Taken With The Enemy

by Tia Fanning

  What could be his motivation? Did he care for me on some level deeper than captor and captive, or even friendship?

  Should I ask?

  "Um...” Shit! It was such a personal question, and I didn't even now what to call him to get his attention.

  He looked up at me. “Yes?"

  "I don't know your name. I know you don't want to tell me your real name, but can you at least give me a fake one I can use?"

  He shook his head.

  Okay. “Can I give you one?"

  He smiled sadly. “You can, but I won't answer to it."

  This was infuriating!

  "Why not? Is it a way of dehumanizing me, like I'm not worthy enough to call you by a name?"

  "No,” he replied evenly. “If that was the case, I wouldn't call you by your name."

  "What? Do you want me to call you master or something?"

  When he started coughing into his napkin, I knew he did so to hide his amusement. Jerk.

  "Excuse me,” he strained, taking a sip of wine. “No, you don't have to call me master."

  I was tired of these weird rules, and beyond tired of trying to figure them all out. I was also sick of fighting with him for vague slivers of information. The emotional turmoil of being captured and held prisoner was hard enough without adding the stress of useless battles that would gain me little in the long run.

  "Brenna, I'm sorry. I know..."

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Sighing, I tuned out his latest ‘I know this is difficult’ speech. We were stuck in a rut, replaying the same trite routine over and over again. If we weren't asking each other questions and trying our best not to provide answers, then we were arguing. And if we weren't arguing, it was because I was crying again and he was busy apologizing to me, trying to pacify me with his complimentary bullshit.

  I was weary of it.

  "Brenna?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Have you heard anything I said?"

  Shaking my head, I replied simply, “No, not really."

  How was that for honesty?

  He laughed. He didn't even try to hide it. Which was fine, I didn't really care anymore.

  "Can we start anew?” he asked.

  "No, I'm not up to that."

  "Listen, the name thing ... We just don't use names around here."

  "All right."

  "How trusting of you to take my word for it."

  The fucker was trying to bait me. I wasn't going to let him.

  "Sure, no problem."

  He wasn't the only one who could be blasé.

  "May I ask why the name issue came up again?"

  I shrugged. “I had a personal question to ask you. But it's an inappropriate question to ask someone you don't know that well. I thought perhaps we could get to know each other better, starting with names."

  The statement rang as true as it did false. I wanted to know him as much as I didn't. However, I could see the longing in his eyes. He wanted to hear the question.

  "I like this. You're toying with me. It seems you have found my weakness. You know I want to get to know you better."

  "I highly doubt that,” I remarked dryly. “I'm sure I still won't know your name after this conversation is over."

  "Why is my name so important to you?” he asked.

  "How am I supposed to get your attention when I want to ask you something?"

  The way he smiled and the devilish gleam in his eyes did things to me that undermined my defensive aloofness.

  God, he was handsome.

  "Brenna, you just open your mouth and speak. I will immediately acknowledge you. When I'm around you, you have my undivided attention. Always."

  The smooth words went straight to my heart, among other places already weakened by his charms.

  Damn him! He was getting the upper hand again.

  I lifted an eyebrow, hoping to keep up my nonchalant façade. “Well, then perhaps I should just ask my question."

  "Perhaps you should."

  Eeek!!!

  "Okay, um...” I trailed off, not sure I could be so blunt after all.

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Yes? I'm listening."

  His cocky smirk swept away any trepidation I had. I went for gold.

  "Are you falling in love with me or something?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  Instead of being shocked, appalled, or any of the other expressions I expected to see cross his face, he seemed pleased. He smiled. A wonderful, sexy smile.

  "That is a personal question,” he said. “And I'm more than willing to answer it. However, we have an agreement. The answer to that question will cost you a life story."

  My heart thumped in my chest. “I don't want to know that badly."

  "Yes you do."

  Of course, he was right, but ... “I don't think I could share the information you're requesting."

  "You still fear I'll hold it against you in some way?"

  Actually, I didn't. He seemed too honorable for such an underhanded move. I know, it was crazy to think that, but it was how I felt.

  "I just don't know if I can talk about my life without losing it,” I replied slowly. “You claim you don't want to see me cry again, and the Lord knows I don't want to cry anymore."

  "I understand."

  We held each other's gaze. He was searching into the recesses of my soul again, and I let him. I wondered, with all the information he had on me and his unusual talent for reading people, why he hadn't already guessed why I did the things I did. I mean, if he really bothered to analyze what he knew about me, he should have been able to put two and two together.

  "Were you some kind of profiler in your other life?” I whispered.

  "What are you really trying to ask me, Brenna?"

  "You already know, don't you? Or you at least have a good idea why I live my life the way I do."

  "I still want to hear it from your lips. I could be wrong."

  "You're not."

  "I care about you. I want to have more between us ... one day. We can't move ahead if you won't open up to me."

  He wanted more between us? Shit, we weren't even friends.

