by Julie Miller
A tad breathless, Teresa straightened, shoving her long, damp hair off her face. “Not unless I empty it out first.”
“Good.”
“What are you...?” As she curled her cold toes inside her boots to curb the urge to stop him, he put his good shoulder to the thick oak wood and pushed it in front of the door, effectively barricading the exit.
“Like I said, I don’t...trust...” He was bent over, breathing heavily, the fist with the gun braced on one knee, by the time he was finished. The man was running on fumes and sheer determination. But even that massive stubborn streak wouldn’t sustain him much longer.
“You really have a death wish, don’t you. You’d better sit before you keel over.” She picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor and hooked her hand beneath his elbow, guiding him over to a stool at the kitchen peninsula. She draped the blanket over his head and shoulders, futilely trying to ignore the way, even when he was sitting down, that he was still a head taller than she was. It was equally hard not to notice how his chest and shoulders were broad and muscled and seriously imposing up close like this. She didn’t need the gun in his lap or the nothing-to-lose expression in his eyes to know she was completely at his mercy. She tucked the tattered edges of the blanket together and quietly pulled away. “Try to stay warm while I get my things.”
Instead of obeying even that most practical suggestion, he sloughed the blanket to the floor and stumbled after her into the bathroom, where she fetched her first-aid kit. His ragged breathing stirred the crown of her hair as he trailed her to the linen closet, too, where she pulled out her sewing kit and a stack of towels and washcloths.
But when she would have returned to the kitchen, he raised the gun and forced her on into the bedroom at the end of the hall. He spotted the phone on her bedside table and disconnected its cord just as he had the one in the kitchen. “You can work in here.”
“In my bedroom?” What kind of sick twist was he adding to this abduction-and-intimidation game now? “Look, I don’t know what else you think you can threaten me with, but I won’t let you touch—”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Peewee. In another lifetime, I might be tempted by all those curves. But tonight I only need you to be my nur...se.” He swore at the strain of shoving her bed in front of the window and the snow-packed fire escape outside. He collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, cradling his wounded arm in his lap. His rugged face was pale as a ghost, his lips quivering and nostrils flaring as he struggled to catch his breath. With another vicious curse, he tugged his ruined jacket off his shoulder, slowly uncovering the flak vest and her blood-soaked scarf sticking out from the neck and armhole. “The only other point of entry to your apartment is in here. And you’ll have to get past me to get out.”
If it hadn’t been for the gun clutched in his fist, she’d have banked on him passing out and would have climbed right over him without batting an eye to open that window and hurry down to Mrs. Walker’s to use her phone. But the one thing on the man that didn’t seem to be affected by his injuries was his grip on that gun. And, as intent as he was on ripping open the vest’s Velcro straps beneath each arm, she believed his assertion that using her bed as an examination table was only about keeping her prisoner, nothing more. So she set her supplies on the bed beside him, pulled on a pair of sterile gloves from the first-aid kit and went to work.
“Here, Mr. Charles. Let me.” She took over getting the jacket and protective vest off him, dumping both on the rug at her feet. She touched his right arm, pushing his hand up to the scarf, avoiding the gun while asking for his help. “Keep pressure on the wound.”
“It’s just Charles,” he answered, pressing the wool against his shoulder. “Charlie, to some.”
She pulled a pair of scissors from her sewing basket. “Do you have a last name, Charles?”
“Be careful with those.” She was keenly aware of his eyes following her every move as she cut away the left side of his black knit shirt and T-shirt. “You get any idea about stabbing me and I’ll—”
“So no last name?” She carefully peeled away the bloodied layers of cotton, exposing a landscape of corded muscle, dark bruises and faint white scars dotting his skin. “Madre de Dios. What happened to you?”
“Had a disagreement with three guys who wanted to kill me, wrecked my truck, tussled with a petite brunette in the snow.”
“Stop it.” Compassion fisted in her gut as she touched her gloved fingertip to the oldest and palest mark branding his biceps, tracing the puckered ring, raising goose bumps across his ashy skin. “This is from an old gunshot wound. My brother has a scar like this. The kind of work you do must take a terrible toll on your body. And yet you keep going back for more punishment. Who did this to you? Who’s after you?”
“You feeling sorry for me, Peewee?” He turned his face to hers, the low rumble of his voice whispering across her skin like a warm breeze.
“You’ve been hurt so many...” Her voice trailed away when she realized how close she was standing to him. Her fingers still rested against his arm. Her thighs were touching his. And if she angled her head a fraction to the left, her cheek would slide against the raspy stubble of his jaw. Her heart rate kicked up a notch, thundering in her ears. Those firm male lips were just a hairbreadth away from the apple of her cheek. Seriously? She couldn’t catch her breath? She was turned on by this brute? Surprise and shame poured through her blood, and she pulled her hand away, retreating a step from his disturbing masculine heat.
What was happening to her? She must be suffering from some form of Stockholm syndrome already, feeling this perverted connection to her captor. She hated this man for threatening her life, for endangering Florence Walker and the rest of her neighbors simply by being here. He’d taken advantage of her desire to help someone in need and made her feel like a fool for doing so. He’d made her angry and afraid. She couldn’t feel sorry for the terrible harm that had been done to him over the years, and she certainly wasn’t attracted to him.
