Читать книгу Tempted by His Target - Jill Sorenson - Страница 11

The highway from Puerto Escondido to Oaxaca City wasn’t for the faint of heart.

During the day, the hairpin turns, deep potholes and absent road signs kept even the most experienced drivers on their toes. At night, the journey was extremely dangerous, almost impassable.

The good news was that they were all alone.

Isabel went as fast as she dared, watching out for headlights and herd animals, feeling safer with every mile gained. Brandon voiced no complaints but she sensed his discomfort. Every time they went over a hard bump or around a sharp curve, his arm tightened around her waist and his shoulders tensed, as if he was steeling himself from the pain. He’d taken some hard knocks to the head.

She’d been surprised by the skill and ferocity of his counterattack. He’d shown no hesitation in taking on a much larger man. She still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to break free. One moment he was getting pummeled, the next he was choking his opponent into submission. Isabel had watched the brutish display with a mixture of awe and unease, mesmerized by the corded muscles in his neck.

Although she’d known he was fast, she’d underestimated his strength. His lean elegance was deceptive. He fought like a professional.

She shivered at the thought. Even now, after hours on the road, she was aware of the hard thighs beneath her bottom, the locked forearm around her waist and the solid wall of his chest against her back. Well-built surfers were the rule, rather than the exception, but they didn’t typically excel at ultra violence. Her mind raced with questions, and she had to force herself not to squirm on his lap.

Who the hell was he?

The noise of the engine and the speed of travel inhibited conversation. By the time the city lights of Oaxaca were visible, it was well past midnight, and Isabel was exhausted. “I’m going to find a hotel,” she said as soon as they exited the highway.

Brandon made a sound of agreement. His injuries needed attention, and he had to be as tired as she was. If he wanted to take his chances at the airport, or split up, he was welcome to hail a cab from the hotel.

Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy at this hour. She spotted a run-down three-story building, well off the main drag, with a private parking garage and a back exit. Luckily, there was an employee at the gate.

“Pretend you’re drunk,” she murmured to Brandon.

He slumped against her back, compliant.

After a brief exchange with the guard, who was happy to accept cash in exchange for a room key, she parked her motorcycle and helped Brandon up the stairs. He leaned on her, either playing drunk or because he was really hurting.

The room was cramped but clean. She flipped on the light, relieved when a ceiling fan whirred into motion. It was hot in here. At least there was a private bath, as promised. She urged Brandon toward the bed, sweat trickling between her breasts.

He sat down on the mattress, groaning as he touched his temple. Blood had matted his left eyebrow and dried in dark rivulets along his jaw. His mouth was swollen, his shirt torn. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.

She wondered if he had a concussion, though he’d never lost consciousness. “Is anything broken?”

He rested his head against the pillows. “Just my skull.”

Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. “I’ll try to get you some ice,” she said, grabbing the bucket from the nightstand. Ice was a luxury amenity in a dive hotel like this, so she was pleased to find a functional ice maker on the bottom floor. There was also a vending machine. After returning to the room, she emptied a pillowcase and filled it with a few handfuls of ice. “Here,” she said, pressing the makeshift pack to his temple.

“Thanks,” he said, holding it in place.

She rummaged through her messenger bag, which had a first aid kit, complete with bandages and over-the-counter painkillers. Ripping open the square package, she offered him the two pills in her upturned palm. He washed them down with water and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His cuts needed to be cleaned, but that could wait until the pills kicked in. “Are you hungry? The vending machine has snacks.”

He didn’t say no, so she returned to the bottom floor to buy cold sodas, snack cakes and tortilla chips. She carried the items upstairs and set them on the nightstand. “If you want to shower, you should do it now, before I fix you up.”

“You go first,” he said, his lips barely moving.

She took her bag into the bathroom, eager to wash and change. The mirror was small and scratched but it reflected her unsightly appearance all too well. There was an ugly scrape on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes.

