Desperado

  The next jumper—a hotdog race car driver from Atlanta whose mechanical skills were renowned in the munitions field—gave a loud whoop before diving headfirst out into the open sky—a lumpout. Within seconds, he’d “fallen stable” into a high-speed delta position—straight legs, arms held back at an angle from the sides of the body. No flopping around for this experienced skydiver. Rafe thought he heard him yell, “Ooo-ee, baby!” as he went down.

  Helen frowned with disapproval at the antics and made a mark in her logbook. The hotdog was on Helen’s shit list.

  It was Rafe’s turn.

  A familiar spiral of excitement began to unfurl in his gut, sort of like the beginning stages of sexual arousal. He’d always enjoyed the danger and exhilaration of skydiving. Did Helen feel the same? Damn, he had to stop thinking of her in that way, or these two weeks would be even more hellish than he already expected.

  He approached the doorway, adjusted his harness straps, and was about to put on his helmet. Suddenly the plane pitched, hitting a particularly violent patch of turbulence. The aircraft seemed to veer slightly off course to the right, heading toward a canyon. The jump signal was now a steady red.

  But then he noticed that the jerking motion of the plane had caused Helen to fall back against a sharp projection, catching her harness. When she righted herself, the back portion of her harness ripped on the cutting metal, the shoulder straps flapping in the wind. And she had veered dangerously close to the open exit.

  “Helen!” he shouted in warning, even though he was only a few feet away. “Your harness!”

  Her head snapped to the right to look at him, her brown eyes wide with confusion. At the same time, he dropped his helmet and lurched forward to grab her by the waist and pull her back. Unfortunately, the plane made a sharp correction again, throwing them both off balance. And out the open doorway . . . free-falling through space. Luckily, Rafe had his arms wrapped tightly around Helen’s waist.

  Holy hell!

  “You stupid ass! Let go of me,” she shrieked, attempting to shove him away. They were falling fast. The pins flew out of the bun at her neck, and her long hair flew in his face, blinding him momentarily.

  He spit out a clump of her hair that had landed in his open mouth. “Ouch!” Her knee had just hit him in the groin. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he shouted above the whooshing air and his pounding heartbeat.

  “Not on your life, buster!”

  They had about three minutes until landing—if their chutes opened properly, if he could hold onto Helen’s squirming body, if he didn’t have a heart attack. And he damn well couldn’t waste time arguing with a stubborn, born-to-boss female.

  “Helen, your harness is broken. We’re dropping like lead weights,” he roared. “You can’t take a chance. No time.”

  Eyes widening with alarm, she looked at her torn shoulder straps and reacted instinctively. Wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck. Holding his breath, he arched his back and threw his arms out. Once their suspension lines were taut, the parachutes automatically unfurled above them in a cloud, slowing their descent.

  Thank God!

  He put his right palm under her buttocks and his left hand behind the nape of her neck, and smiled. The sexual high he always felt in skydiving blossomed into a full-blown erection. He wondered idly if a couple had ever done it while free-falling through space. Knowing some of the crazies who did skydiving stunts, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  He arranged Helen’s body so the vee of her legs pressed flush against his arousal.

  She bit his ear, hissing, “Don’t even think it.”

  Rafe chuckled and countered by nipping her neck. “Is this as good for you as it is for me?”

  “I’m going to kill you the second we hit the ground,” she screeched. “I swear, if we survive this crazy maneuver of yours, you are dead meat.”

  Her hair was swirling around crazily like some picture he’d seen once of a Greek goddess with snakes coming out of her head. He didn’t think he would share that information with her. “Now, now. It wasn’t my fault, Prissy.” He couldn’t believe he was carrying on a conversation while he floated through the air, dovetailed to his commanding officer.

  “Shut up!”

  “I love it when you talk rough to me, baby.”

  “Aaaarrgh! You’re going to kill us. Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

  “If I concentrate any more, we’re going to have space sex.”

  As he moved himself against her inadvertently, he heard a soft kittenish whimper deep in her throat. He would have ragged her about her involuntary reaction, but his breath was caught by a wave of desire. His hard-on felt like it could drill through concrete.

