by Lori Foster
Besides, the less involvement he had with her, unscrupulous or otherwise, the better. He needed to figure out what had happened to her, and the quickest way to safely remove her from his care.
He’d known she was spent, on the edge, but the fact that she hadn’t even pulled the covers over herself proved her level of exhaustion.
More than anything, she probably needed to eat. But should he wake her for that when she also needed sleep?
He wasn’t a fucking babysitter, but since he’d personally gotten her out of Mexico, he couldn’t very well just dump her somewhere. By rescuing her, he had accepted an implied responsibility.
Trying not to rattle the bags and juggling the food with his other purchases, Dare closed the door and locked it. A glance at the bedside clock showed the time at 1:30 a.m. He’d only been gone a half hour, tops.
Luckily the Walmart across the street stayed open twenty-four hours. He’d found not only clothes for her, but food, too. Dressing and feeding her would go a long way toward resolving her most pressing issues.
With barely a sound, he stowed the drinks in the tiny fridge and put her share of the food into the microwave to keep.
Removing his wallet, change and cell phone from his jeans, he placed them neatly on the desk. Next he took out his knife and the Glock 9mm he carried, and set them beside his other belongings. He stretched out his knotted muscles. Too many hours crawling over rough ground, ducking for cover and demolishing men without enough sleep or food had left him tense and weary.
After pulling a chair out from the round table, he opened the covering on his pancakes and coffee.
He’d taken only one bite when she stirred, sniffed the air and drowsily opened her eyes. Dare turned toward her.
She gave him a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.
He studied her, a small bundle huddled tight on the bed, face still ravaged and eyes wounded. Never had he seen a woman look so vulnerable.
He swallowed his bite and, sounding as casual as he could under the circumstances, asked, “Hungry?”
She stared back, then struggled up to one elbow. Her expression changed, the wariness hidden beneath that intrepid bravado. “Starved. Literally.”
With all the dirt removed, her big eyes dominated her small features. More marks showed on her fair skin, one on her cheekbone and under her left eye, one on her throat, and a darker, angrier bruise on her right shoulder.
Dare thought of men hitting her, manhandling her, and bone-deep disgust ignited. He despised bullies of any kind, but a man who would hurt a woman was at the top of his list of assholes that needed a lesson.
She breathed deeply, her eyes closing and her nostrils flaring. “That smells so good.”
Out of his seat already, Dare fetched her food. “Do you want to sit here, or eat in the bed?”
She hesitated, looking down for a moment as if uncertain of her welcome, not wanting to inconvenience him. “Table please, but… I should dress first.”
“All right.” He set the food on the table and opened the bag of clothes, pulling out a few T-shirts, panties and a pair of pull-on cotton shorts. “You can get more stuff tomorrow if you feel up to it. Something warmer, maybe, and nicer for the plane ride. But for now, I figured this would fit.”
She didn’t look at the clothes. The arm she leaned on barely supported her, and her breath went choppy with effort.
Voice weak, strained, she said, “I’m sorry, but… I haven’t eaten in too long and I’m feeling kind of…faint.”
Dare straightened, going on alert. Would she pass out on him?
“If…if you could help me into the bathroom, I’ll dress in there.”
Shit. He did not want her passing out alone, maybe hitting her head. “Yeah, no problem.”
Dare moved to the bed and slipped an arm behind her, then drew her to her feet. She swayed into him, one hand clutching at his shirt and holding on for dear life.
She made no attempt to step away. He didn’t ask her to. “What would you like to do?”
“I can’t…” She choked, cleared her throat, and her voice was so low he barely heard her when she said, “This is embarrassing, but the shower…” She swallowed. “I think I’m depleted.”
Easing her back onto the bed, Dare knew he’d have to be firm to get her agreement. “Okay, Molly, listen up.” He kept his tone as impersonal as possible. “This isn’t a big deal. I can dress you. I can even feed you.”