“Ugh,” she said, pulling off her soiled clothes. They stank of sweat and blood and vehicle exhaust. She stepped into the shower stall and stood under the weak, lukewarm spray, her heart pounding with anxiety.

She’d stabbed a man. Killed him, maybe. Reliving the sensation of his blood gushing over her hands, she scrubbed them with a little too much vigor. Using the harsh soap, she lathered every inch of her body, trying to remove the taint of death.

Murderer, the hissing showerhead whispered. Murderer, criminal, thief.

She rinsed off and left the stall, drying her tingling skin with a nubby towel. There was a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants in her messenger bag. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, and hung up her wet towel on the way out.

Brandon looked a little more alert. He’d opened his soda and finished a bag of chips. His blue eyes traveled down her body, settling on her bare toes. Her mind flashed back to the days of four-star hotels with spa services and complimentary pedicures.

“It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

He rose from the bed, wincing, and picked up his pack. She moved aside as he passed by, noting that the top of his head barely cleared the doorway. At well over six feet tall, he’d have to duck down to shower.

Stomach growling, she sat down to eat. The snack cakes didn’t taste very good, but the chips were okay. She devoured both, crunching noisily.

Her Beverly Hills manners were long gone, too.

When Brandon came out of the bathroom, wearing only trousers, she almost choked on the last mouthful of soda. She’d seen his bare chest at the beach. But now they were in a tiny room with a single bed, and his masculine presence seemed magnified. The smell of clean male skin permeated the space, assaulting her senses.

He blotted his eyebrow, which was still seeping, with a small towel.

Flushing, she set the empty can aside and rose to retrieve her first aid kit. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the edge of the mattress. He complied, taking the towel away from his brow as she stepped forward to treat him. She stood between his splayed thighs, her hands trembling as she cleaned the area around the cut with an alcohol square. It probably didn’t need stitches; head wounds just bled a lot. “This might scar.”

“Who were those guys?”

“Thugs,” she said vaguely, dabbing a bit of antibiotic ointment on the cut. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“‘Nam.”

She ignored the sarcastic answer, realizing that he was annoyed with her evasiveness. It took all of her concentration to prepare a butterfly bandage without fumbling. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time. Her breasts were inches from his face. His gaze rose to meet hers, conveying a reluctant sexual interest and faint distrust.

The feeling was mutual.

“Hold still,” she said, pressing the edges of the cut together and securing it with the bandage. He sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth in discomfort. Then she was done, and the wound was closed up tight, almost as if she’d stitched it.

“Those guys are with La Familia,” she said, sitting down next to him.

He didn’t ask what that meant. The most powerful drug cartel in Mexico was infamous. “Why are they after me?”

She hesitated to give him a straight answer. Being as honest as possible was the least she could do, after dragging him into this mess, but she had to look out for herself first. “They’re not after you.”

His brows lifted. “They want you?”

“They want something I have.”

“What?”

Isabel couldn’t tell him, so she reached for the antibiotic ointment again. Using a light touch, she applied the medicine to his bruised lower lip. After so many months of deprivation, the action seemed unbearably sensual. Her nipples tightened, poking against the soft fabric of her tank top in an all-too-obvious bid for attention.

Flustered, she jerked her hand away from his mouth. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he’d thought of something amusing. Instead of sharing the joke, he made a fist, revealing swollen knuckles and a rash of small cuts. She put ointment on his knuckles and bandaged them lightly, trying to ignore the heat between them. “You don’t do manual labor,” she commented. His hands were strong, with ropy veins, but his palms weren’t heavily callused.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No, but my job is physically demanding. And I teach self-defense classes on the weekends.”

Self-defense classes. That explained his grappling prowess and swift reactions. “What’s your day job?”

“I work for a risk management company. We test sports equipment, safety gear, anything that’s designed to reduce injuries. By the way, you really should wear a helmet if you’re going to surf alone at a crusher reef.”