  They passed the cliff on the edge of the plateau that should have been their destination. The fine hairs stood out all over his body as they swerved dangerously close to the sharp edges of rock near the outcropping. Maneuvering the cords on both chutes as he’d been trained, aided by a slight wind, he avoided disaster, and they approached the grassy canyon floor.

  “Hold on tight. This is it,” Rafe warned as the ground came up to meet them. He braced himself. With a loud thump, they fell to the hard earth and rolled, settling with Helen flat on her back, spread-eagled, and him on top of her, both of them covered by the parachutes.

  For several long minutes, he lay, unmoving, trying to regain his breath. Hot damn! This will be an experience to tell my grandkids about someday. Not that I ever intend to have any brats of my own, but . . . wow! “Are you okay?” he finally asked, raising himself slightly on outstretched arms after flicking the fabric off their heads.

  “No, I’m not okay, you imbecile. You are going to be court-martialed for this, soldier.”

  “Hey, I saved your life,” he said with affront.

  “Saved my life? Captain, you caused me to fall out of that freakin’ airplane,” she raged irrationally, her face turning a decided shade of purple.

  “Tsk, tsk. Watch your language, Major.”

  “Oh . . . oh . . .” she stammered heatedly, no doubt searching for the right adjective to describe him. “You’re going to be in the stockade for a year. I’m going to sue you for assault. I’m making it my personal mission to see that you pay for this debacle for the rest of your worthless life.”

  “Is that all?” he asked, grinning down at her. He’d just realized that a certain part of his body hadn’t understood that the uplifting thrill of free-falling was over, and it was time for some downlifting.

  Helen’s mouth forced a delicious little “o” of surprise as she made the same discovery. Her windblown hair looked like she’d been pulled through a keyhole, backward, and freckles stood out like tobacco juice on her pale skin. But she was damned near irresistible, in Rafe’s estimation.

  He adjusted his hips against hers and whispered, “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do, Helen. From the first time we met.”

  “That’s all you ever think about,” she choked out indignantly, but her thick lashes fluttered traitorously.

  “Not that, Prissy,” he said with a husky laugh, chucking her under the chin. “This.” He lowered his face toward hers slowly, giving her the chance to protest, but hoping against hope that she wouldn’t. “Just a kiss. That’s all. Just one kiss.”

  “No,” she said on a soft moan, but she was already raising her parted lips toward his.

  At first, he merely brushed his lips across hers, but a spark of electricity ignited, so powerful his heart slammed against his chest walls and his skin tingled all over. “Sweet. So sweet,” he murmured against her dewy lips.

  Then he opened his mouth over hers. Kissing her deeply, he shifted and slanted until their lips fit together perfectly. If this was going to be the only kiss he ever got from Helen, he planned to make it memorable. A kiss for all time.

  Helen knew she should push Rafe away. Kissing him was a big mistake. He was doing wicked, downright sinful thin
gs to her senses—nibbling at her bottom lip, easing his tongue into her mouth, teasing her with sensuous, mind-shattering strokes that had her yearning for more.

  “Look!” a voice exclaimed. “Over there. El hombre y la muchacha.”

  At the unexpected intrusion, Rafe tensed and stopped kissing her. They both listened alertly, unable to see anything yet.

  “Cuidado!” another male voice cautioned, seeming to move closer, then swore, “Ay, mierda! I think it ees El Ángel Bandido.”

  A chorus of muttered curses followed.

  Helen started to push Rafe off her and demand an explanation, but he put a forefinger to her lips, signaling silence.

  “Sí, you are right, Pablo. It does look like the Angel. Cover me while I move closer to check.”

  “Bueno, Ignacio. But does it not seem that El Ángel ees doing enough covering on his own . . . of la señorita? Heh, heh, heh.”

  Everyone chortled at the risqué joke.

  “Who are they?” Helen whispered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll go away if we ignore them,” Rafe answered.

  A sudden gasp echoed in the still air. “If he ees truly El Ángel, do you think . . . Could this possibly be Elena?” one of them asked.

