My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5)

by Layla Valentine

  I should turn the tape off and explain this to her, why it’s not a good idea to finish it. I can pick up a different tape from a different genre when I’m in town. Maybe I can even get a DVD player, and then she can have any movie she wants. But as I open my mouth to say something about it, her lips curve into a small, peaceful smile that lights up her whole face. I don’t know how I can be expected to take this little piece of comfort away from her.

  I move closer to her on the couch, hesitate, then put my arm around her. I’m expecting her to shrug me off, but she doesn’t. After all, it is cold in here. We’re pretty far north, and the heating in this cabin is only so-so. Plus, that outfit of hers can’t be all that warm.

  She leans into my body, resting her head on my shoulder. I close my eyes in the comfort of her weight and warmth. I should not be doing this; I should definitely not be doing this. I should be keeping my distance…but it’s only one evening. We’re just keeping warm. It’s all right.

  I lose my ability to focus on the movie. The gunslingers on screen speak in hard to understand southern drawls. Even the occasional sound of gunfire isn’t enough to startle me from the comfortable exhaustion I’m sinking into. At one point, I look down and see that Jenna’s eyes are closed. I feel her breathing deeply against me. She’s fallen asleep, and it’s no wonder after the day she’s had.

  I turn the volume down on the movie, but I leave it on for white noise. Then I shift my position on the couch so I can stoop and lift Jenna into my arms. I move slowly, carefully, and she doesn’t stir as I carry her over to the bed and gently lay her down. She makes a soft sound of unconscious protest as I draw away, but she doesn’t wake.

  “Good night, Jenna,” I say softly. I turn out the light before returning to the couch.

  Chapter 8

  Jenna

  The kiss just began, but it may as well have been going on for eternity. It feels to me as if I have always been here, always been doing this. Or maybe it’s just that my whole life has been pointing me toward this moment, this embrace. This kiss.

  God, he tastes good.

  I deepen the kiss, allowing myself to become more lost in him, more lost than I ever have in a kiss.

  He hums, then murmurs my name, his breath soft on my lips. “Jenna.”

  I separate my mouth from his, kiss my way up his jawline to his ear. “Joel.”

  Now that he’s pressed against me, I realize that his body is broader than I had expected. I could probably take shelter from the wind behind him, and as I wrap my arms around him now, I find that he feels very sturdy. I was foolish, I now understand, to be afraid of him. All right, yes, he is big, and the circumstances of our meeting were strange and intimidating, but just look at him now. He’s handling me with such care. His hands are gentle on my back as if he is cradling me upright.

  One of those hands flirts with the waistline of my pants, and I know at once what he wants. I shift closer, making my consent clear, and a moment later his hand slides down the back of my pants and cups the flesh of my ass. I draw in a deep, sharp breath as my body responds to this escalation. I want to jump into his arms and wrap my legs around him, but I restrain myself. Not yet.

  His other hand is on my shirt now, tracing my collarbone with his thumb, gently squeezing my breasts, sliding down my stomach to the hem so he can dip under and repeat his journey in reverse. As his hand makes its way back up my body, the shirt rides up his wrist and forearm, and I lift my hands to allow him to strip it over my head and toss it to the floor. At the same time, much more quickly, he tugs at the waistline of my pants, and they pool around my ankles. I step out of them, kicking them away.

  The sudden exposure to the air makes me shiver, and I move closer to him, pressing against his chest for warmth. He seizes the opportunity to unhook my bra—I feel the catch give—and it falls to the floor between us. He is still fully dressed, where I am almost fully nude, and I feel completely at his mercy. I want him to keep going. I might die if he doesn’t. I press myself to him, begging in every way I know for him to please not stop…

  I blink. I’m staring at wood. A wood floor—no, it’s a wood wall. I’m lying on my side, my head cushioned by a pillow that isn’t as big and soft as my normal pillow. My body is covered by a blanket that is rougher than the one I’m used to, and my heart is racing a mile a minute.

