Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(50)

She combed out her hair, and wrapped herself in a towel. When she stepped into the bedroom, she found the king-sized bed all made up, the comforter smoothed over it, the covers neatly turned down to show snowy white sheets, fluffy big pillows.

A folded man’s T-shirt lay on the bed. Not new, but clean. She walked to the bed on unsteady legs. Her face felt liquid.

Blubbering, just because someone had done her the courtesy of making up a bed for her, and found something clean for her to put on.

She put on the shirt. It smelled like a laundry detergent that her mother had used. Tears streamed down her face.

A knock sounded on the door. That was the final blow. A polite knock, that taken-for-granted human courtesy she’d completely missed ever since they had abducted her. After months of having the door fly open, and rough hands seize her to drag her out into blinding light, to blows, pain, humiliation, insults. Restraints. The sting of the needle. She tried to make some coherent sound come out of her throat.

The knock sounded again. Tap-tap-tap.

“Come in,” she forced out.

Miles poked in his head. “Are you—oh, God. I’ll come back later.”

“No!” she blurted out, and had to cover her mouth with both hands again, to keep more words from flying out. “Don’t go,” she added, from behind the tightly pressed fingers. Stop crying. Stop, stop, stop.

He sidled in, staying close to the door. Poised for a quick escape. He held a plastic shopping bag in one hand, and a fragrant, steaming plate of food in the other. Her nose identified meat, vegetables, rice.

She wiped her face, gave him a shaky smile. “You made the bed?”

He looked wary. “Hope you don’t mind that I came in while you were in the shower. I figured it was safe while the water was running. I would have beat hell out of here if I’d heard it switch off.”

“But where’s the chocolate for my pillow?”

He honored her lame attempt at a joke with a sexy flash of white teeth. Her heart bumped in her chest. “Next time,” he said. “I’m a little short on housekeeping supplies today. Sorry.”

“Thanks for the shirt, too,” she offered.

“You can thank Connor for that. He keeps a change of clothes stowed in his vehicle. Always prepared. Those McCloud dudes.”

Miles had showered, too. His hair was combed straight back off his square forehead. So handsome. He smelled like the same shampoo she had used. He wore a clean shirt. Flannel, gray and blue plaid. Half buttoned, untucked. A wedge of his amazing chest showing.

“You cleaned up,” she said, inanely. Conscious of how bare she was beneath the oversized shirt. Like she’d always been in that filmy white dress she wore in her fantasy trips to the Citadel.

“Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “We were both filthy.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

It felt like they were conducting a conversation on another level, and these words were a thin front for the real conversation.

“I came upstairs to bring you these.” He held up a plastic shopping bag and the plate of food. “Aaro picked up some stuff for you. And they cooked some food downstairs. I figured I should bring you up a plate. Unless you’d rather go down and eat with the rest of us.”

The last thing she could face was the idea of a table full of guys watching her eat. But having her meal brought up to her made her feel like a cowering invalid. She played for time by checking out the shopping bag, which was full of clothing. Three shoeboxes, too.

“Aaro had to guess on the sizes, so he got three,” he said.

To her starving artist mentality, that seemed like reckless extravagance. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll pay for them as soon as I—”

“Don’t worry about it, for God’s sake. Oh, yeah, and Aaro picked up a burner phone for you. I went ahead and charged it up. Programmed all our numbers into it. Not that you need mine.”

She stared at the little red and black telephone as if she’d never seen one before. She couldn’t even imagine what she might use it for, right now, but what a sweet thought. They were treating her like a real human being. With normal needs and impulses.

What an amazing, mind-boggling concept. It moved her.

“So, you want to eat up here?” Miles prompted. “Or downstairs?”

She pressed her hand to her mouth to quell the trembling. “I don’t think I can face dinner downstairs yet.”

“Okay, then, I’ll just leave you this plate, then—”

“No,” she blurted.

A quick, questioning frown twitched his brows down. “No what?”

“Don’t go,” she said, baldly.

His mouth settled into a tight, cautious line. She felt that tingling awareness. Pressure, slowly building. “Lara?” he said softly. “What?”

“I just need . . .” The words trailed off. So stupid, so inadequate. Thick and heavy. Clumsy as big rocks in her mouth. She couldn’t express how badly she needed to know if he felt it, too.

“I dreamed about you,” she announced, her voice husky. “When I was in that place. I dreamed about you for months.”

He cleared his throat. “Me, too.”

“Were they, um . . . the same dreams?” she asked.

His big shoulders lifted. “I guess we’d have to compare them, point for point.”