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 now. Or so help me God, I’ll pick you up and carry you out of here.”
She gave him a shocked look. But she didn’t argue. She got her things together, said goodbye to the friends she’d made and climbed into the backseat of the car he and Robert had arrived in. She didn’t say another word until they were back at the airport.
* * *
He seated her beside him in business class, picked up a newspaper in Spanish, and didn’t say another word until they landed in Johannesburg. He bought her dinner, and then she got ready to board a plane for Atlanta. Rourke had connections back to Nairobi, far to the northeast. They got through passport control, and Clarisse stopped at the gate that led to the international concourse. “I’ll get on the next flight to DC from Atlanta and file my copy,” she told him as they stood together.
He nodded. He looked at her quietly, almost with anguish.
“Why?” she asked, as if the word was dragged out of her.
“Because I can’t let you die,” he bit off. “Regardless of my inclinations.” He smiled sarcastically. “So many men would grieve, wouldn’t they, Tat?”
The hopeful look on her face disappeared. “I assume that I’ll read about the reason I had to leave Ngawa?” she asked instead of returning fire.
“You will.”
She drew in a resigned breath. “Okay. Thanks,” she added without meeting his eye.
“Go home and give parties,” he muttered. “Stay out of war zones.”
“Look who’s talking,” she returned.
He didn’t answer her. He was looking. Aching. The expression on his face was so tormented that she reached up a hand to touch his cheek.
He jerked her wrist down and stepped back. “Don’t touch me,” he said icily. “Ever.”
She swallowed down the hurt. “Nothing ever changes, does it?” she asked.
“You can bet your life on it,” he shot back. “Just for the record, even if half the men on earth would die to have you, I never will. I do what I can for you, for old time’s sake. But make no mistake, I find you physically repulsive. You’re not much better than a call girl, are you, Tat? The only difference is you don’t have to take money for it. You just give it away.”
She turned while he was in full spiel and walked slowly from him. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want him to see the tears.
He watched her go with an expression so full of rage that a man passing by actually walked out of his way to avoid meeting him. He turned and went to catch his own flight back to Nairobi, nursing the same old anguish that he always had to deal with when he saw her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He had to. He couldn’t let her get close, touch him, warm to him. He didn’t dare.
* * *
He flew back to Nairobi. He’d meant to go to Texas, to finalize a project he was working on. But after he had to hurt Tat, his heart wasn’t in it. His unit leader could handle things until he got himself back together.
He drove out to the game ranch with his foreman from the airport in Nairobi, drooping from jet lag, somber from dealing with Tat.
K. C. Kantor was in his living room, looking every day of his age. He got to his feet when Rourke walked in.
Not for the first time, Rourke saw himself in those odd, pale brown eyes, the frosty blond hair—streaked with gray, now—so thick on the other man’s head. They were of the same height and build, as well. But neither of them knew for sure. Rourke wasn’t certain that he really wanted to know. It wasn’t pleasant to believe that his mother cheated on his father. Or that the man he’d called his father for so many years wasn’t really his dad...
He clamped down on it. “Cheers,” Rourke said. “How’re things?”
“Rocky.” The pale brown eyes narrowed. “You’ve been traveling.”
“How gossip flies !” Rourke exclaimed.
“You’ve been to Ngawa,” he continued.
Rourke knew when the jig was up. He filled a glass with ice and poured whiskey into it. He took a sip before he turned. “Tat was in one of the refugee camps,” he said solemnly. “I went to get her out.”
K.C. looked troubled. “You knew about the offensive?”
“Ya. I couldn’t tell her. But I made her leave.” He looked at the floor. “She was rocking a baby.” His eyes closed on the pain.
“You’re crazy for her, but you won’t go near her,” K.C. remarked tersely. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Maybe it’s what the hell’s wrong with you, mate,” Rourke shot back with real venom.
“Excuse me?”
The pain was monstrous. He turned away and took a big swallow of his drink. “Sorry. My nerves are playing tricks on me. I’ve got jet lag.”
“You make these damned smart remarks and then pretend you were joking, or you didn’t think, or you’ve got damned jet lag!” the older man ground out. “If you want to say something to me, damn it, say it!”
Rourke turned around. “Why?” he asked in a hunted tone. “Why did you do it?”
K.C. was momentarily taken aback. “Why did I do what, exactly?”
“Why did you sleep with Tat’s mother?” he raged.
K.C.’s eyes flashed like brown lightning. K.C. knocked him clean over the sofa and was coming around it to add another punch to the one he’d already given him when Rourke got to his feet and backed away. The man was downright damned scary in a temper. Rourke had rarely seen him mad. There was no trace of the financial giant in the man stalking him now. This was the face of the mercenary he’d been, the cold-eyed man who’d wrested a fortune from small wars and risk.
“Okay!” Rourke said, holding up a hand. “Talk. Don’t hit!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” K.C. demanded icily. “Tat’s mother