  It was a dream.

  I have had sex dreams before and waking up from them is always frustrating. I stretch, trying to shake off the unsatisfied feeling my body is left with. It’s not like I’m going to do anything to manage my own arousal here in this cabin I’m stuck sharing with Joel.

  Joel. Oh my God. Joel was the man in my dream.

  How could I have a dream like that about him? I don’t want something to happen with my kidnapper, do I? Admittedly, he doesn’t seem to be that bad—he hasn’t been at all violent unless you count violence toward trees. Although the jury is still out on whether I believe his story about my father, I at least maybe believe it. So, it’s not like he’s a children’s storybook kidnapper, an evil villain. There’s some gray area here.

  But still. Joel is not a romantic prospect. He’s a man who makes people disappear for a living, and that’s if he’s even been telling me the truth. How can he be showing up in my fantasies now? That’s crazy. It’s totally out of control. What’s wrong with me?

  It must be because of the knife throwing, I reason. After all, we were close then. His hand was on mine, his broad body right behind me. Is it really that broad, or was that just the dream? I could feel his six-pack abs as he stood close to me. During the movie we sat on the couch together, and…Oh, God, I let him put his arm around me, didn’t I? I totally lowered my defenses. I need to get it together. This is a survival situation.

  Isn’t it?

  I kick off the blankets and sit up in bed, noting that I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. I don’t remember coming to bed. The last thing I remember is being curled up on the couch, watching the gunslingers march across the sand, the familiar shot of their boots kicking up dust. I remember thinking about how many times I’ve watched that same scene with my father. I remember the rise and fall of Joel’s chest, slow and steady, as he breathed. And then…

  I must have fallen asleep.

  I must have fallen asleep in his arms. On the very day he kidnapped me.

  What the hell?

  And, okay, yes, it seems clear that he carried me to bed and covered me with a blanket and didn’t take advantage in any way. But just because he didn’t do anything to me last night doesn’t mean he never will. Maybe this is some kind of long game I don’t understand. After all, cutting me off from all contact, making me fear for my life if I use my real name…it’s pretty suspicious.

  Of course, the explanation could also be exactly what he told me it was.

  I don’t know what to believe, and until I do, I can’t trust him. Which means no more falling asleep on his shoulder, and definitely no more naked fantasies. I’m going to have to get that in check, pronto.

  I get up, make my way to the bathroom, and splash some water on my face, wondering idly why I haven’t seen Joel yet. Maybe he’s outside throwing his knife at trees again. It seems too much to hope for that he might have left me here alone, but I’m edgy not knowing where he is.

  I dry my face and hands on a towel and leave the bathroom, planning to search for him, but before I can take more than a few steps, I’m startled by a snort from the couch. I approach slowly, on tiptoe, and peer over the back. There he is, still asleep, curled up with his face pressed against the cushion. It looks uncomfortable, and for a moment I’m grateful to him for allowing me to have the bed.

  Still walking softly so as not to wake him, I make my way to the kitchen. The curtains are drawn everywhere in the cabin, but here I find a window that has thinner curtains. As I pass by on my way to the refrigerator, I notice there is no light coming through, which means it’s still dark out. I thought it was morning, but it’s still the midd
le of the night, and Joel is asleep.

  And I’m awake.

  How long do I have before sunrise? I try to figure out what time it is, wishing I had my phone or a watch. How much of a head start on Joel could I get if I left right now? Could I make it through the door without waking him up? How far are we from Colebrook, and could I possibly walk there in stilettos or barefoot? Maybe I could hitchhike? I feel uncertain about trusting my life to strangers passing me by on the street. Would it be better to gamble on that or to continue trusting Joel?

  The fact of the matter is, this might be the only chance I get to run. And I know that if I go now, I need to commit. If he brings me back after an attempted escape, he would only be extra vigilant with me going forward. I wouldn’t get a second chance if I was caught.

