Читать книгу Eye of the Beholder - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 9

After the heat of the day, night brought a creeping clamminess that chilled straight to the bones. The air was thick with the musty odor of damp cement. Glenna hunched her shoulders and huddled closer to the motionless man on the floor, as much to share her warmth with him as to draw comfort from his.

No more than a sliver of lamplight came through the crack beneath the door. It was enough to distinguish shapes and outlines, but the shadows swallowed any color. For that, she was grateful. She didn’t want to see whatever small creatures were making the scurrying noises in the corners. She didn’t want to look at the swelling on her ankle. And she didn’t really want to see the blood that seeped onto her hand.

The bullet wound in her rescuer’s leg had opened up again when their captors had tossed them onto the floor of this storeroom. In the darkness, she wouldn’t have discovered he was bleeding if she hadn’t felt the sticky warmth on her palm. She had done what she could to help, ripping up her suit jacket to wrap around his thigh as a makeshift bandage, but her knowledge of first aid was minimal. For lack of anything better, all she could think to do was press her hand to his thigh over the bandage to help stop the bleeding.

Even slack with unconsciousness, his body was rock solid. He emanated an aura of strength that was as tangible as his warmth. Whoever he was, he must be in superb physical condition to have survived the treatment he’d received. It had taken seven men to overpower him and knock him out when the trucks had reached them. Glenna suspected that if it wasn’t for her, he never would have allowed himself to be captured. Despite the wound in his leg, he probably could have made it to the fence and gotten away from the airport altogether, but he’d remained by her side, willing to risk his life for a complete stranger.

What kind of man did that?

Her gaze moved to the pale blur of his face. His black mask, along with some kind of radio headset, had been removed when he’d been dragged onto the pickup truck, but he’d been lying facedown during the trip here, so all she had been able to see was the back of his head. The transfer to this room had been short and rough—she hadn’t gotten a good look at him then, either.

He had carried her in his arms. He had sheltered her with his body as bullets had hissed past them. Yet she didn’t know his name. And if she passed him on the street, she wouldn’t recognize his face. After what they had been through, it seemed…wrong somehow.

Keeping her palm on his thigh, she lifted her free hand to his face. His skin was taut, with a hint of roughness from the day’s growth of his beard. She ran her fingers along his jaw, exploring the contours. It wasn’t enough to build a picture in her mind, but it did reinforce the impression she already had. He was lean, hard and uncompromisingly male.

A smooth ridge of skin interrupted the sandpaper beard stubble on the right side of his jaw. It had to be a scar, she thought, tracing the ridge to his cheek. The scar branched there, scattering into a network of furrows and more patches of raised skin that curved upward to his right temple. She swayed closer, curious, running her fingertips over the pattern. She didn’t need to see it to realize how bad it was. He must have suffered horribly.

Was he a policeman? A soldier? Did he storm hijacked planes and rescue women for a living? Had he obtained these scars while he was being a hero for someone else?

Whatever had caused it must have happened years ago—the skin had the firm smoothness of an old injury, like the tiny line on her own index finger that was a souvenir of a childhood mishap with a crystal water glass. She felt a surge of sympathy for him. What courage he must have, to continue to brave danger despite the pain he must have endured.

Compared to him, she had been a cringing coward, afraid to fully live, to take a chance on life.

Yes, well, she intended to change all of that.

She moved her fingers along the ridges and grooves that crossed the rise of his cheekbone until she reached the corner of his eye. The scar didn’t extend this far, or it would have showed at the edge of his mask. The only lines on his skin here were laugh lines, too fine to feel, but she remembered them perfectly.

He had beautiful eyes, so blue and piercing. Would the fine lines at the corners crinkle when he smiled? Was his laugh as deep and rich as his voice? Would she get the chance to hear it?

Before today, the sensible, levelheaded Glenna Hastings wouldn’t have wasted one moment considering those questions. What possible relevance could the sound of his laughter or the color of his eyes have to her life?

But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? She was alive, and she hadn’t forgotten what she had vowed when she had believed she was going to die. Every extra minute she lived was a gift. Every detail about her rescuer was relevant. The sound of his breathing, the scent of his skin, even the warmth of his blood against her palm…at this moment those things were more important than any of the thousands of trivial details that usually filled her days.