Yes, the men her sisters usually set her up with were safe and boring. None of the men she’d dated had ever made her heart thump against her ribs with an irrational awareness like this. This reaction to Charles No-Name Mystery Man was just fear talking. Adrenaline. These unwanted feelings of compassion and attraction to the hard planes of his body and the soft color of his eyes didn’t mean she had a death wish to get involved with anyone as dangerous and controlling as this creep.
She picked up a washcloth. “No. You made the choice to do what you do. If you want to lead a life of violence, I suppose it makes sense that you’d bear the marks of that decision.”
But when she turned around to walk to the bathroom sink to wet the cloth, Charles clamped a hand around her wrist like a vise, pulling her back between his knees. “You don’t have to understand me at all, Teresa.” Her gaze dropped to the gun on the quilt beside him, and he quickly released her to snatch it up before she could even think about making a lunge for it. “I’m not going to tell you my last name, because the less you know about me, the better. You may not believe this, but I’m trying to protect you.”
She retreated beyond his reach, rubbing at the traitorous warmth that lingered on her skin where he’d touched her. “Hence the threats and the kidnapping.”
“Does that mouth ever get you into trouble? Or is all the tough talk just a defense mechanism for you?” He nodded, as if something in her posture or expression had answered his question. “Try not to be too afraid. If you do everything I say, you’ll be safe.”
Teresa was too wet and cold and exhausted to stifle her sarcasm. “Well, guess what, Charlie. I don’t trust you, either.”
The corner of his mouth crooked up with half a grin at her expense. “No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. You’re prickly when you get worried or riled up.”
“I’m not worried about you,” she lied.
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The grin faded as he tugged at the scarf, now sticky with his blood, exposing the ragged wound at the front of his shoulder. “The people who tried to kill me this morning will try again. They’ve already tracked me to Kansas City. I have no doubt they’ll send someone else to find me and finish the job. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. Enough innocent lives have already been lost.”
“What do you care about innocent lives?”
“Even men like me have a code of honor they live by. Rules about what’s right and wrong.” There was no trace of humor anywhere in his expression now. With the flecks of gold-and-brown beard dotting his neck and jaw, he looked even more like the wounded bear she’d imagined him to be earlier. He dropped the scarf onto the other soiled garments on the floor and raised his gaze to hers. “Rule One? I need to live. For a few days longer, at least. To do that, I need your help. That makes you an asset to me. Rule Two is protect your assets. So no last name. No warm fuzzies between us. I don’t need you to get close or to give a damn about me. Just do your job.”
“In a few days, it’ll be Christmas,” she pointed out. “Is there really a rule on that list of yours that says you’re going to let me go once I take out that bullet?” He arched a wheat-colored brow in a silent question. She moved around his knees and pointed to the bump in the skin beside his scapula. “I can see it protruding through the skin near your shoulder blade. Your protective vest must have worked in reverse. Instead of keeping the bullet out, it prevented the projectile from exiting your body. You need a surgeon, not a pediatric nurse.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got you. That’s all I need.”
“You’re lucky it’s not buried inside by a lung or other vital organ. And there’s no way to tell what muscle or bone damage there is without an X-ray.” She didn’t bother reminding him again that a hospital was where they should be right now.
He tipped that grizzled bear of a face up to hers. “Can you cut it out and stitch up the wound?”
Did he not understand the enormity of what he was asking of her? “Yes, but that’s only a superficial fix. A muscle tear will probably heal on its own. But if there’s a bone chip inside or a nicked blood vessel or nerve damage—”
“Do it.”
“I need a few minutes to boil water and sterilize everything.”
“No boiling water.” He slipped his long arm behind her waist, pulling her close again. “You think I’m going to trust you with a potential weapon like that?”
Ignoring the heavy weight of the weapon resting against her hip, Teresa jerked away. “You may have no problem hurting people, but it’s not my job or my nature to intentionally inflict any harm.”
“Oh, yeah? Who was going to knee me a half hour ago?”
Guilty. She silently thanked him for the reminder she needed to clear her head of her confusing feelings. “I’ve got isopropyl alcohol in the bathroom.” She thumbed over her shoulder to the hallway. “Is it all right if I go and get that?”
Charles the Bully simply nodded.
She returned with a bowl of soapy water and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and went to work cleaning and sterilizing as much of the wound, needle, thread and paring knife she’d brought from the kitchen as she could. At his bidding, she’d turned her dresser mirror so that he could watch her work with the knife behind him. It was the reflection of jaded suspicion she spoke to now. “This isn’t standard procedure. And these conditions are far from sterile. What if I make it worse?”
His gaze met hers in the mirror. “Trust me, darlin’, I’m as tough as I look. You can’t make me hurt any worse than I already do.”
“The sooner you’re fixed up, the sooner you’re out of my life, right? Even though I know your name and can describe your face, I’ll be a free woman again? You won’t hurt anyone else?”
Those golden eyes, seemingly lit from within, offered her an unexpected reassurance. “You’re not who I’m after, darlin’. You’re not the one who needs to worry about me.”
