His hand slipped beneath her silken hair. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck with a gentle touch.

  He leaned toward her slowly, allowing her time to read his intention and back away.

  But she didn't. Instead, every bit as seduced as he, Rachel moistened her lips and waited.

  Their mouths were a whisper apart. She placed her fingertips against his khaki shirt and felt his heart thudding in a strong, sure rhythm that matched the beat of her own.

  Closer. Then closer still. She could feel the warmth of his breath.

  And then, just as his lips brushed hers, a scream shattered the suspended silence.

  "What the hell?" Shade jerked his head back and looked around, his body as tense as it had been earlier at the border crossing.

  A child, a boy, no more than eight or nine years old, came dashing out of the door of the neighboring building and began pounding on the car window.

  "It's my mother," he shouted in obvious panic. "You must help her! She's dying!"

  Chapter Nine

  THE BOY'S MOTHER WASN'T dying, Rachel determined after they entered an apartment barren of furniture. In the center of the room, lying on a tablecloth on the bare floor was a woman, obviously pregnant and drenched in sweat.

  Rachel knelt down and began to examine the woman, who, unlike her son, spoke no English. She didn't need to. The agony and fear etched into every line of her face needed no translation. The entire time her hands moved over the swollen, undulating belly, Rachel talked in low, soothing tones.

  And then she smiled, patted the woman's cheek and turned back to the nervously waiting boy.

  "Your mother will be fine," she assured him. "She's simply going to have a baby."

  "Now?" Shade looked nearly as panic-stricken as the boy.

  "Tonight," Rachel determined.

  "Can't she wait?"

  "I suppose she might." Rachel rolled up her sleeves and went over to the kitchen area—little more than a sink, refrigerator and wood-burning stove against the far wall—to wash her hands. The small stack of oak and pine piled up beside the stove revealed what had happened to the furniture. "But the baby won't."

  Shade swore.

  Rachel turned on the tap. "At least there's hot water."

  "The entire block is built on hot springs."

  "Lucky." She rubbed a bar of brown soap between her hands, rinsed them and, lacking any sterile toweling, shook them dry.

  "That's not exactly the word I'd use." He shot a look at the woman writhing on the floor across the room. "Hell."

  "Why don't you stop cursing and make yourself useful?" Rachel asked with a calm Shade found amazing, considering the circumstances.

  "Doing what?"

  "Boiling some water would be a good start."

  "I thought they only did that in movies."

  "It's important to sterilize the knife," Rachel explained calmly over the woman's piercing scream. "And we'll need some clean towels."

  For the first time since her arrival on earth, she felt inordinately self-assured. Fortunately, childbirth was one thing that hadn't changed all that much in three hundred years. Oh, admittedly some of the techniques and equipment might have become more modern, but human biology was the same as it had been in the 1600s.

  "A knife? You're not going to try to perform a cesarean?" Shade wasn't up on the medical qualifications of midwives, but he knew damn well that surgery wasn't high on the list.

  The woman screeched again and began cursing like a Yaznovian lumberjack. Her tortured voice reminded him of the screams that had echoed through the stone walls of the general's prison during the interminable torture sessions. Amazingly, Shade considered, Rachel seemed unmoved by the sound.

  "The knife is to cut the cord." Another bloodcurdling scream that went on and on ricocheted around the apartment. "I'd better get to work." She nodded toward the stove. "And so should you."

  "Gee, Miz Rachel," he drawled, "I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies."

  His uneasy attempt at humor was wasted on Rachel, who'd never seen Butterfly McQueen deliver her famous movie line. "You will before the night's over," she promised.

  The labor, blessedly, proved relatively uneventful. Rachel was grateful that, although the woman was undernourished, she was young and strong. Her husband, they learned, had gone out that morning in search of food for his family and had not returned.

  Afternoon turned to evening. Then night. Tracers lit the darkened sky, creating a strobelike effect in the little room.