Her knees nudged against his hip. She winced at the stinging from her scraped skin and the ache in her ankle, but her injuries were nothing compared to her rescuer’s. She moved her hand to his hair. In the shadows it was leached of color, but on the ride here she’d seen it gleam golden in the sunshine. It was cropped short in a no-nonsense style that had appeared stiff, but as she slid her fingers into it, she discovered that his hair was as fine as a baby’s. It tickled her fingertips in a caress of silk, and for the first time since she had left the airport in Montego Bay, she felt her lips relax in a smile.

It was a little thing, to be sure, but taking pleasure in the texture of a strange man’s hair was something Glenna simply didn’t do. She might do lunch with a man. Or dinner and the theater, when her schedule allowed. Nice, sensible functions with no commitment, no expectations and no messy demands. She had found the situation completely satisfactory.

But it all seemed so impossibly faraway now, another world, a previous existence.

There was a furtive scrabbling along the far wall. Glenna’s smile faded as quickly as it had formed. Her situation was worse now than it had been hours earlier on the plane. She should be thinking about ways to escape instead of mooning over her fellow hostage.

Is that what she was doing? Mooning over a man, like some teenager with a crush?

Hardly. There was nothing juvenile about what she felt for this stranger. With one hand in the sensual softness of his hair, the other slick with the heat of his blood, Glenna had never felt more intimately connected to another human being in her life.

For however long that lasted.

Rafe came awake with brutal swiftness. His leg was on fire, and someone was slamming a sledgehammer into his head. His eyes had barely snapped open when he sensed a figure leaning over him.

Why was everything so dim? Had the blows to his head messed up his vision? Either that, or night had fallen. How long had he been out? Where was he? The questions buzzed through his brain as his hands shot out to grasp his assailant’s wrists. With a twist of his torso, Rafe reversed their positions.

There was a startled gasp. “Ow! What are you doing?”

The voice was female. It didn’t take Rafe more than a second to realize that the body he’d pinned to the floor was female, too. More than that, she felt familiar. She smelled familiar, a blend of sunshine and citrus that had his nostrils flaring for more.

Rafe blinked, trying to focus on the face beneath his. It was impossible to see anything more than a blur, yet he knew who this was. He might not be able to see her, but his other senses had no trouble recognizing her. It was the woman from the plane—the tall, classy redhead.

He knew the chances of rescuing her had been slim when he’d seen her fall to the tarmac. He should have remained with Flynn and the team to cover Sarah’s retreat with the other hostages. This woman who lay beneath him was a stranger, he reminded himself again. No less and no more important than the others…but the decision to go after her hadn’t been made by his brain, it had been pure gut-level instinct.

He breathed shallowly a few times, striving to control his pain the way he’d been trained to do. The pounding in his head retreated. The burning in his thigh settled into a deep throb. Bullet wound, he realized. He’d been hit five yards from the fence. He replayed the final moments, searching for an explanation for their present circumstances, but he must have been unconscious while they were transported here.

Wherever “here” was.

“Where are we?” he asked, careful to pitch his voice low enough not to carry. No point alerting anyone else that he was awake.

“I don’t know.”

He put his mouth close to her ear. “Keep your voice down. Is it a house? A factory? A warehouse? How big is it?”

“It’s a house,” she whispered. “It was hard to tell how large because it was already dark when they brought us here. They dumped us in this room and left.”

She had said it was already dark. That meant his vision was probably undamaged. One piece of good news. “They? How many?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Try to remember.”

She paused. He could feel her body tremble. She was struggling for the control she’d exhibited before. Her terror was there, just under the surface, but she was fighting it down. “There might have been six or seven men on each truck,” she replied finally. “There are more in this place.”

“We’re still on Rocama then?”

“Rocama?”

“The island where your plane landed.”

“Yes. We must be.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“What is it?”

He hadn’t liked the setup of this mission from the start. This proved his misgivings had been justified. “The locals were in on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the airport. Had to be. How else could the hijackers have gotten reinforcements through the police cordon and pulled off a raid of this scale?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“We weren’t allowed backup. That has to be why.” He squinted in the direction of his left wrist, but he saw no sign of the luminous dial of his watch. They must have taken it along with his gun and the knife he’d strapped to his calf. “How long did it take to get here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Minutes? Hours?”

