Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(46)

“Yeah. I imagine you did.” He reached into his backpack, powerfully tempted to reach for her. “I need to do some deep cleaning on this cut.”

He came up with a plastic packet of antiseptic wipes, then made a big production of running his hands up the length of her calf and caressing her foot. “This is going to sting like blazes.”

“Man of your word,” she said through clenched teeth as he squeezed antiseptic liquid directly into the cut, then held the wipe against the wound before cleaning it.

“Sorry. I’ll dress it with ointment, bandage it, and hope it’ll see you through.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He finally looked at her. Ever since she’d lain down on the cot he’d had a damn hard time not looking at her.

“I know you will,” he said. “I know you’re going to be just fine.”





Six

Carrie’s heart kicked up.

“I know you will. I know you’re going to be just fine.”

She heard more than simple conviction in those few words. She heard a world of respect. Felt it in the way he gave her foot an affectionate squeeze before he dug in his pack for the bandages.

She swallowed back a lump of gratitude along with the sudden threat of tears as he finished with the dressing. For the past several days she’d been treated like a mongrel dog. No dignity. No hope. Above all, no respect.

He’d just given it all back to her. And as she watched his amazing face in profile, his head lowered over her feet, she realized that he’d also made her feel something like a woman again.

It was a feeling she’d lost even before she’d been arrested. Yes, she’d had altruistic reasons for coming to Myanmar. She had a good life and she wanted to give back. But she’d also left her mundane routine because, frankly, she’d always had a thing for Wyatt Savage. When he’d come home for a visit a year ago, she’d made that clear to him.

Only Wyatt didn’t love her. He’d made that clear to her. He’d been very kind, but the truth was he loved someone else. Loved her so much he’d married her last spring.

That had broken her heart a little, just enough that she’d needed to shake things up.

Well, she’d shaken them up, all right.

She forked her hair out of her eyes and glanced at David Cavanaugh, wondering at her lack of disappointment that Wyatt himself hadn’t come.

She still couldn’t believe that this man—this stranger—was actually here to save her. She was really getting out of here.

And that’s what she thought about when he lowered her foot, then planted his hands on either side of her ribs and leaned in close.

“You need to get some rest,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to the corner of hers, “but we probably ought to make this look good.”

Her reaction was instant and knee-jerk and embarrassing. She reached between them for the blanket and tightened it over her breasts like a schoolgirl. “How much longer do we play out this charade? When can we leave?”

He brushed his lips along her jaw line. “Patience, Miss Granger.”

She was out of patience. And all this pretend love play was driving her out of her mind.

“So are we going to steal one of the vehicles? Is that how we’re getting away?” She needed a distraction from the physical contact as much as she wanted to know what he had planned.

He shook his head. “We’d never get past the checkpoints. I was blindfolded but I could tell they were heavily fortified.”

“They’re all manned by at least a dozen armed guards.” When they’d trucked her up here with the others who had been “convicted” at trials, there had been several roadblocks. “All barricaded by trucks that don’t move unless they get a chain-of-command clearance to proceed.”

“They’ve got a lot to protect. Wouldn’t do for the wrong eyes to see the rubies or the slaves.”

“What is the plan?” What if they couldn’t get out? What if they were caught trying to escape?

“You do have a plan, right?” she pressed when he didn’t say anything.

“Sweetheart.” He leveled her a smile that, if she hadn’t already been lying down, would have put her right on her back. “I always have a plan.”

He saw her frustration.

“Look, Carrie. Let’s revisit that trust issue one last time, okay?” he suggested gently. “I know you’re scared, but you have to trust me to know what needs to happen, and when it needs to happen.

“And what needs to happen now is that you rest. Then we’ll talk about whether you’re up for making a run for it.”

She nodded. “I’ll run barefoot over broken glass to get out of here but I can’t run very fast wrapped in this blanket.”

“I’ve got it covered. There’s a T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants in my backpack. I guessed on the size but they’ll have to do.”

Another worry undercut her relief. “What about shoes?”

He thought of her poor bruised and cut feet, thought of the guard. The one who had been so happy to hit her with the whipping stick and prod her down the rough trail without any regard for how difficult and painful it was to walk across the jagged rocks.

“You will by the time we leave,” he promised her. The bastard’s sandals would fit her just fine.