  Since it was too dangerous to send the boy away, Rachel put him to work, soothing his mother's sweaty brow with cool cloths dampened with locally grown lavender oil. She had Shade translate her instructions regarding the importance of relaxation and proper breathing during labor—the once-radical technique that had gotten her into such trouble three hundred years ago—and then she taught him how to coach the woman through each contraction. And how to massage the undulating belly. Although awkward and endearingly self-conscious at first, he soon caught on. As Shade relaxed, the woman did, as well, which eased her discomfort considerably.

  The beautifully simple technique declared heresy in her day, only to evolve into the much-lauded Lamaze method centuries later, was a vast improvement over tying the woman's wrists to the bedpost and shoving a birthing stick between her teeth, Rachel considered.

  The four strangers began to mesh, to work smoothly together as a team: Rachel, Shade, the woman and her son, all united in a single purpose.

  Five hours after the boy's desperate plea for help, file woman gave one final push and the baby eased slickly out of its mother's womb into Rachel's waiting hands.

  Everyone in the room held their collective breaths, waiting for the infant's cry. A cry that began as a weak, stuttering whimper and quickly escalated into a full, healthy wail.

  "You have a daughter," Rachel said, smiling through her happy tears as she placed the baby girl on the woman's stomach and cut the cord that had bonded child and mother for nine months.

  She did not need Shade to translate. The new mother, overcome by such joy in the midst of the horror raging outdoors, began to cry and kissed Rachel's hands. Then Shade's. Then she hugged her son and cried all the harder.

  Capping off the blessed event, the absent husband chose that moment to burst through the door. He had managed to locate some precious loaves of brown bread and goat cheese and, miraculously, two bottles of wine. Viewing his triumphant wife and newborn daughter, he dropped his bundles to the floor.

  There was more laughter. More happy tears. Even Shade's eyes, Rachel noticed, were suspiciously wet. Glasses were raised as toasts were made to the baby.

  The new mother. The baby's older brother. To Shade. And, of course, there were several toasts to Rachel, who, the husband insisted, was an angel.

  Finally, taking the blessings of the Yaznovian family with them, Shade and Rachel slipped out of the building, retrieved their luggage and food from the Mercedes and made their way through the tavern to the upstairs apartment.

  Shade closed the shutters and risked lighting a candle. The apartment, like the one next door, consisted of a single room with a kitchen area against one wall and an adjoining bath. A large hand-carved bed, covered with a thick feather comforter, dominated the small space.

  Shade put the suitcases on the floor and the picnic basket on the table. "You must be exhausted."

  She was tired. Strange how she hadn't noticed it earlier. But of course her mind had been on other things. She rubbed the back of her neck.

  "Not as exhausted as the baby's mother." She smiled with reminiscent pleasure. "Wasn't that wonderful?"

  "You were wonderful." He wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. "I think this is where I tell you I'm very impressed."

  Her lips curved beneath his. "I was just doing my job."

  "I know. It's just that I…"

  When his voice trailed off, she tilted her head back and met his oddly embarrassed gaze with a fond one of her own. "You didn't believe I really was a midwife."

  "I guess I didn't. Not really." He ran his palm down her hair. "The idea just seemed so—"

  "Old-fashioned?"

  "Yeah." Shade decided not to ruin the moment by pointing out that she hadn't exactly been a model of veracity during their time together.

  His wide hand continued down her back, creating warmth. And desire. Rachel loved him so much, she wanted him so much, she twined her arms around his neck. "I guess I'm just an old-fashioned woman." She wanted to melt into him.

  Shade wanted her to do exactly that. "My favorite kind."

  He kissed her. Deep and hard. On and on. His hand cupped her buttocks, lifting her against his swelling groin.

  A fiery knot of frustration was growing inside her. Rachel wanted to feel Shade's hot naked flesh against hers. She felt as if she would die if he didn't undress her. If he didn't take her. Now.

  Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her body moved urgently against his. Shade could feel the need radiating from her. Or was it his own need he was feeling?

  Shade wanted her with a hunger like nothing he'd ever known. And if she'd been any other woman, he would have already satisfied that need.

  But there was something about Rachel, something innocent and unsullied, that had kept him from indulging in what he suspected would be an extraordinary sexual experience.

  Every instinct Shade possessed told him that, despite the fact he still hadn't unearthed a single piece of biographical information on his mysterious companion, Rachel wasn't any danger to his life.

  But she did represent other dangers that were far more deadly.

  So why the hell didn't he back away? He wasn't chained to the woman. Or was he?

  He broke the heated kiss off long enough to look down into her face. Her soft, flushed, exquisite face.

  "If I ask you a question, one question, will you promise to tell me the absolute truth?"

  At this moment, Rachel could have refused Shade nothing. "I promise."

  "You have done this before, haven't you?"

  He could have groaned as he viewed the telltale color rise in her cheeks. "Not exactly."

  Shade was afraid he knew precisely where this was going. "Dammit, Rachel—"

  "I'm sorry." She bit her lip and looked up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. "I promised you the absolute truth, didn't I? Well." She took a deep breath. "It's true I haven't had much sexual experience." Another long pause. "Actually," she admitted reluctantly, "I haven't had any actual experience."

  Hell, he'd been afraid of that all along. Although it was damn unusual to run across a virgin in this day and age, Shade reminded himself with grim humor that he'd always prided himself on managing the impossible.

  Outside the window, the tracers continued to light up the sky; mortars from the distant hillside boomed like Fourth of July fireworks. Inside there was only thick, expectant silence.

  "You know I want you." He ran his hands up and down her arms.

  His flat tone, the regret she viewed in his eyes made Rachel's heart clench. She'd known all along Shade possessed a deep-seated trait of integrity, but why did he finally have to realize it himself at this moment?

  "As I want you." She'd never, in the over three hundred years of her existence, uttered a more truthful statement.

  Shade couldn't believe it. Here he was, alone with a beautiful woman with danger as an additional aphrodisiac. And if that wasn't enough, this very same woman, this sexy, beautiful, sweet woman who felt like heaven in his arms, was almost begging him to make love to her.

  And what happened? A conscience he'd spent a lifetime denying suddenly decided to kick in.

  "Hell, I've never claimed to be Prince Charming," he said. "But even I'm not so jaded that I have to get my sexual kicks seducing innocents."

  "Are you saying that you refuse to make love with me because I'm a virgin?"

  "No. I'm saying that I refuse to make love to you because, for once in my life, I'm trying to do the right thing."

  "But that doesn't make any sense. If you want me, and I want you—"

  "It's not about want, dammit!" He released her but didn't move away. Instead he stood over her, his dark face tense, his expression as frustrated as she'd ever seen it. "Want is easy. Too easy."

  He thought about all the hours he'd wasted in bed with women who'd never succeeded in touching his heart. Just as he hadn't touched theirs.

  To her added discomfort, Rachel was discovering a very mortal pride. "Perhaps it's easy for you." She tilted her chin and refused to cry. "But not for me."

  His gaze softened. "No." He sighed as he cupped her face in his hand. "Not for you."

  When he found himself wanting to kiss away her unhappiness, he dropped his hand again. "Which is exactly what I'm trying to say. It would never work, Rachel. You know that. And I know it."

  Her head told her he was right, that a future together was utterly impossible. Her heart refused to listen.

  "You're so certain of that?"

  "As certain as I've ever been of anything." He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets to keep from touching her. To keep from dragging her down onto that bed and stripping that sexy mistress sweater and leather jeans from her body and burying himself in her tight, welcoming warmth. "Women like you just aren't made for short-term romantic interludes."

  Once again pride rose to steamroller over her pain. She lifted a challenging brow. "Women like me?" How dare he think he could pigeonhole her so easily!

