Chapter 18
Mathilda finally slept after her third orgasm of the night—or rather, early morning.
When she woke up, they were still spooned together.
Every bone in her body vibrated with satisfaction.
The rain had finally stopped, and the first rooster was uttering that ancient, primal crow.
In the jungle, that usually happened before the first light of dawn, possibly because the sun rose so quickly here. There wasn’t much “dawn” to speak of.
She lay for a moment marinating in the aftermath of such a physically cathartic encounter. She’d needed an escape, and she’d gotten one, thanks to one extremely virile billionaire. Just her luck that she had such fantastic chemistry with the exact type of person she preferred to avoid.
But maybe she should get used to it. As Marchioness of Aberdeen, and someone with loads of money, her social circle would probably consist of upper-class types like that.
If they were all like Lincoln Kerr, maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.
He was so completely unexpected in so many ways.
Not only was he protective and surprisingly thoughtful, but he was the most attentive lover she’d ever been with.
One night together, and she was going to be spoiled forever.
Someone like Carlos the truck driver—a perfectly good lover himself—wasn’t going to be enough anymore.
She was going to crave that rush, that fire, that kaboom.
What was she even thinking about? If she married Duncan, she wasn’t going to be looking for other lovers.
He wanted to develop a real relationship.
He’d always wanted a family, according to his letter.
He took commitments seriously and looked forward to the day when he had a wife and children he could build a life around.
To be honest, he sounded like a real sweetheart.
He’d included an envelope containing several photos too.
She had to admit he was a cutie. Thick hair the color of buttered biscuits, eyes filled with wicked wit, sort of quirky and ironic looking, older than twenty-three.
In one photo he wore black graduation robes from Eton.
In another he was all dressed up for the races at Ascot, a straw hat perched on his blond head.
He was looking for work as a graphic designer, but not especially hard.
He didn’t seem to have a firm direction in life.
Her overall impression was that he was a charmer.
She wondered what she looked like on paper.
Her parents had sent him some photos, according to him, and they had met with his approval.
On the surface, she came across as a pretty blonde, she knew that.
The two of them could have been brother and sister, in fact.
Maybe her parents had sent a photo of her playing tennis at their club.
Perhaps they’d managed to find one in which she was actually hitting the ball—it happened so rarely that it would be a miracle shot.
Hand-eye coordination was not her thing.
But give her a mountain hike or a wilderness bushwhack in search of a rare bird, and she could go all day.
Would she have to give up those passions if she became a marchioness? Would she have to stick to tennis, or cricket, or croquet or tea parties or—
She put a hand on her chest to calm her suddenly rapid heartbeat.
Oh shit. She hadn’t experienced this feeling in so long, she’d nearly forgotten about it.
It always started like this, with her heart going a mile a minute.
Then she’d become unable to catch her breath.
Get lightheaded. Panicky. Lost. Time and space would warp around her while she fought to not lose her shit.
Grounding herself—that was what worked. Activate her senses, find a smell, an object, something to touch, to anchor herself to reality.
Lincoln’s bicep did the trick. Solid muscle, warm skin. She clutched it firmly and did some breathing exercises she hadn’t used since she’d left Connecticut. The familiar jungle smells helped—rain-washed banana leaves, moist earth, the coffee someone was making.
“Hey, are you okay?”
She glanced over at Lincoln, whose dark eyes were filled with concern. Snatching her hand from his arm, she saw that her fingernails had left marks on his skin. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how hard I was…sorry.”
“It’s all right. No blood, no foul.” He smiled at her. “That’s what my brothers and I used to say.”
“Your brothers?” She jumped at the chance to change the subject from her embarrassing near-panic attack. Rolling onto her side, she pillowed her head on her hands. “How many brothers do you have?”
“Two.”
Such a brief response. “Older? Younger?”
“I’m the oldest. My brother Louie is next, he’s a social worker in Tennessee, married, three kids.
Ethan is the youngest. He’s…well, he lives in a residential home for the disabled.
Don’t worry,” he added quickly when her eyes widened, “he loves it there. It has everything he needs and he feels safe there. It’s only a half-hour drive for my parents so they see him all the time.
He’s doing great there. He even mentors new arrivals and helps them get settled in.
The staff sometimes jokes about hiring him.
” His expression softened to one she’d never seen on him before—tender, vulnerable. It touched her heart.
“I’ve heard that kind of care is expensive. It’s a good thing you’re a billionaire.”
His body gave a sudden jerk.
“Did something bite you?” She sat up and scanned the edge of the bed. “This net is supposed to keep everything out, but sometimes it gets untucked.”
Lincoln shoved the covers off his body. “Mathilda, I have to tell you something. Right away.”
He sounded so serious that she abandoned her search for a gap in the mosquito net. “What’s up? Please tell me the condom didn’t break. Any of them.” They’d used three, after all.