His belated advice made her feel numb. She’d probably never see that reef again. “I’m sorry for running away in the alley earlier,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I feel bad about leaving you with … the body.”

“He wasn’t dead.”

She perked up. “Really?”

“They took him away in an ambulance, so he must have been alive. The police wouldn’t say how he was. In any case, I appreciate you coming back. I don’t think those guys had a friendly conversation in mind.”

“No,” she agreed, warmed by his gratitude. She began putting away her first aid supplies, self-conscious.

“Wait,” he said, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. He squeezed a small amount onto his thumb and brushed it over her cheek, soothing the scrape.

Isabel’s skin tingled with sensation. She was heartened by the reminder that Carranza’s man had struck her first, and glad she’d been able to help Brandon fend off his attackers. She was also terrified by her response to him. Over the past two years, she’d relied only on herself. Staying away from people had kept her safe.

He made her ache for all the things she’d been missing.

His hand lingered on her jaw, framing it the way a man did before he stole a kiss. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and pulse throb. The temptation to part her lips and tilt her head back was almost irresistible.

Somehow, she found the strength to pull away. When he dropped his hand, she shoved her first aid supplies into the case and rose to her feet.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Get some sleep.” No easy task, with him in the bed.

“Tomorrow, I mean.”

She shrugged, stashing the kit in her messenger bag. Her best recourse was probably to stay in Oaxaca, lying low.

“Come to Guatemala with me.”

Her gaze flew back to his, startled. “You’re going there?”

“I was considering it, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. I saw an ad for a surfing tour.”

Her mind raced with possibilities. It wasn’t a bad idea. Brandon was strong, he cared about her safety and he could handle himself in a fight. With his height and looks, he wouldn’t be inconspicuous, but traveling couples were much more common than single women. He also had money, or access to money. Wealthy Americans were welcome everywhere in Mexico. They might be able to cross the border together.

This was her chance to escape. Should she take it?

“Those men won’t give up,” she warned. “Staying with me will be dangerous.”

He didn’t seem worried. “I assess risk for a living.”

She pegged him as a controlled adrenaline junkie—and knew she could do worse. “You have a head injury.”

He fingered the bandage by his left eye, deliberating. “We don’t need to decide now. Let’s sleep on it.”

Making a tacit agreement to revisit the topic in the morning, Isabel killed the lights, settling in beside him. He didn’t try to touch her again, which only increased her frustration. She was lying next to a hot gentleman, her body humming with desire. Sex was out of the question, of course, no matter how badly she wanted it. He was nursing a possible concussion, and she had to stay focused on survival.

They couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.

Tomorrow night, if she decided to accompany him to Guatemala, she’d try to secure a room with two beds.

After a few minutes, his breaths came deep and even, signaling that he was asleep. Isabel relaxed slightly, her thoughts drifting. She felt safe with Brandon. Not comfortable, exactly. Their physical chemistry kept her nerves on edge, but she didn’t think he’d harm her.

She also wondered why he’d offer his assistance, beyond chivalry. A man like him could have his pick of women. Those two European girls had given him the go-signal. Why would he trouble himself with a knife-wielding fugitive instead? Some guys had a thing for surfer girls; others enjoyed the chase. Many extreme sports enthusiasts were addicted to risk. Maybe Brandon was a thrill-seeker and an “exotic” female was icing on his cake.

It didn’t matter, as long as he kept his distance.

She was still pondering his motives, and replaying the feel of his hand on her cheek, when exhaustion took over.

Brandon waited until Isabel fell asleep and rose from the bed, moving to the single window to stand guard.

Through the bars, he watched the dark, empty street. In a few hours, the sun would peek over the edge of the horizon, and most of the city’s residents would rise for another long workday. Now, the night was quiet and peaceful.

His head didn’t ache as much as it had earlier, and the nausea had passed. Judging by his blurred vision, motion sickness and general disorientation, he’d suffered a mild concussion. He should take care not to reinjure himself in the next few weeks—getting knocked out again could be disastrous. Although he didn’t really assess risk for a living, he’d played enough football to know that brain damage was no joke.