  Rachel found herself almost telling Shade everything, just to watch his face when he realized exactly how much she knew about him. And how little he truly knew about her.

  "You're a soft, compassionate, innocent woman. And you deserve more."

  "Such as?"

  Caught up in his explanation, Shade missed the warning edge to her quiet tone. "How about a husband with a boring, regular nine-to-five job that can't get him killed at any time, for starters?

  "And a sprawling ranch-style house in the suburbs, and a couple of well-behaved, cute kids who'll sell Girl Scout cookies and play Little League and make you and their dad proud."

  "That doesn't sound like such a bad scenario," she admitted reluctantly. It sounded wonderful. Better than wonderful. It sounded, she reflected, like heaven on earth.

  "It isn't. For some people."

  "But not you."

  "No." He ran a desperate hand through his hair. "Not me."

  Even if he wanted to, which he didn't, Shade could not give Rachel any part of that life. His work took him all over the world, his life was constantly in peril.

  Knowing nothing about parenting—having never had anything resembling a role model—he'd decided long ago not to have kids.

  As for marriage, he suspected it was okay for romantic, warmhearted guys like Conlan. But not for him.

  His entire life had been a hit-and-run series of adventures. Liking it that way, Shade had always narrowed his sexual relationships to women who shared his dislike of long-term commitments.

  So, the smartest thing, the kindest thing, would be not to start anything with the lovely, delectable Rachel. The tension in the room was so thick Shade couldn't think straight. "I'm going out."

  Alarm sprinted up her spine. "What? Why?"

  "I have things to do." like run away from this emotional quicksand.

  "It's too dangerous."

  Shade wondered what Rachel would say if he told her that she represented far more danger than any thing he'd run into out on those deadly, mean streets. "Don't worry about me."

  "I do." Another unvarnished truth.

  "Don't." Unable to resist, he cupped her chin in his fingers and kissed her. A brief hot flare that ended too soon for either of them. And then he was gone.

  She listened to the sound of his boots on the stairway, heard the door to the tavern squeak open. Then close.

  Then, and only then, did she allow herself to weep.

  She didn't know how long she'd been lying on the bed, crying her heart out into the soft down pillow. But when she heard the apartment door open, she jumped up, unable to hide her relief.

  "Oh." Her welcoming smile faded as she viewed the man standing in the doorway. "Hello, Joshua."

  "That's not exactly the warmest greeting I've ever received," he complained.

  "I'm sorry." She sat back down on the edge of the mattress and knit her fingers together in her lap. "It's been a very trying day."

  "So I saw. Congratulations on the child, by the way. You did a very exemplary job of bringing her into the world."

  "Her mother did all the work."

  "You were an immense help. Not to mention providing much-needed emotional comfort. And Shade wasn't half-bad, himself."

  "He was pretty special, wasn't he?" Her soft voice revealed her pride. And her love.

  "I had not realized the man was capable of such compassion."

  "Shade is capable of a lot more than even he knows," Rachel said loyally.

  "So you've always said." The older man paused, as if weighing his words, then made his decision. So what if it was against policy? he considered. It would be worth a slap on the wrist to bring that smile back to her lips.

  "Would it make you feel better to know that the child you delivered tonight will grow up to be one of Yaznovia's most beloved legislators?"

  "Yaznovia doesn't have a legislature," Rachel said as another burst of machine-gun fire echoed outside the window. Where was Shade? Why hadn't he returned? "It's a military dictatorship."

  "For the time being. But democracy will eventually prevail. And that little girl will play a very large role in her country's future."

  "Well, that's nice to hear." Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes devoid of their usual bright light. Something occurred to her. "You're not supposed to reveal the future, are you?" It was one of the first rules she'd learned that long-ago day.

  "No. But I thought it might ease your distress."

  "That was very nice of you. But you shouldn't have risked disciplinary action for me."

  "I wanted to help." Sighing, he sat down beside her. "He'll return safely, if that's what you're worried about."

 

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