She rolled in her lips with embarrassment, a habit he’d already noticed.
“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” he lied.
That brought her dark eyes up to his.
Damn, but her eyes could melt a man’s soul. “I’m in the personal protection business. You’re not the first woman I’ve rescued. You’re not even in the worst shape.” Another lie. Most women he retrieved were found in the first forty-eight hours before too much damage had been done—or they weren’t found at all. “Okay?”
Still with her gaze locked on his, she nodded.
“Good girl.” He grabbed the clothes from the bag. He wasn’t really discomfited by the task, but he’d just as soon get past it.
Taking clothes off a woman, yeah, he had plenty of practice with that.
Dressing the near-dead…not so much.
“Panties first, okay?” He still had no idea what had been done to her, how she might have been tormented or used. If it was sexual in nature, then this would be doubly hard on her. “We’ll take this nice and slow, and if at any point you feel panicky, just tell me.”
“I won’t panic.”
He looked up at her. “Yeah, well, I’d just as soon not get kicked in the face again.”
For a split second, he thought he saw a slight smile on her bruised mouth. Then she looked away. “No, I won’t do that again.”
As Dare knelt down to work her small feet into the legs of the very plain cotton underwear, he noticed more scrapes and bruises. After she ate, he’d dig out the first-aid kit and patch her up.
When he had the panties up to her knees, he took her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Hold on to my shoulders.”
She was so much shorter than him, maybe five-seven to his six-three, that, while he stood upright, holding his shoulders pretty much stretched her out.
He bent to the task and she leaned against him. She was surprisingly…soft for someone so thin. And she smelled good now, clean like shampoo and soap and warm, gentle woman.
In a shrill, nervous voice, she asked, “So, who did you rescue? Other than me?”
“A friend. Almost like a sister.” Her thighs were trim, firm. He did his best to look away as he dragged the underwear up under the damp towel. His knuckles dragged against her soft bottom, a bottom that wasn’t as skinny as he’d thought.
Not that her curves mattered. With her shivering against him, he felt more like a damned doctor than a man who’d been without sex for months. “Now the shirt.”
He took the damp towel off her head and tossed it aside. Her hair fell in tangled wet hanks to her bare shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful, her chin stubborn.
And she looked ready to drop with both weakness and degradation. She was not a woman used to needing help, he could tell, especially not with something so personal.
“Feel better being clean?” If he kept her talking, maybe this would be easier for her—and for him.
“You have no idea.” Dare pulled the shirt down over her head, and as soon as she popped free, she added, “Do you have any scissors?”
He had to practically lift her arms to get them through the armholes. Because a bra had been well beyond him, he’d bought the shirt big and loose. It fit over the bundled towel she had wrapped around herself. “Why?”
“I was going to cut it.”
“It?” He reached beneath the shirt and pulled away the bulky towel. Surprise stilled him for only a moment. Dirt, distress and injury had hidden it, but Molly Alexander had one hell of a rack.
And he f
elt like a grade-A prick for noticing.
“My hair.” Not quite defeated, but close, she sat back on the bed again. Face pale and mouth tight with strain, she kept her shoulders back, her bare knees and ankles squeezed together. “There’s no way I’ll get the tangles out. And truthfully… I just don’t care enough to try.”
She was not his problem, Dare reminded himself, and her hair sure as hell didn’t matter to him. But damn it, for whatever reason, he didn’t want her to give up now, not on anything.
“Let’s worry about it tomorrow, okay?” Taking her arm again, he got her upright and helped her step into the shorts. Decently dressed, clean, and marginally rested, she made quite a picture.
Sort of cute, but still very bedraggled and wearied, not to mention abused.
Dare led her to the table. “You sure you don’t want to do this in bed?”
A hoarse laugh huffed out. “I’ve been tied to a disgusting, filthy mattress for nine days, unable to sit up or walk or…anything. Trust me, I’d rather be at the table.”
