Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(43)

Aw, God.

He’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. Always had a great appreciation for the softness and the strengths and the surprises inherent to women. But never had he been so utterly and unexpectedly moved as he was by the collapse of this strong woman’s guard and the raw desperation that caused it.

Careful of the bruise he’d seen on her ribs, he drew her tighter against him because it felt as though she were coming apart in his arms.

“When I leave, you leave,” he promised against her damp hair, and then he felt a subtle shift back to strength in the fragile body pressed against his.

If her momentary collapse had shaken him, her valiant effort to regroup humbled him. Though her body felt delicate and slight, she possessed rock-solid core strength.

Every protective instinct in him roared to life like an enraged lion. No woman should ever have to go through this hell. He fought the knee-jerk burn to make the bastards pay for what they’d done to her. Pay with their blood. Make them sorry they’d ever laid a hand on her. He wanted it with a fervor that had him shaking.

He needed to get a grip. He’d let things get way too personal, way too touchy-feely way too fast. Not his MO. So why?

He swallowed hard, recognizing with brutal honesty that this wasn’t just about her. It was also about turning his back on the CIA when this was over, about dealing with the demons that constantly baited him with the promise of oblivion in scotch.

And it was about Carrie Granger not being the only American on this mountain in need of rescue.

He drew a deep breath and made himself disengage. Now was not the time to indulge in the mind f*ck of self-pity. And until he could get a handle on what was happening with his head he needed to be very careful around this woman.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promised her, surprised at the gruffness in his voice. Surprised again when he lifted a hand and gently brushed a fall of blond hair out of her eyes. “Take it to the bank, Carrie. You’re going to be okay now.”

“Thank you.” A world of gratitude, relief, and trust shimmered in her eyes.

Eyes so brave and true, he found himself praying he deserved that trust.

Praying? Hell, he didn’t pray. And even if he did, prayer wasn’t going to get them out of this. Keeping his head in the game was. Starting now.

“Eat,” he said forcefully for the benefit of the guards. “We need to get some protein in you.”

This time she didn’t hesitate. With one hand latched in a death grip on the blanket between her breasts, she rushed to the table and sat down on the woven matting that covered the dirt floor. Then she tore into the soup, white rice, and chicken curry.

He’d been hungry himself before, but he’d never understood the term ravenous until he watched her eat.

“Easy,” he cautioned. Ignoring the warning alarms telling him not to, he reached for the whiskey bottle the general had left. He poured a tall shot and downed it in one swallow. “Slow down or you’re going to make yourself sick.”

He watched her get control again. Couldn’t help but notice that despite the brutality of her captivity, there was no disguising how astonishingly beautiful she was. The bones always told, and hers were amazing. She had high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, and a cupid’s bow upper lip that just begged for attention.

Christ.

He thought about hitting that bottle one more time… but he knew where that road led and the last thing he wanted to do was let this woman down.





Five

Daylight had faded, and the inside of the tent was cast in shadows by the time she’d eaten her fill, savoring every bite. Cav understood. It was as much about nourishment for the soul as it was for her body.

Her body.

She was naked beneath the blanket. He did his damnedest not to think about it. Or to remember the generous perfection of the breasts the guards had brutally forced her to bare.

What he needed to think about were the bruises crisscrossing her shoulders and back. The angry welt on her rib cage, just below her left breast. The cuts on her feet, the blisters on her hands.

A motor roared to life in the distance, and a bare bulb flickered to dim life overhead. He’d noticed the gas-powered generator on the other side of the camp earlier. Its noise would provide partial cover for their conversation.

“How are you, physically?” he asked, still cautious, leaning in close so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Much better now.”

“Infections? Fever? Anything broken?”

She shook her head, and the ends of the blanket picked that moment to slip and fall away from her breasts. She reached up and caught it, but not before he got a glimpse of a dusky rose nipple.

“I need to check your ribs.”

Her face flushed pink in the pale light. “It’s just a bruise.”

“The skin is broken.”

Her eyes met his, beseeching.

He got it. She was humiliated over the way they’d stripped her, then held her there for everyone to see her naked from the waist up.

Yeah, he got it, but he couldn’t give her a pass. Besides, he had to start acting the part of the paying customer. Daylight had actually provided more anonymity inside the tent than the night did. The overhead light, anemic as it was, cast their shadows against the tent walls for inquisitive eyes to see.

“Trust me,” he mouthed and sat down cross-legged beside her. “On my lap.”