Against the Wind by Anne Stuart Page A

him into her,she wanted to weep in his arms. She stared up at him, saying nothing.
    “We’ll wait till the moon goes behind a cloud,” he continued softly, “and then we’ll run for it. I’m going to hold on to your wrist, so you’d better be prepared to be fast. I’ll break your arm before I let go.”
    “I’m sure you would and probably enjoy doing it.”
    He smiled down at her then, a slow, lazy smile, and the weight against her seemed to heat and expand. “Don’t tempt me, lady. I warned you about snipers.”
    “So you did. You also didn’t give me any choice.”
    The light dimmed slightly, and he looked upward. There were fitful clouds, none that seemed large enough to do the trick. “We may be here for a while.”
    “Great,” she muttered.
    “You asked for it. You can suffer the consequences. Of course, we can always try something else. I could let you continue heading toward the staircase, and while they’re busy shooting at you in your damned white shirt I can make it safely back into the villa.”
    He was bluffing, she knew that full well. She’d played poker herself, played it with him years ago in that cool dusty house by her father’s swimming pool. “All right,” she said. “Get off me.”
    The speed at which he began to comply took her by surprise, and she reached out to clutch his shoulders before she could think twice. He laughed, that silent, demoralizing little laugh. “Maybe next time,” he suggested.
    “I wouldn’t want to make your life too easy,” she said in dulcet tones. “I’m sure I’m an added complication, and—”
    His hand covered her mouth again, and she barely controlled the strong urge to bite it. “Get ready to run,” he whispered in her ear, and she could feel his muscles tensein the heavy body that still covered hers. His hand reached down and caught her wrist, just as the moon disappeared behind the clouds, plunging the garden into darkness.
    They flew across the wide expanse of garden, there was no other word for it. Maddy’s sandaled feet barely touched the ground as she raced after Jake’s dark figure, her wrist felt like it was caught in a steel trap, and she held her breath throughout the headlong dash, her ears straining for the sound of gunfire, her body ready to feel the recoil from a thousand bullets.
    But none came. Before she even realized it they were through the door, the heavy wood slammed shut behind them, and she had collapsed up against the wall, her breath coming in rapid, frightened pants, her eyes huge, her wrist still imprisoned in Jake’s grip.
    He dropped it without looking at her, locking the door again, setting the wooden bar in place, this time fastening the redoubtable padlock. Then he turned to her, and Maddy realized with a sudden start that the danger was far from over.
    “Who was watching you?” There was no room for evasion in that rough demand, no possibility of not answering.
    Fortunately she wasn’t given the choice. Ramon appeared out of the shadows, his head hung in shame, guilt and despair written on his dark young face. “It was me, Murphy. I failed you.”
    Murphy didn’t contradict him, didn’t say a thing. He just stood there watching him out of dark, fathomless eyes.
    “It wasn’t his fault,” Maddy broke in, the oppressive silence unnerving. “You should have known he’d be no match against the Mata Hari of San Pablo.”
    But Ramon would hear none of it. “I have no excuse, Murphy. I fell asleep. I know what the punishment is for falling asleep during guard duty.”
    “No,” Maddy shrieked. “It wasn’t his fault. He was exhausted, he hasn’t had enough sleep—”
    “None of us has,” Murphy said, and his voice was deadly. “Ramon is right, he has no excuse.”
    “But you can’t—”
    “Be quiet.” Jake’s voice was low, harsh, and completely quelling. She closed her mouth, glaring up at him mutinously as he turned back to the miserable boy. “Go back to the common room. I’ll be