“No no, that’s not it. I…I need to apologize—”
“No.” She cut him off with a gesture. “I’m the one who needs to. I gave you such a hard time about being a CEO billionaire, and the whole time I kept the truth about my family hidden. I’m usually an honest person, I swear. It’s important to me. At least you’ve never hidden who you are.”
He flinched, looking absolutely miserable. “Mathilda, would you please just listen for a minute.”
“Okay, sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. Go on.”
He drew in a deep breath. “When I woke up after the crash, I was—”
Shouting from outside interrupted him. Then came a terrified scream.
All confessions forgotten, they scrambled out of the bed.
She pulled on the closest pair of loose pants and dug out a clean t-shirt from the tote that held her clothes.
Her last one, thanks to Lincoln screwing up her load of laundry.
Of course he was forgiven for that because of last night.
Face it, she’d forgive him for a lot because he’d been there for her in so many ways last night.
Mostly clothed, they raced out of her tent and stopped dead at the sight that greeted them.
On the other end of the camp, two men in black commando gear were dragging Rory the pilot out of the camp.
He was putting up a fight, but they ignored his kicks and struggles.
Another commando aimed an automatic rifle at Robert, Sasha and Cody—all still in their nightwear.
Robert had gotten closest to the attackers.
Now he was backing away, his hands in the air.
Next to her, Mathilda felt Lincoln start toward them, but she grabbed his arm to hold him back. “There’s nothing you can do,” she hissed. “They’re armed and we’re not.”
How had they even gotten here? Had they hiked in overnight? That would explain why they were all wearing night-vision goggles.
Rory’s arm was tense as steel under her palm. His jaw worked as he fought back his impulse to help his pilot—commendable, she thought. But he listened to her and stayed where he was.
A fourth man raced out of the guest tent, carrying everything that Lincoln had taken from the plane—his overnight bag, the leather briefcase. She didn’t see the weird lunchbox thingie, so maybe he hadn’t bothered with that. He ran past the other commandos and disappeared into the jungle.
“Fuck,” Lincoln muttered.
“Where are you taking me?” Rory shouted as they dragged him along. “This is outrageous! Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
“I wonder what he means by that,” Mathilda murmured to Lincoln. “But at least he doesn’t sound scared. Maybe he knows you’ll help him.”
The men ignored the pilot’s shouts as they manhandled him along the path. Rory kept yelling about ransoms, and how much they were going to regret this, and other things that made no sense to Mathilda. Something about knowing the president? How could a pilot know a president?
He must be having some of those post-coma delusions Sasha had mentioned.
Then again, he was being kidnapped by armed commandos, so maybe those delusions were accurate, and some foreign government really, really wanted to get their hands on a skilled pilot.
When the others had all disappeared from sight, the last commando turned to face Robert and the others. “We were never here,” he ordered. “Not a word to anyone.”
And then he was gone, too. A few minutes later, a helicopter rose from the jungle about two hundred yards away, tilted to one side, then headed north. She hadn’t heard it land, but then again, it had been raining pretty hard until now. All the surrounding trees still glistened with moisture.
Robert wheeled around, his tattoos glowing in the morning light, and stalked the entire length of the camp until he reached Lincoln.
He gave him a light shove in the chest. “You want to tell us what’s going on?
I just had a machine gun aimed at my head.
All we did is rescue you and give your pilot a place to recover until he woke up.
Now we got death squads coming in here and threatening us? What the fuck, man?”
Cody joined them. He was frowning thoughtfully, as if trying to work something out in his always calm and quiet way. “Yeah, and why did they take your pilot? Why not you?”
That was an excellent point. Mathilda looked over at Lincoln, who was scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
“Look, I need to explain some things,” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah, like why you were hiding out in Mathilda’s tent while armed men kidnapped your pilot?” Robert demanded.
Mathilda jumped to Lincoln’s defense. “He wasn’t hiding. He just happened to be there for very good reasons. He had no idea those guys were going to come. Did you, Lincoln?”
His dark eyebrows drew together over his long-lashed eyes. He looked so handsome it almost hurt. “No, of course not, but—”
“But? What but?” She faced him, fists on her hips. “Are you saying you suspected it might happen? Is that why you came to my tent?”
“Jesus, Mathilda. No, absolutely not.” His dark gaze drilled into her. “You know why I was there.” The heat in that look struck sparks deep in her body. Great. What a perfect moment to get turned on by him.
“We don’t need to hear about your sex life,” Cody said quietly. “We want to know why we just got guns pointed at us.”
“I promise you, I don’t know why.” Lincoln held up his hands, palms out. “I’m as shocked as you are. But—”
There was that “but” again. “Go on,” Mathilda urged. “What comes after the ‘but’? Just say it.”
He drew in a visibly deep breath. “The reason none of this makes sense is that I’m not Lincoln Kerr.”