  I wanted to look away, but I didn't. I wasn't running anymore. “I thought you said this was about trust. That you needed to trust me for whatever reason you brought me here."

  "That too."

  I couldn't open up to him. Could I?

  "You told me you cared. My question has been answered."

  "You know caring for someone doesn't necessarily mean you're in love with them,” he said, never breaking eye contact.

  I was drowning in those endless depths, too busy fighting my own internal war to come up for breath. Did he really love me? No, impossible ... But God, I had to hear him tell me no. I had to know for sure.

  But what if he said yes? Improbable. But in the slim chance that he did say yes, what would I do?

  "I-I..."

  Where did I start?

  "Do you remember my questions from the other night?” he asked.

  I nodded, no longer surprised by how easily he knew what was going on in my head. I kept staring into his eyes, finding a numb strength there to do what I had to do.

  "When I was twelve,” I started, closing my eyes and reliving that exact moment, “my parents were in a car accident. My mother died on impact, but my father was found alive, and taken to the emergency room. When my grandmother and I arrived, I overheard the doctors tell her that he wouldn't live much longer, that he was hemorrhaging internally, and they couldn't do anything for him other than make him comfortable."

  The memories of that last goodbye moved into my mind, but I couldn't bring myself to vocalize them.

  Taking a deep breath, I continued on, answering the first question. “I remembered thinking then, had I been a doctor, I could have saved my father. So, I vowed that when I grew up, I would become one. And I did, specializing in trauma and emergency room care."
>
  He didn't say anything, and I'm glad he didn't. One word from him and I would fall into tears. Again.

  On to the second question.

  "My parents, when they were alive, were very generous people. While I was in school, my grandmother kept the charities running, in memory of my parents. She never gave speeches or did the press thing. At every function to raise money, my parent's pictures where always on display, as if they were still there. After she died and I took over, I just thought to keep things the way they were.

  "However, charities don't just happen because of money. They require work, so I always tried to do my part. I never told anyone who I was because I didn't want the other volunteers to be uncomfortable. I didn't want to be treated differently because of the money. It was the same with work. I didn't want anyone to know my personal background because I wanted to be treated normally. If my co-workers respected me, I wanted it to be based on my merits, not because I was a ‘little rich girl'. Social status means very little to me.

  "I grew up wanting for nothing, but my parents instilled the belief that just because we were blessed financially, it didn't make us better than anyone else. They used to tell me that we should never expect to be treated differently because we had money, that it was character that really mattered, not our bank accounts.

  "Though we had tons of money, for the most part, I grew up like any other kid. I mean, we lived in a nice upper-middle class neighborhood and I went to private school, but we didn't live like we were rich. Nothing flashy. I guess it was something else I kept going after my parents died. After college, I donated the house and their cars, moved to the city and rented a small apartment so I'd be close to work, got a small car..."

  "Your parents sound wonderful,” he said quietly.

  Nodding, I let a small smile touch my lips. “They were."

  For once, instead of reliving all the tragedy, my brain began replaying the good times. It was nice to remember the better days.

  I jumped when the phone rang.

  "I'm sorry, I have to get that.” Rising from his seat, he moved to the wall phone.

  The conversation was short, and of course I didn't understand a damn thing. When he hung up the receiver, he sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against the wall.

  "Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He looked over, a regretful expression shadowing his features. He rubbed the back of his neck. “There's a matter I have to attend to."

  "You can go. I understand."

  A sad smile formed on his lips. “I don't want to go."

  Elated joy rushed through me, his words affecting me more than they should. “But you have to."

  He nodded. “I might not see you for a day or two."

  Goodbye joy, hello melancholy.

  "Okay."

  "I'll miss you."

  I laughed. “What?"

  He chuckled. “I said I'll miss you."

  There he went endearing himself to me again. “Why?"

  "I like being around you."

  "So, before you leave, you're going to answer my question, right?"

  He came over and took my hand in his. Lifting it up to his lips, he placed a series of soft kisses on the tips of my knuckles.

  Melting again ... “Well?” I whispered.

  "No. We have a deal, remember? You're not done answering my questions."

  I tsk'd and gently tugged my hand back. However, his reply didn't ruin the happy feelings his touch had magically conjured within me.

  "So I will have to sit here and wonder for two days?"

  "I'll tell you what. Ask another question—a simple one—and I'll answer it."

  I racked my pleasure muddled brain for something. “Why is it that you can talk to me, but no one else can?"

  "Because I had already spoken to you, you are my responsibility, and my time here is almost up."

  Staring at him, I tried to make sense of ‘my time here is almost up'. Was he going to martyr himself or something? I couldn't imagine him strapping explosives to his body and taking out a group of people. On the other end of the spectrum, maybe he was some military operative and his mission was almost done, so he'd get to go home soon...

  To his wife and kids?

  No. He would have told me.

  Wouldn't he?

  I squinted my confusion. “What does that last statement mean?"

  "I have to go. I'll see you soon, Brenna.” He then turned to leave.