“It felt like hours.”

“Damn.”

Her breath puffed past his cheek. “What are we going to do?”

“Escape.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something, princess.”

She was silent for a moment. “Glenna.”

“What?”

“Glenna Hastings. That’s my name.”

It suited her, he thought. It was classy and feminine, just like the woman. “Master Sergeant Rafal Marek,” he replied.

“Sergeant? Are you with the police?”

“Army Special Forces,” he said.

“You mean like SEALs?”

“They’re navy. Special Ops Delta is army.”

Another silence. “You’re from Delta Force?”

He heard the note of awe in her voice. He had Hollywood to thank for that. They had built Delta into a legend, even though the government still didn’t officially admit the force existed. “I’m from Eagle Squadron. And most people call me Rafe.”

“Okay. Rafe?”

“Yes?”

“Could you get off me, please?”

Rafe knew he should have let her up as soon as he had realized she wasn’t a threat. Sure, he’d wanted to learn the details of their situation as quickly as possible, and he hadn’t wanted their conversation to be overheard, but those weren’t the only reasons he had delayed.

He liked Glenna where she was. Her body was warm and firm and very, very comfortable stretched out underneath him. Now that she had brought it to his attention, he was aware of every inch of her. Her long legs rubbed alongside his. Her breasts pressed into his chest with each breath she drew and the pulse in her wrists was fluttering hard against his fingers.

She was a good fit. He didn’t want to let her go. It was the same possessive urge he’d had when he’d first seen her through his binoculars. And despite the ache in his head and the throbbing in his thigh, he felt a quick stirring of masculine interest.

Adrenaline, that’s all it was. Battlefield lust. It was nothing more than his body affirming that it was alive, a natural albeit primitive reaction to a brush with death and a tense situation.

Concentrate, he told himself. He had to think of the mission, not the woman. They were on the floor in an unknown location, surrounded by an undetermined number of enemies. He should be investigating their prison, assessing their options and forming a strategy.

And he should get the hell off Glenna before she felt the physical evidence of the reaction he was having no success controlling.

“Sorry,” he said, releasing her wrists. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me.”

Yeah, right, Rafe thought, rolling to his side. If his face hadn’t been covered with a mask when they’d met, she probably would have gone screaming off in the opposite direction, bad ankle and all. Lucky for him this place was so dark. He sat up, biting back a groan as he straightened his leg in front of him.

“Oh, be careful,” Glenna said. “The bleeding’s almost stopped. You have a wound in your left leg.”

“Right. Forty-five caliber from the feel of it.” He ran his hand over his thigh and found a twisted piece of fabric. Something was wrapped over the leg of his jumpsuit just above the knee. “What’s this? Did they bind it?”

“No, I did that. I used my jacket for a bandage. It’s all I could think of.”

Her jacket? She had used that elegant silk outfit to sop up his blood? For some reason, the image jarred him. “Thanks.”

“I turned it inside out before I used it.” There was a whisper of movement, the slide of skin on cement. Her voice came from a spot near his shoulder. “I know it’s not sterile, but it was the best I could do.”

He traced the edge of what he realized had to be a sleeve and found a knot. “Thanks again. Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a planner.”

“A planner?”

“For the Winston Hotel chain. I coordinate special events like conventions and fund-raisers. It’s…” Her voice became muffled, as if she rubbed her face. “It all seems so trivial now.”

Not trivial, he thought. Just a long way from here. A woman like her belonged in a different world, where men wore suits and drank bottled water at health clubs. The last man to touch her probably had manicured nails and wouldn’t know a bivouac from a bidet.

Still, she had done a good job binding his bullet wound, he realized as he loosened the knot. He eased back the torn edges of his jumpsuit and gingerly probed the area. Fresh waves of agony rolled over him. Despite the chill in the room, sweat dampened his upper lip, but he continued his exploration. He had to know the extent of the damage if he was going to plan an escape.

“Sergeant Marek? Rafe?”

