears. The base camp disappeared behind them and was replaced with a rutted excuse for a single-lane road which wound beneath the tall tops of the mahogany forest that dominated the landscape. Rain slashed unrelentingly against her face, and she held up her hands to protect her eyes, compressing her lips in anger over his inconsiderate behavior.
It was a nightmarish ride. She had no idea how long they had driven; she was only aware of the continual bumping and jolting of the jeep as it roared through three inches of mud and the hardened ruts that had been created during the dry season. Her hips and thighs were bruised black and blue, and her back ached from the terrific strain placed upon it as the jeep leaped out of one rut and landed heavily in another. Fog swirled chokingly around