  "Wait. One more question.” When he didn't stop, I jumped up and followed. “Please, it's important to me."

  His hand stilled on the door handle. He looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows rising in query.

  I took a deep breath. “Are you married?"

  He gave me the most gorgeous, sincere grin. “No. I'm not."

  "Thanks,” I exhaled in relief.

  "How I wish I could stay and explore the reasons behind your decision to ask me that question."

  "Oh, just curious,” I rushed.

  He gave me that cocky ‘yeah, sure you are’ look before disappearing behind the door.

  Back in the dining room, I cleaned up dinner, trying to figure out why I'd felt compelled to ask him if he was married, and why I was so thrilled to find out he wasn't.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirteen

  The scent of musk and sandalwood accompanied his footsteps as he entered the kitchen. I smiled to myself, but didn't turn to look at him. After all, the cucumbers weren't going to cut themselves. He placed his hands on my waist, pressing his body against mine.

  "Did you miss me?” he murmured in my ear, his breath sending tingles straight to my center.

  "You know I did,” I giggled.

  "You have beautiful shoulders,” he said, then began trailing warm kisses across my skin.

  I tried to concentrate on my task, but couldn't manage it. His touch had the most profound affect on me. “You're distracting me. You want salad with dinner, don't you?"

  "You're much more appetizing than any salad."

  My body instantly reacted to his words. My hold on the knife weakened as moisture pooled inside the crouch of my jeans.

  He pulled the delicate straps of my camisole down, trapping my arms at my sides and exposing my aching breasts. I leaned back into his chest and titled my head. He showered my neck with heated kisses while his hands massaged my breasts. I moaned when his wicked fingers began rolling my sensitive nipples, tugging the taut buds.

  No longer caring about the thin fabric straps that bound me, I dropped the knife and twisted around, drawing him closer and capturing my captive's lips. Lost in the intensity of the kiss, we stumbled back, colliding into the granite counter.

  Pinning me there, his mouth seared a path down my chest, and lower still, pulling my camisole to my waist as he knelt before me. I held onto the stone countertop while his lips skimmed across my stomach. He unbuttoned my jeans, sliding them to my knees.

  "Dinner,” I gasped.

  "I'd rather taste you."

  "But—but I still don't even know your name."

  "Does it matter?” he asked, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my panties. “Don't you trust me?"

  "Yes,” I sighed, closing my eyes as he explored the slick folds of my pussy, circling my throbbing clit. My core tightened in anticipation.

  "Good girl,” he said. “Now wake up for me."

  "What?"

  "Wake up, Brenna."

  Opening my eyes, I blinked through the sunlight streaming into the room.

  My captor sat on the edge of my bed, looking down at me with the most bemused expression. “Did I interrupt a pleasant dream?"

  Ah! I pulled the covers over my head to hide the blush that assaulted my cheeks. My body stilled hummed from the erotic episode, my inner thighs damp and sticky, my center a throbbing ache of frustration.

  "Should I take that as a yes?” he asked.

  "Why are you in my room?” I mumbled from beneath the blanket.


  He gently tugged the covers back down. “Were you dreaming of me?"

  I knew he was just teasing, but my face flamed so hot, it tingled. There was no way he could miss that blatant sign. “Would you believe me if I told you no?"

  His grin broadened and he shook his head. “Was I good?"

  Oh, my God. We're not actually having this conversation. “It was a dream."

  "You were moaning in your sleep when I came in."

  "And why is it you came in? You've only been gone two days. You couldn't have missed me that much."

  "I did miss you,” he said. The humor slowly faded from his face. “Unfortunately, this is not a pleasure visit. I woke you up because we require your services."

  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. “What services?"

  He rose from the bed and went to my wardrobe, opening it. “You'll need to wear the hijab. Unfortunately, you can't just wear a khimar, but will have to don a niqab, the cover with the eye slits.” He pulled out the black head scarf with the face veil, laying it on the bed. It was followed by a black abaya.

  "Where am I going?” I whispered.

  "To another location in the building.” As if he knew what my next question was going to be, he pasted a smile and continued. “It's for your protection. In all honesty, I wish I could have you wear the chadri instead, to better conceal your amazing body and those big, beautiful, expressive eyes. But I fear you'd have a problem doing what you need to do with it on."

  The compliment was lost in the translation. A chadri? The burqa with the thin net that covers the eyes?

  "Why do I need to hide myself so ... thoroughly?"

  "So you can't be identified."

  Such a simple, matter-of-fact response. I guess I should have known that, or at least expected it. Everything around here was done for protection, to remain unidentifiable.

  "What am I doing again?"

  He headed for the exit. “Why don't you wash up and get ready. I'll wait for you in the living room."

  As annoying as it was, I was starting to get used to being left out on the details. “Okay."

  He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  * * * *

  After I had dressed as requested, I stared into the mirror, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Well, for one, I was definitely unidentifiable, that was for sure.