It was more of a furrow than a hole. The bullet had tunneled into the fleshy part of his thigh and then passed through the other side. Messy, but good. He withdrew his hand and tipped back his head, steadying his breathing before he replied. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

Sure, he thought. She could press her body against his again and take his mind off this pain. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, using Flynn’s euphemism for anything that didn’t involve shattered bones. He repositioned the makeshift bandage.

“But—”

“I’ve had worse. It’ll heal on its own.” True enough, as long as it didn’t get infected, he thought grimly. Under these conditions, infection was extremely likely, and usually deadly. He’d have to make his move soon, before the infection set in, or he wouldn’t be able to move at all.

“Maybe we can ask for a doctor.”

He snorted. “We’re not going to stick around that long, Glenna. We’re only alive because they needed more hostages. They must still be hoping to negotiate.”

“Who are those people, anyway? Are they terrorists?”

“No. Just your garden variety drug smugglers with delusions of grandeur.” He gave her a summary of what he knew, including the demands the hijackers had originally made. But as he spoke he realized that the demand for the jet fuel must have been a sham meant to throw them off the trail—the hijackers had never intended to leave this island. This was where they were based. “I don’t think they’re going to release us, whatever happens. They have nothing to gain by showing mercy. That’s why it’s imperative that we escape as soon as possible.”

He braced his knuckles on the floor, got his feet under him and straightened up to stand. Pain knifed along his leg to his groin at the change in position, but he fought it back and limped toward the darkness that marked the nearest wall. He ran his hand across the surface. Cement block. If it had been wood, there might have been a chance of prying a board loose, but without tools, he couldn’t realistically consider this way an option. Moving cautiously, he made a circuit of the room, exploring their prison by touch, searching for any windows, any break in the mortar, but the only opening was the door. He got down on his stomach and laid his cheek against the floor to peer through the crack.

What he saw wasn’t encouraging. A long corridor, the legs of a chair, the butt of a rifle and three pairs of scuffed brown leather army boots. Three men. Armed. Probably paramilitary trained like the group at the airport.

Still, they wouldn’t be expecting an escape attempt so soon. He’d have the element of surprise on his side. If he got Glenna to provide a distraction, and if he managed to get a weapon away from one of those guards before they sounded the alarm, then they might be able to make a run for it. They would have to move fast, though. Otherwise…

He pushed off the floor and moved back to where he’d left Glenna. His leg would be good enough to carry his own weight for a short distance, but he wasn’t sure whether it would bear Glenna. “How’s your ankle?” he asked.

“Sore.”

He used her voice to zero in on her position, then sat down and groped in front of him. His fingers brushed her knee and he heard a sudden intake of breath. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot you scraped the skin there in your fall.”

“It wasn’t bad. It’s not bleeding anymore.”

“It probably wasn’t deep enough to leave a scar.”

“I’d say my appearance is the least of my worries right now.”

She wouldn’t feel that way once they got out of here, Rafe thought. He traced her leg downward, grasped her calf and brought her foot to his lap.

Her palms slid over the floor behind her. “What are you doing?”

“Checking the damage.” He ran his fingertips over her injured ankle. There was a spongy swelling where he judged the bones should be. He felt his way down to her foot. “Can you move it?”

“Yes.” She wiggled it. “A bit.”

“Where are your shoes?”

“They fell off on the trip here.”

“I don’t think your ankle’s broken, just twisted. But you won’t be able to walk far on it tonight, especially barefoot.”

“You can’t very well carry me in your condition.”

“Not for long, no.”

She hesitated. “You could make it on your own.”

How could she think he would even consider that? Rafe wondered. On the other hand, she had no idea how he felt. Why would she? He had trouble figuring it out himself. “When we go, we go together.”

“But if I can’t walk…”

“Then we get a vehicle. Trust me, Glenna, I’m not leaving you.”

Trust me. She didn’t really have a choice, Glenna thought, yet she had trusted him from the first moment she had looked into his eyes. Now all she needed to do was to hear his voice, and she believed him.

Was it some kind of side effect of their situation? she wondered. Or maybe it was all wrapped up with this new lease on life she suddenly had, something to do with not squandering the time she had left.

Whatever was behind it, she didn’t want to deny her feelings. He was wide-awake and very aware, yet that sense of intimacy she had felt when she had touched him earlier hadn’t faded. If anything, it was deepening.