  The circumstances might never be this favorable again. If I go now, I should have at least an hour. He won’t know which direction I went, and as long as I don’t wake him up going out the door, I’ll be fine. I decide to leave my shoes—too noisy, too impractical—and turn away from the kitchen window, toward the door.

  He’s sitting up on the couch, watching me.

  I have to stifle a scream. Of course, Joel can’t read minds, but it feels in this moment like he can. I feel caught red-handed, and the terror that shoots through me is so intense that I have to grab the counter to keep myself from falling. Is the look in his eyes menacing, or am I imagining it? Does he know what I was about to do? Is he going to punish me for it in some way?

  He yawns and stretches, excruciatingly slow in all his movements, prolonging my suspense until I feel like I might go mad. “You’re up early,” he says at last.

  “What time is it?” I ask. I want to point out that it’s hardly my fault my internal clock is out of whack. After all, I’ve just returned from Europe, and instead of recovering from my jet lag with my usual early dinner and bedtime, I was kidnapped. But I’m too nervous to go on the offensive. If he’s considering some retribution for my almost-escape, a smart mouth from me might make things worse.

  “It’s five ten,” he says. “But I suppose you’re still on Europe time.”

  “A little.”

  “That makes sense,” he says.

  He gets up off the couch, and I see that he’s changed into baggy pajama pants and a V-neck T-shirt at some point in the night. I’m jealous. It must be nice to have a change of clothes. I wonder, not for the first time, how long I’m going to have to wear this suit. I’m already starting to feel grungy.

  “Why are you up?” I ask him. “You’re not on Paris time.”

  “Early riser,” he says simply. I wonder if it’s true. Maybe he really does get up at five o’clock in the morning. Or maybe he heard me moving around—in which case he’s a very light sleeper—and got up to preempt my escape. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t get out the front door today—it looks like he would have been on me before I could have even made it to the highway.

  I think about the town car parked in the gravel driveway leading up to the cabin. If only I could get the key, I could use it to get away. But I have no idea where Joel is keeping it. Probably on him at all times. I have a better chance at running to Colebrook in heels than I do of picking this guy’s pocket. The town car is out.

  “What are you doing in the kitchen?” Joel asks me. “Looking for something?”

  “Um.” I tear my thoughts away from stealing the car. The last thing I need is for him to realize that I’ve been trying to reason my way through the practicality of an escape. “No, I’m just…hungry.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t get enough pasta last night?”

  “I guess not,” I say. “I mean, that was, what, eight hours ago? I’m ready for another meal.”

  He is planning to feed me regularly, isn’t he? I know what happens when people don’t have access to nutrition. Their minds become less sharp. Their muscles weaken. Even a few days without eating properly could make it almost impossible for me to escape.

  Joel comes over and opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a carton of eggs, then bends over and grabs a skillet from a low cupboard. “I’ll make breakfast,” he says. “How many eggs do you want?”

  I shrug. “Two, I guess.”

  “I’ll make you three,” he says. “It’s okay if you don’t finish them. We can have leftovers for lunch. But we should definitely cook these before they go bad.”

  “Whatever you say.” I salute him, hoping that isn’t too sassy for first thing in the morning. My goal is to stay on his good side until I can escape.

  Joel smirks and turns to the stove to focus on the eggs, stirring carefully. It occurs to me that the preparation of scrambled eggs is a very involved, if short, process. All his attention will have to stay focused on that skillet for the next five minutes or so.

  Which means that if I want to run, I can probably still do it. I won’t have a lead on him if I go now—at least, not much of one. My best hope will be getting into the woods before he sees which way I’ve gone. If I can lose him in the trees, I can double back to the highway and walk to Colebrook. Of course, I don’t know how far it is, and it’s cold out there, especially considering the fact that I’m planning to go without shoes. But if the alternative is staying here…

  I mean, he said I was going to see Dad soon, but he hasn’t given me any kind of real answer as to when “soon” will be. That’s suspicious. It’s probably a lie, a fabrication designed to keep me here. He’s probably never even spoken to my father. Knowing his name doesn’t prove anything at all.