So who was he after? Who should be worried about the toughness and the single-minded determination and all the guns she suspected were in that bag? Charles was big, strong, wounded, armed and serious as a heart attack. Whoever he was after should be afraid. She’d been a fool for not minding her tongue and risking his anger, for thinking for even one minute that she could run away or leave him behind or talk him into letting her go before he was done with her.
Shivering again, though with something more unsettling than the cold of her damp clothes, Teresa dropped her gaze to the broad expanse of his back. She opened the antiseptic spray and doused the injured shoulder. “This is only a topical anesthetic. When I cut through the skin, it’s going to hurt. If you cry out, the neighbors will hear. I don’t want anyone calling 911 and getting caught in the middle of another shoot-out with you.”
“I won’t cry out.”
She didn’t know whether to admire or fear a man with that kind of control. In the end, she reminded herself that what she felt didn’t matter. As a nurse, she simply did her job and took care of the patient, no matter what it might cost her emotionally.
Teresa patched him up the best she could. She cleaned and bandaged the wound on his left thigh, as well. An hour later, she had an exhausted man, dressed in little more than gauze and tape and the fresh jeans he’d pulled from that bag, sitting on the edge of her bed. He was flexing the fingers of his left hand. Although it still pained him to raise his arm, he was getting some feeling and use back in the hand, making him twice as dangerous as the one-armed thug had been. Per his instructions, she dumped the ruined clothing and medical supplies into a trash bag and picked it up to carry it out to the kitchen to dispose of later.
“You got any duct tape, Peewee?” he asked, slowly pushing to his feet. He towered over her, even in his bare feet, reminding her who was in charge. Teresa meekly nodded. “Bring it when you come back. Once you’ve cleaned up and put on some dry clothes, I’m tying you up in case you get any idea about escaping while I catch a few hours of sleep.”
Forget meek. Hadn’t she been cooperating? She tilted her face up to his. “You don’t have to restrain me. I promise I won’t try to go anywhere but the kitchen and bathroom.”
“Either I tie you up or you’re sleeping in this bed with me tonight.”
The bald statement shocked her, and maybe not entirely in the way it should have. So what if he was the most manly thing she’d ever had in her apartment? He was the enemy. Her captor. Compassion for his injuries and this rudimentary attraction didn’t matter. “You said you’d let me go.”
“When I’m done with you, I will. I figure I need six to eight hours of solid sleep to get my energy back before I can get out of your life. I can’t risk you calling the cops or giving me away to anyone before I’m ready to leave. Until then, I’m tying you up.” As if testing the newfound strength in his left hand, he closed his fingers around her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to look at him. “Do we understand each other?”
Teresa pulled away from his gentle yet firm, callused touch, nodding. “I’ll get the tape.”
Chapter Five
Nash turned his face away from the ribbon of sunlight that squeezed between the wall and curtains and hit him in the eyes.
He rolled over onto his back, moaning at the stiffness that made every joint ache. He raised his forearm to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of sunlight off the snow outside. Yeah, there was a chill on the bare skin of his torso. And yeah, he was pretty beat up. He could tell from the throbbing in his shoulder that he was far from 100 percent.
But he must have slept through the night. As consciousness pushed away the dregs of sleep, he was able to remember the echoes of his nightmares—familiar faces, doors closing all around him, locking him out, keeping him from reaching Axel Torres and Jim Richter and Tommy Delvecchio. And blood. Way
too much blood. At least, that was how he interpreted the wispy clouds of scarlet hanging around him like warm breath in the wintry air of his dreams.
Despite the disturbing images that clung to the fringes of his thoughts, he felt a little more rested, a little more like a normal person. As normal as the last surviving member of a team marked for death could feel, at any rate.
That sobering thought raised him to another level of consciousness. He blinked his eyes beneath his arm, slowly taking stock of his surroundings. Sore thigh. Shoulder that felt as if it had been through a meat grinder. Soft quilt beneath his back. Softer pillow beneath his head. The subtle scents of alcohol and soap and...garlic? teased his nose. His stomach grumbled in a visceral response to the enticing aroma. Right. Food hadn’t exactly been a priority for him these past two days. And whatever was cooking smelled mighty good.
Whatever was cooking?
No longer dreaming, no longer speculating, but wide-awake and suddenly aware of the keen gaze watching him, Nash opened his eyes and curled his fingers around the gun at his side before lowering his arm. He turned his head slightly to the right and saw that it was too late to go on the offensive.
“Ah, hell.”
Teresa Rodriguez, that sweet little bundle of curves and sass, sat in the kitchen chair beside the bed, where he’d left her bound and gagged last night.
Except the tape he’d stuck loosely over her mouth was gone.
Not only was she free of her bindings, but she’d changed her clothes and held his badge and a magazine of bullets in either fist. “Good morning, Agent Nash.”
Nash swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. Maybe a little too fast because her dark eyes and blue sweater swirled around in his vision. He shook off the dizziness, tossed aside the blanket she’d covered him with and spared the time to check his Smith & Wesson to confirm that the magazine she held came from his weapon. He was empty. At a distinct disadvantage. The captor was now the captive.