Rafe’s hands were large and strong, like the rest of him. His fingers were warm against her skin. His inspection of her ankle was justified and completely clinical…and yet her nerves tingled at his touch.

He was a Delta Force commando. He really did storm hijacked planes and rescue people for a living. Who would have thought that a man who did what he did could be so gentle? Like his surprisingly soft hair, like the laugh lines around his eyes, there was much more to Rafe Marek than the tough exterior. She leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. “Thank you, Rafe.”

“What for?”

“You saved my life.”

He set her foot on the floor. “Sure. From the frying pan into the fire. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly home free yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m still better off than I was. You gave me another chance at life, and I’m grateful for the way—”

“I was doing my job,” he said gruffly.

Why did her gratitude make him uncomfortable? She smiled. “How much do they pay heroes these days?”

“Hero? You’ve got the wrong man, princess.”

She didn’t think so. She curled her legs to the side and leaned closer. “Rafe?”

“What?”

“Would you hold me?”

“Listen, Glenna, you don’t know what you’re saying. I’ve seen this happen before in hostage situations. You’re feeling the strain of the situation and—”

“No, I’m feeling chilled,” she said, calmly interrupting him. “I used my jacket for your bandage.”

He hesitated. “So you did.”

“That left me with just this sleeveless shell, but if it would bother you…”

He muttered something under his breath and pulled her into his arms.

Glenna sighed as she fitted her cheek against the hard curve of Rafe’s shoulder. She was no fool. She knew their situation was grave. And he was probably right. She was feeling the effects of stress…but she didn’t care. This man had given her a reprieve from death. Was she going to waste it?

No, she wasn’t. She was going to savor every moment. From now on, she would rather have regrets for something she had done, rather than something she had restrained herself from doing.

Who knew how much longer either one of them would be alive? And when was the last time she had shared anyone’s embrace? She couldn’t even remember.

That was a rather sad commentary on her life, wasn’t it? She could remember practically every word that was said at the meeting she’d attended yesterday. She could recite the phone numbers of florists and staffing agencies in every major North American city where a Winston hotel was located. She had a gold-embossed leather day planner that was filled in for the next two years…but she had no idea when she had last felt a man’s arms around her.

Rafe’s fingers splayed over her back, urging her to lean more fully against him. “You might as well try to get some sleep.”

“I doubt if I’ll ever sleep again.”

“You’re still feeling the adrenaline,” he said. “You’ll crash when it wears off.” He moved his hand to her neck and brushed her hair aside to rest his fingertips over the pulse beneath her ear. “Relax, Glenna. I’ll keep watch.”

Could he feel the way her heart pounded? she wondered. Did he know how wonderful his skin felt against hers? She had never been comfortable with casual touching. She preferred a handshake to a hug and an air-kiss for a greeting. But somehow she needed to touch him. “Thanks, Rafe.”

“No problem. You need to rest and recover your strength. As soon as you can put more weight on your ankle, we’ll make our move.”

“But—”

“We’ll get out of this. I promise. I’ve been in worse spots. The whole key is you’ve got to keep a clear head.”

“Control,” she murmured. “That’s what I kept telling myself in the plane.”

“You did great, by the way.”

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“There’s always a choice. When I was watching you in the doorway—”

“You were watching me? How? I didn’t see you.”

“I was there, Glenna. Even now, the rest of my team is probably searching the area. Once we get out of here, we’ll find some way to hook up with them and you’ll be back home in…” He paused. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” she replied. “It seems so far away.”

“Sure, but you’ll be back there before you know it. Once you’re debriefed at the base, I’ll see that you’re flown directly—”

“Rafe, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather take a train.”

A low rumble sounded in his chest. “Right.”

Glenna felt a smile tug at her lips. The noise he had made was more of a grunt than a laugh, but she liked the way it had felt against her cheek. She’d like to hear it again. “Rafe?”

“What?”

But whatever she was going to say ended in a gasp as the door to their prison was flung open. Before it had slammed against the wall, Rafe was on his feet, once more placing himself between her and the weapons that were aimed directly at them.

“Dios,” someone muttered. “You are right. He is one ugly bastard.”