Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(48)

For all they knew, he’d just stepped out to relieve himself, get a little recovery time, and was heading back in for another round. Security was very present… but it was also very slipshod. These guys weren’t the best trained soldiers; discipline was on the low side. He liked that.

It was still a long way from midnight, but the heavy cloud cover made for a nice, dark night. Only a haphazardly strung set of lights illuminated the mining area, and the shadows outnumbered the lighted areas.

The dark night, the feeble electrical generator, and the loose security were three very high marks on the plus side for their escape attempt.

The tent was still dark when he ducked back inside. He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes acclimate. The generator hummed in the background, making it difficult for him to pick up any sounds inside the tent. Difficult for Carrie to discern that it was him, too.

He decided to risk it and groped above his head for the light string. With a soft snick the bulb flicked on—and there she was.

Dressed—Thank you, God—but crouched in a corner, eyes wild and wary, ready to defend herself.

Both hands were wrapped around a three-foot length of wood that was cocked over her shoulder like a baseball bat, and she was ready to swing.

He grinned, only then noticing that the table that had held their food and his whiskey lay on its side, missing a leg. God bless the woman for her resourcefulness.

Guilt quickly undercut his amusement. Damn his stupid hide for leaving her alone and undefended, all because he hadn’t been able to deal with his physical reaction to her.

“Fuck,” he muttered and went to her. “I’m sorry.” He crouched down in front of her. “I’m sorry I left you alone and afraid.”

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d… come back.”

Aw, God.

He was a clueless bastard to have forgotten the desperation he’d seen the first time he’d looked into those blue, blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he reached out and very deliberately pried her fingers off the table leg.

Her white-fingered grip relaxed by slow degrees until he finally relieved her of her weapon. Still as tense as a piano wire, she rocked forward to her knees, lowered her head, and propped her open palms on her thighs. She was shaking hard and working even harder to pull herself back together.

Disgusted by his stupidity, he tossed the table leg aside and drew her against him in apology. In reassurance. In near desperate need for forgiveness.

Her body was ramrod straight and unbending as he folded his arms around her.

Then her breath rushed out on a sigh and she melted into him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and clung.

And there they stayed. On their knees on the straw mats covering the hard dirt floor.

Overhead the lone bulb flicked. Hot, humid air surrounded them. Misery and pain permeated the tent, the entire camp.

But all Cav was aware of was the softness of her body pressed against his, the amazing silk of her hair beneath his hand, and the undeniable forging of a bond he no longer wanted to question or analyze.

He lowered his face into the curve of her neck. Inhaled her warmth and her courage and the essence of this very soft yet formidable woman.

“Try to rest now.” He made himself pull away from her. “Just for a little while.”

“I couldn’t sleep if you drugged me.”

“Humor me.” He helped her to her feet, led her to the cot. “Give it a shot.”

Because she was a good southern girl she lay down.

Because his mother had raised him right he didn’t.

At least not next to her. He found a spot on the floor and sat down. Then he tried like hell not to think about the way she looked in the cargo pants that fit her fine butt like a glove and the T-shirt that was a size too small. Could not think about the gentle sway of her full, unbound breasts or the tight buds of her nipples pressing against the stretchy cotton.

Drab her down? No such f*cking luck.

He checked his watch. They needed to wait a short while before checking out of Hotel Hell. On a determined breath, he stretched out on the floor, folded his hands behind his head, and made himself a promise: she was hands off until he got her safely gone from here. But when they got out of this fix he was going to find out a helluva lot more about Carrie Granger before he let her walk away.

If he let her walk away.

“IT’S TIME.”

Carrie’s eyes flew open with a start. With consciousness came instant terror. The same terror she’d awakened to for more days than she could count.

Then she realized she was not in the cage. A dozen exhausted, ragged slaves were not sharing the same squalid misery with her.

She struggled to get her bearings. She was in a tent. It was dark. And hot.

“It’s time,” a man’s voice whispered again, closer this time as a gentle hand touched her shoulder.

Cavanaugh.

Real.

Helping her.

Relief was instant.

“I fell asleep?” she whispered into the dark silence. She no longer heard the generator running.

“Exhaustion and starvation will do that to a person.”

She sat up straight, stretched out the kinks, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Cavanaugh’s shadow loomed along the tent walls before he returned to her side.

He squatted down in front of her. “Awake now?”