Deadly Promises

by Sherrilyn Kenyon; Dianna Love; Cindy Gerard; Laura Griffin

  “Whoa. Whoa now,” he said around a mean laugh, like he was enjoying the fight as he easily grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.

  She finally came to her senses. Came back to the fact that he was not the enemy and that there was method in his actions.

  He turned his head and looked over his shoulder as he worked his shirt buttons with his free hand. “She’s a wild cat,” he said, and she realized the general had arrived unannounced.

  “I’m always up for a party, but I prefer to handle this on my own.” He shrugged his shirt off one shoulder and, fumbling for his belt buckle, lowered himself over her again in a clear indication for the general to leave.

  “My apology,” the general said, and he walked back outside.

  Her heart beat like thunder as Cavanaugh pressed her into the mattress. Broad chest. Thick biceps. Intense brown eyes. Eyes that were regretful and something else. Something that kicked her heart rate even higher.

  “Sorry,” he whispered against her mouth. “The pervert wanted to make this a threesome.”

  Oh, God. She was suddenly aware of the hard rise and fall of her breasts, which had been bared by her wild struggle. By the pounding of his heart against hers. And by the irrational thrill of the thick erection against her belly.

  CAV NEEDED TO get up and off of her. He never let anything distract him from an op. Never. Yet it would be damned easy to get sidetracked by her. Practically naked, frightened, and alive like fire was alive.

  He damn sure needed to get up.

  Only he couldn’t—not yet.

  First, the general was clearly distrustful, and Cav was certain he’d left someone nearby. There would be… expectations.

  Second. Carrie Granger had knobby knees and they’d connected with her target. The boys were not happy, and he wasn’t certain he could walk just yet.

  “Sorry,” he gritted out again and tried to shift some of his weight off her while reaching between them and making a careful adjustment to his package.

  Bad move.

  Very bad move.

  The warm, naked flesh of her belly pressed against the back of his forearm. The heat of her mons and the sweet cleft between her parted thighs cradled the back of his hand. With only the most minor of adjustment he could be there. Right there. Inside her. And his stupid dick was totally on board with the idea.

  Fuck.

  Screw caution. Screw pain. With Herculean effort, he shot up off the cot and turned his back to her, giving her a chance to cover herself.

  Giving himself a chance to get it the hell together.

  He reached for the lone lightbulb and yanked the damn string. The tent went dark, providing anonymity from spying eyes. Only then did he shrug back into his shirt and start working the buttons, his fingers shaking.

  Jesus.

  He walked to the table and reached for the whiskey bottle, then poured a shot glass full with an unsteady hand.

  He didn’t get it. Didn’t get why he felt not only responsible for her but also inexplicably drawn to her.

  He’d known a lot of women. Seen them at their best. Seen them at their worst. Never, though, had he seen one this vulnerable—and never had he felt such an intense and visceral reaction to a woman because of that vulnerability and her utter determination not to give in to it.

  He slammed back the whiskey. Savored the burn.

  He couldn’t explain a thing about his reactions to her. They’d barely exchanged words. She was in a state of shock. Her responses were propelled by desperation and fear, and her actions spoke less about who she was than about what had happened to her.

  But there was something in those eyes… those all-American-girl blue eyes when she’d stared up at him… something that touched places inside him he’d never let anyone have access to before.

  So why is she getting to me?

  Because Carrie Granger was a woman of substance, that’s why. Her courage, as she had endured yet one more humiliation, told him just how much strength she really had.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. That didn’t mean he could afford to let this escalate. And for damn sure it didn’t mean he could break his own rules.

  Never get involved.

  Never let things get personal.

  Just do the job.

  Rules he lived by. Rules that had kept him alive in the past, and rules that would get them both out of this alive now.

  “I’m going outside,” he said without further explanation.

  Just like he didn’t have an explanation for what had almost happened on that cot.

  Seven

  If there was a God, Cav thought twenty minutes later as he headed back for the tent, the distracting, delicious, and distressed Miss Granger would be dressed when he stepped back inside. The olive T-shirt and camo cargo pants ought to go a long way toward drabbing her down.

  He nodded cordially to the guard who stood near the tent with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Then he tipped a finger to his forehead in an amiable good night to the other guard who had shadowed every step of his stroll around the dimly lit perimeter of the camp.

  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 fucking 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?”

  She nodded, then whispered, “Yes,” when she realized he probably couldn’t see her.

  A big hand squeezed her knee. “Good girl. Can you carry this?” A bulky weight landed on her thighs.

  His backpack.

  “I pilfered some of the bottled water stocked in this tent, so it’s heavy.”

  “I can do it.” She figured that he needed her to carry the pack because he would need his hands free for other things. Things she didn’t want to think about but knew would be necessary to get them out of here.

  “Let’s get the straps fitted.”

  She stood and slipped the pack onto her back. His big hands were deft and steady as he stood behind her and helped her adjust them.

  Helped her.

  An overwhelming flood of gratitude swept her right to the edge of control, and she had to fight to keep her knees from buckling.

  “Hey.” Strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. “Hey,” he repeated gently and turned her around to face him. “What’s happening?”