The image sickened him. “Gotcha.”
He set juice in front of her. “Try to drink it all, okay? It’ll help.” Then he opened the microwave and pulled out her still-warm cup of soup.
“I know the pancakes probably smell good, and there’s enough for you if you want to give them a go, but I figured it might be too much—”
“It would be.” She drank a little of the juice, waited, then drank some more. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, I have to take it slow or I know I’ll be sick. And I’d rather be beaten than barf again.”
“Again?”
Her expression flattened with memories. As if the shock and humiliation still burned her, she didn’t look at him as she explained.
“At first they brought me corn tortillas and some kind of strong alcohol. I was afraid of what they’d do if I got drunk, so I wouldn’t drink it. But then they gave me the nastiest-looking water, like something out of a mud puddle. I didn’t trust that, either, and they tried to insist, but I just…couldn’t.” Her shoulders hunched a little as she drew into herself. Her voice lowered. “That’s when they started…drugging me.”
Dare set aside his fork. Hearing even a smidge of what she’d gone through made it near impossible to stay distanced; he wanted to go back and kill people all over again.
“After that, I couldn’t seem to resist when they told me to drink it, but I got…sick.” Her hands fisted, and her entire small body tightened. “It’s not like there was any place for that. I mean, not a bathroom or even a bucket. I… I soiled part of the small area they’d given me, and tossed up the pills they’d forced down my throat.”
Jesus. To imagine being a woman alone, afraid and sick, stuck in such an untenable position—he hid it from her, but it enraged him.
“They stood over me, furious, barking at me in a language I didn’t understand, but I got their meaning loud and clear, and I cleaned it up the best I could with the rags they threw at me. After that, they barely fed me. Usually only once a day, but at least the water they brought was cleaner, I guess to avoid a repeat of things.”
Motherfuckers.
“But then yesterday and today they brought me nothing at all. I don’t know why.”
She left out a lot of details, but Dare didn’t push her. He couldn’t begin to imagine how wretched it’d be to get ill while closed in that hot, airless little trailer. The feeling of helplessness was something he’d never experienced, but he knew it’d be different for a man.
Any woman held captive would be constantly under the fear of more than just physical abuse or neglect. She’d be terrified of rape.
Setting the soup and a spoon in front of her, Dare broached that topic. “They manhandled you a lot.”
She said nothing, just tasted her soup, groaned, and tasted it again.
“Molly…if you were hurt…” Idiot. She was so hurt that it pained him to think of it. Dare started over. “That is, if you were hurt in ways that aren’t easy for me to see, then a trip to the hospital would be a good idea.”
With each bite of soup, she looked more lethargic, as if the nourishment eased a terrible ache and allowed tiredness to take over again.
“Molly?”
“I can’t.” She took another swallow, but her eyes were getting heavy as color seeped back into her cheeks. “Can’t what?”
Another swallow. The seconds ticked by. “I can’t…can’t talk about this now, can’t give you details, and I can’t go to the hospital.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Please, if we could talk about it in the morning, I’d be grateful.”
Damn it, he didn’t want to be responsible for her health. He stood to pace, trying to decide.
“Dare?”
He turned back to her, left eye twitching, jaw tight.
“I wasn’t raped. I swear.”
Something in him eased. He tried to read the truth in her eyes, but saw only bleak resistance there. He rubbed his bristly jaw. “You would tell me if you were sexually abused?”
“If I had been… I don’t know. I don’t know how I’d feel.” Despite her ordeal, her chin lifted. “But I wasn’t.”
Dare continued to study her. He could read most people, but this woman had so much emotion in her face, and so many secrets in her eyes, he just wasn’t sure.
“That…that isn’t what they wanted with me.”
Remembering how she’d been separated from the other women, kept unclean, neglected instead of primed…he believed her.
That’s what she wanted to talk about tomorrow, he realized. He nodded. “All right.”