  And there’s the fact that I know escape will get harder as time goes on. We’re into winter, even though so far there’s been no snow, and I’m only going to get more out of shape, more run down, the longer I stay here. Best to go quickly.

  And then there’s that disturbing dream I just woke up from. I was able to shake it off, of course, but if my subconscious mind is already in thrall to this man, I know I’m at risk. I need to get away from him before something happens that I’ll regret.

  I ease the door open, and the next time I hear the skillet bang from the kitchen, I push my way out through the screen door and set off at a run.

  Chapter 9

  Joel

  I have higher hopes for the eggs than I did for the pasta. Not that I really know how to prepare scrambled eggs, but I’ve eaten them often enough, and I know what they’re supposed to look like. I break all six of the eggs from the miniature carton I bought into the pan. I figure I’ll just stir them around until they start looking like the scrambled eggs you get in a diner.

  We’ve gotten through our first night. It feels like a big deal, like everything is going to be better and easier in the light of day. I’m already thinking about how we’ll pass the next twelve hours.

  Jenna really seemed to enjoy throwing the knife. Maybe we can go out again and set up a new target, farther from the house. We can work on her technique. I can show her how, when you’re standing farther back, you have to grip the knife by the blade to throw it properly so it will flip the correct number of times. Then if you move even farther back, you grip it by the handle again. We can go hiking, maybe, assuming she can be trusted not to take off on me. I’m feeling good about that particular issue, though. Not only is she ill-equipped for a run through the woods, but she also fell asleep on my shoulder last night. I hadn’t anticipated that. She’s getting over her initial mistrust of me more quickly than I’d expected.

  But I can’t let myself get distracted. I can’t forget why we’re here. If I lose sight of the fact that this is a mission and she is a mark, I’ll be putting us both in danger. And Jenna is making it damn hard to focus on my job. Standing in the kitchen by the window this morning, the rising sun shining through the curtain lighting up her skin so it almost seemed to glow, she was radiant. I feel like I’m staring every time I look at her.

  Every change in her since we’ve arrived has only served to make her more beautiful. Letting down her hair from that bun so it spi
lls around her shoulders in soft waves. I want to grab her hair while my mouth covers hers. Then seeing her removing her stockings and walking around bare legged and casual. The shape of her body under that tight skirt more noticeable, making me want to get my hands on her. Waking up rumpled after sleep looking so sexy.

  I sprinkle some salt and pepper on the eggs and push them around with the same wooden spoon I used to make the pasta. Then I set to work cutting up an onion to mix in for extra flavor. I’m concerned I’m not doing this right—the eggs look like they’re getting black on the bottom, and the top is still runny. Jenna mentioned at dinner last night that she knew how to cook. I’m about to call her over for help when suddenly I hear a bang that makes me jump about a foot in the air.

  I spin around. The front door is standing open, and I know instantly that the noise I heard was the screen door slamming closed. Jenna decided to make a run for it.

  I look back at the food and realize the onion is stained red with blood. A split second later, the pain hits—I sliced my finger when the door banged. Swearing under my breath, I pop it in my mouth and turn off the heat under the eggs. I dash across the room and jam my feet into my boots, which takes longer than I’d like because I have to untie and retie them, and then I get to my feet and follow Jenna out the door.

  She’s nowhere to be seen. She’s not on the road that leads from the house to the highway, and I can see much farther in that direction than she could have gotten in this amount of time. So I know she went into the forest. But luck is in my favor in one very important way. Sometime during the night, it snowed—buckets and buckets of snow, untouched by anything out here in the wilderness. Untouched, that is, except for a set of human footprints leading away from the cabin and straight out into the woods.