  She blinked back a damning rush of tears. “It’s… it’s just… I thought I was going to die here.”

  She swallowed hard, made herself meet his eyes. Even in the dark she could see the compassion and the strength and the promises there. “Thank you.”

  He squeezed her shoulders, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. We’re a long way from gone.”

  And she was a long way from grasping exactly what it was about this man that had her wanting to throw herself into his arms one instant and back away the next. Both of their lives were on the line here, and she so did not have it together.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked abruptly. If she didn’t inject something concrete into this very tense, very intimate situation, she was going to do something very, very stupid. Like fall into his arms again.

  “Stealth,” he said simply.

  She blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s what you need to know,” he said evasively. “For now.”

  “Fine. What about the dogs?” Even more than the guns, those dogs terrified her.

  “They’re more for intimidation than for tracking.”

  “Yeah, well, the intimidation part is definitely working.”

  “Even if they’re trackers,” he assured her, “both of us have left our scents all over this place. It’ll take them forever to figure out where to start looking. In the meantime, we’re steering way clear of them on the way out.”

  She shivered involuntarily, remembering one day when the dogs had mauled a man who had attempted to escape.

  “The generator shut off two hours ago,” he went on, “so unfortunately we don’t have that noise to help provide cover. On the plus side, at this time of night the guards are fighting sleep, if they aren’t sleeping already. No perimeter fences, either, which tells me they’re not too worried about anyone trying to slip away.”

  “It’s a little difficult to run when you don’t have the strength to put one foot in front of the other,” she whispered in agreement.

  “This isn’t going to be pretty.” His voice was hard, all business. “I’m going to have to take out your favorite guard first. He drew watch outside the tent.”

  She swallowed, understanding that “take out” had nothing to do with dating or Chinese food, and was most likely a permanent resolution. Oh, God. For the first time in her life she truly understood gallows humor. She’d wished the guard dead a hundred times since she’d been brought here at gunpoint. Faced with the probability of it actually happening, however, she felt a fissure of regret. She had dedicated her career to saving lives. The thought of someone dying because of her…

  “Don’t think about it,” Cavanaugh said softly.

  He not only rescued women, he read minds. And he was right. She needed to remember only one thing: this was life or death. Better the guard’s death than hers.

  “I’m okay.” If she said it often enough, maybe that would make it true.

  “Yes. You are.” It was as much an order as a statement. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded and he ducked under the tent flap.

  She stared at the spot where he’d been, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing.

  Before she could reconcile herself to the fact that the sound she’d just heard was most likely the sound of a neck being snapped he was back.

  She couldn’t make out his expression, but she could smell the adrenaline on him. Could feel violence crackle around him like electricity.

  He handed her a pair of sandals, the soles still warm to the touch.

  Oh, God.

  She put them on.

  When she straightened, she realized he was carrying a rifle. Of course. He’d taken it from the guard.

  “You stay on my six.” He reached for her hand and dragged it to his belt. “Hang on, you got it? From this point on, we are officially connected at the hip. It’s all about running now. No questions. Just follow me and keep as quiet as you possibly can.”

  She could run. She could be quiet. She could do anything he told her. What she couldn’t do was keep herself from stopping him when he turned to lead her out into the night.

  His eyes were full of questions as she moved in close against him.

  And then he got it.

  “Carrie.” His breath was warm against her lips as she lifted her face
to his. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “What I don’t want to do,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes and wrapping both arms around his neck, “is regret that I didn’t.”

  Her heartbeat was already wild from the fear and the danger and the risk. But when her lips touched his, wild didn’t even begin to cover the sensations that bolted through her blood and apparently slammed through his just as hard, just as fast, because there wasn’t an ounce of caution in his kiss. He wrapped his free arm tightly around her waist and lifted her flush against him, his body hot and responsive, his mouth hungry and fully, carnally engaged.

  He was a big, hard man. Yet all she could think about was the softness of his lips, the sleekness of his tongue, the profound restraint with which he held her that both excited her and reminded her of the danger he was in because of her.

  She wanted the kiss to go on forever. Wanted this intense exploration of mouths and tongues and sensations, which she’d initiated but that he’d taken to an entirely different level, to obliterate the harsh reality that once they set foot outside this tent their lives could very well end in an explosion of gunfire.

  And in this moment she wanted him almost more than she wanted her freedom, because she was desperately afraid that freedom would come at the cost of his life.

  Fortunately, there was a cooler head in this tent than hers. There was a man who would not allow her to give up the promise of a future for the price of one moment in time. No matter how amazing that moment promised to be.

  He lifted his head on a groan, pressed her face into his chest, and held her against a heart that beat like thunder.

  “If I were to pick a cliché,” he murmured against her hair, “wrong time, wrong place pretty much sums it up.”

  She swallowed hard, willed her heart rate to settle. He was right. “I’m sorry.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said gruffly.

  Shouldering the rifle sling, he cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face so she could see his eyes. “So be warned, Carrie Granger. The next time I kiss you, you’re going to end up naked and flat on your back, and it’s going to take an army to keep me from making certain you never feel the need to say you’re sorry again.”