She started to stand, albeit shakily, and Dare said, “Wait. Let me turn down the bed.”
He prepared it for her, much like he would for a child, then came back to her. “Do you need the bathroom first?”
Pale, trembling, she shook her head. “No.”
Knowing that decision was likely determined by her inability to make it there on her own, Dare took the choice away from her. “Of course you do.” After all, he’d been pushing fluids on her, and she’d obliged him.
Lifting her up, he carried her into the small tiled room. She weighed next to nothing and felt insubstantial, delicate, in his arms.
He set her down next to the john. “Okay?”
She grabbed the sink and held on. “Yes.”
Hardly, but he’d done as much as he could without causing her further embarrassment. “If you need me, I’ll be right outside the door. Just let me know when you’re finished.” He left her to it.
Leaning against the wall beside the door, thinking of what he’d learned, and what he hadn’t, Dare waited for her. Seconds later he heard her flush and then run water in the sink.
The door opened.
Eyes more closed than open, shuffling along like a zombie, Molly moved past him to the bed. Dare rushed to hold her arm, to steady her and steer her to the sheets.
“Sorry,” she mumbled as she literally tumbled to the mattress. “So tired.”
Worry gnawed on him again. Should he damn her objections and take her to the hospital anyway? Already she looked to be asleep. He knew firsthand how exhaustion, especially when amplified by hunger and dehydration, could weary a body and soul.
Seeing her there, looking peaceful for a change, he made up his mind. A few more hours shouldn’t hurt. If she wasn’t steadier after sleeping, he’d insist she get checked out by a physician.
Before he thought better of it, Dare smoothed back her hair. It was so thick that it hadn’t dried much, but a wet head was the least of her worries.
He pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin, and heard her sigh. “Rest up, Molly Alexander. In the morning we’ll sort things out.”
No answer.
For more than a minute, Dare stared down at her, wondering what he was going to do with her. She’d held it together with an admirable iron will and unwavering determination. Despite her horrific ordeal, she’d been reasonable, practical and intelligent.
>
But it was what she hadn’t been that told him even more.
She hadn’t been anxious to report to the police, hadn’t even looked at his gun or the big knife he carried, and she hadn’t wanted to call anyone.
That was a first for Dare. It was his experience that men and women alike, when recovered from a dangerous situation, had someone they wanted to speak to ASAP, someone they wanted to reassure, or have reassure them.
Not Molly.
What a mystery she was.
As efficiently as he could, Dare spread out her hair on the pillow so it’d dry quicker. Valuing order in all aspects of his life, he took time to tidy the room and get rid of the empty food containers.
He put the gun and knife under his pillow. They made a familiar lump that gave him a specific peace of mind needed in his line of work.
After stripping down to his boxers, he neatly folded his clothes and put them away in his duffel bag, kept on the other side of the bed. With one more glance out at the still-quiet parking lot, he drew the heavy shades, putting the room in darkness, and crawled under the blankets. The aged air conditioner hummed and whistled as it sent cool air to swirl around the room; he’d been too many hours without rest.
Within minutes, he fell into a light sleep.
Hours later, a short, guttural sound of panic drew him from a vague dream. He had his gun in his hand and was on his feet before the sound had faded.
HEART PUNCHING, stomach cramping, Molly jerked upright in the bed. Her hands balled into fists and her throat burned from the scream that almost escaped. Almost. Someone loomed next to her, someone big.
“Molly?”
She knew that voice. Still tinged with panic, she took quick inventory of her surroundings. The unfamiliar bed didn’t crawl with bugs, and the usual stench of unwashed bodies, fear and sickness didn’t pervade the air.
Reality crashed back in, and with it shame, mortification and sadness. She gasped, blindly reaching out. “Dare?” Her hand hit something, maybe a hard thigh.
“Yeah, just me.” He set something heavy on the nightstand, and then his big body dipped the mattress and his hand touched her shoulder. “Bad dream?”