He glanced back at Isabel, acknowledging that this assignment was rife with risk. Even from across the room, she tempted him. Her figure was a shadowy outline on the bed, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, chest rising with soft, even breaths. His fingers itched to sink into her hair, to skim along her slender curves. Worse, a strange tenderness welled up inside him at the sight of her peaceful slumber.

He tore his gaze away, clenching his bandaged hand into a fist. Seducing her wasn’t one of his objectives. Inappropriate contact with a target was grounds for dismissal, in fact. All of his previous assignments had involved men, so that hadn’t been a problem before. It shouldn’t be a problem now. He’d never had trouble abstaining from sex on the job, or finding an appropriate partner during his downtime. Right now, he had no patience for abstinence and zero interest in other women. For whatever reason, he felt a very specific, intensely focused desire for Isabel. Maybe he wanted her because he couldn’t have her. Or maybe he just wanted her.

Either way, he needed to get a grip.

This was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. Sure, he’d admired her sexy photos—and he didn’t dare conjure a mental image of the more explicit ones now, when he was feeling vulnerable—but he wasn’t a horny teenager anymore. A beautiful woman with a bad personality didn’t appeal to him. As far as he knew, Izzy Sanborn was a hot mess. He avoided spoiled brats and drama queens like the plague.

Isabel “Sanchez” was a far cry from the hard-partying socialite he’d researched, however. She was smart, and resourceful, and … he liked her.

He’d been trained to feel nothing for his targets, positive or negative. Hate could be as great a liability as sympathy, and he wasn’t supposed to damage the merchandise. It didn’t matter if they were innocent or guilty, just that they were fugitives. He didn’t evaluate evidence. His instructions were to make contact, plan and execute a capture, and deliver the target unharmed.

What happened after that was none of his business.

Perhaps because Isabel was a woman, he worried about her fate. He considered the punishment she would face, and whether or not she deserved it. Questioning an assignment wasn’t like him. Usually, he felt good about what he did and proud of the services rendered. He’d caught sexual predators, ruthless drug dealers, hard-core criminals. None of these men had inspired tender feelings.

Isabel wasn’t a typical target, not by a long shot. Her behavior was flighty and irresponsible, but she didn’t seem cruel. There were two sides to every story, and he wanted to know hers. He could tell she hadn’t enjoyed stabbing a stranger, or braining a man with a brick. She wasn’t a sociopath.

For the first time, he felt conflicted about his job. He should be going after those bastards in La Familia, not Isabel.

Frowning, he tested the bars on the window, which were impenetrable. The security measure was a fire hazard, and it cut off this avenue of escape. The bathroom window, facing the alleyway, was small but would do in a pinch. He wouldn’t have chosen this hotel, or this particular room, if there had been others available. It was too confined.

Turning, he leaned his back against the wall, watching Isabel sleep. He studied her relaxed face, the soft sweep of her eyelashes, her slightly parted lips. Maybe he was romanticizing her situation, proscribing motives that didn’t exist.

What if his instincts were off?

He’d promised his boss that an assignment was an assignment. He had no qualms about taking down a dangerous female. The deadlier the better. And backing out at this stage of the game wasn’t an option.

Determined to steel himself against her allure, he vowed to collect as much information about her as possible. She was fiercely independent, a capable warrior. Although he got the impression that she didn’t let anyone touch her these days, she’d seemed tempted by him tonight. If the attraction between them wasn’t one-sided, he could use it to his advantage—as long as he stayed strong. He couldn’t sleep with her, under any circumstances, but if he feigned disinterest, he might lose her altogether.

Walking that tightrope would be tricky, possibly torturous.

He stared at her for a long time, praying he’d be able to maintain a professional distance, wondering if she’d been wrongly accused.

She didn’t look like a murderer.