  “Elena?” the others echoed incredulously.

  “Son of a bitch! She mus’ be Elena,” one voice said.

  “Do you think she’s doing el corcho tornillo on him under that tent?” another, younger voice asked.

  “Sí,” still another voice remarked hopefully. “She mus’ be doing the corkscrew. Did you not hear El Ángel moaning and groaning with all the pleasuring she was giving him?”

  “Maldito! Do you think she weel take us on next?” the young voice squeaked out.

  There was a resounding “Sí” from the other men.

  “I ain’t never had the corkscrew done on me,” the young voice said wistfully.

  “Hell, you ain’t never had nothin’ done on you, Pablo,” an older voice remarked, and everyone laughed.

  While this odd conversation took place in a matter of minutes, Rafe and Helen continued to lie stiffly in each other’s arms, stunned by the amazing scene unfolding around them. The parachute still covered them up to their waists.

  The only thing Helen could make out was that the discussion centered on some woman named Elena. She figured this Elena must be someone pretty special to evoke such awe.

  Rafe slowly eased himself off her and sat up. His eyes were still misty with passion, and his lips were swollen from her kisses.

  Oh, Lord.

  Flicking the rest of the parachutes off their bodies, he stood in one fluid motion, pulling Helen up beside him. He proceeded to take off his cumbersome harness and jumpsuit, and she did likewise.

  Three disreputable-looking men, dressed like old-time western bandits, sat on horses above them. Unshaven and filthy, the dark-skinned men raised guns from holsters at their sides, aiming them, unbelievably, at Helen and Rafe.

  Helen flushed as she realized that they’d been watching her writhing under Rafe’s scorching kiss moments ago. But then she saw the danger of the lethal weapons staring them in the face. Relying on years of military training, Helen forced herself to calm down and assess the situation.

  Okay, the make-believe bandits were clearly Mexican. Maybe they were friends of Rafe’s playing a joke on him. Or her, if Rafe was in cahoots with them.

  “What’s up, guys? Que es la problema?” Rafe asked with steely calm, pushing Helen behind him protectively. “Lookin’ for trouble?”

  “Don’t antagonize them,” Helen advised, stepping around him. “Besides, I’m the officer in charge here.”

  He shot her a glare of utter disbelief. “Listen up, G.I. Barbie, don’t tell me what to do. I’ve been facing these kinds of hoods all my life.”

  “They’re not friends of yours?”

  “Huh?”

  Well, chalk that explanation off. Hmmm. If they’re not friends of Rafe’s, who could they be? Puzzled, Helen started to demand that the men lower their guns, but Rafe placed a restraining hand on her arm with gentle authority.

  “I’ll handle this,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth in a poor gangster imitation.

  “You will not,” she protested. “Step back, Captain. That’s an order.”

  He gave her a withering look and turned back to the pseudo-bandits who had gotten off their horses and were approaching, spurs jangling, guns cocked. The outlaws watched the argument between Rafe and Helen with bewilderment.

  The leader, whom the men had addressed as Ignacio, wore a flat-brimmed, wide sombrero, a double-holstered gun belt at his waist, ammunition straps crisscrossed over his chest, and calzonetas, the fitted Mexican trousers that flared out when unbuttoned over riding boots. His sidekicks wore battered cowboy hats, woven serapes over their shoulders, gun belts, and calf-high leather boots. They were all covered with dust.

  Ignacio stopped suddenly and leveled two long-barreled revolvers at them, one in each hand. His cohorts did the same with their own firearms. “Raise your hands, amigo. You, too, señorita.”

  Rafe began to step forward, snarling. “You scumballs better scram if you know what’s good—”

  A shot rang out, nipping the tip of Rafe’s heavy leather boots. Rafe’s eyes almost bugged out as he jumped back. He said a very foul word, then asked angrily, “Are you guys nuts?”

  Geez! These creeps are putting on a good act, Helen thought, whoever they are.

  “Raise your hands,” the bandit repeated icily.

  With the barrels of the pistols a mere ten feet away and the glaring ridge on the tip of Rafe’s boot, they decided to comply.

  “So,” Ignacio gloated in a heavily accented voice. “The Angel finally gets his wings clipped.” Then he frowned. “Why do you wear those strange clothes? And why ees Elena wearing men’s trousers?”

  Rafe and Helen glanced down, then back to the outlaws. They weren’t the ones wearing odd clothing.

  “And why do you and your woman dress alike?” the young man asked Rafe.

  “Because we’re G.I Joe and G.I Barbie, the military Bobbsey twins,” Rafe growled. “Why the hell do you think we’re dressed alike? A fashion statement?”

  Even though he was holding a gun, the young man jerked backward at Rafe’s little display of temper.

  Ignacio shrugged, dismissing their garments as of little concern and moved on to more important matters. “Empty your pockets, both of you,” the leader demanded, then added, “and take off the necklaces, too.”

  “What necklaces?” Rafe asked.

  “No, no, no,” Helen objected as understanding dawned. “Rules of military conduct state a soldier should never remove his dog tags.”

  The looney outlaw began to press both trigger fingers.

  “Forget the friggin’ military for once,” Rafe exhorted, and she decided to comply.

  They tossed their dog tags to the ground, along with Rafe’s wallet and loose change, her packet of Kleenex, ring of keys, a Bic pen, and both of their survival vests.

  Still holding one gun on them and lowering the other, Ignacio examined the loot and made grunting noises of disgust, the paper money and credit cards making absolutely no impression on him. The pen, keys, and Kleenex held no interest, either, but he handed the dog tags to his partners, who peered at them closely, tested the metal with their teeth, then put them on their own necks. Ignacio picked up the loose change, then kicked aside the wallet, which Rafe quickly pocketed.

  Pablo examined Rafe’s Ray-Ban’s, made a disparaging remark about black spectacles, “mus’ be fer blind people,” and was about to throw them on the ground when Rafe cried out, “Hey, those shades cost me a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars?” Pablo exclaimed dubiously, but stuck them in his saddlebag, probably for some future profit.

  Ignacio went to work on their survival vests. The bandits kept only the signaling mirrors, waterproof matches, compasses, and pocketknives. They sc
rapped the plastic-sealed food packets, unable to understand what they were or how to open them. The trioxine fuel, water desalter, plastic spoons, insect headnets, fishing tackle, and snare wires were also kicked aside as useless. Ignacio’s two pals donned the vests under their ponchos. The first-aid kit held no interest to the bandits, but Helen grabbed it, figuring it might come in handy later.

  And finally, Pablo flipped the broken harness aside, but jammed Rafe’s intact harness, along with the parachutes from the ground and the two, still-folded reserve chutes into his saddlebags. What he would do with those items, Helen had no idea.

  “Thees ees all?” Ignacio questioned Rafe, motioning with his gun barrel for him to raise his hands back up. “Where ees all the gold?”

  “I don’t have any gold.”

  “You spent it all?” Before Rafe could answer, he turned to Helen. “Give me the ring.”

  She followed the direction of his stare, realizing he wanted her engagement ring. She started to balk, but Rafe signaled her with a brisk shake of his head not to rile the strange “bandit.”

  Ignacio turned the diamond over several times, studying it. Then, apparently satisfied that the ring had some worth, he slid it halfway up his pinky finger and smiled broadly at them both. “It ees unfortunate that you carry no gold with you, but thees ees still our lucky day. You will bring us many gold coins when we collect the reward for your capture, Señor Ángel.”

  “What reward?” Rafe asked.

  Ignacio’s thick eyebrows rose in surprise. “You did not know? There ees a five-hundred-dollar reward for your capture—dead or alive.”

  “You must have me mixed up with some other guy.”

  “No, I would know the Angel anywhere. The most notorious desperado in all California.”

  “Des . . . desperado?” Rafe sputtered out, his arms still upraised.

  Helen’s arms began to ache from their awkward position. She just wished this stupid game, or dream, or whatever it was, would end. More than anything, she wanted to go home and soak in a hot bath and forgot she’d ever met Rafael Santiago.