But she wasn’t the same person he’d dragged off that island. Soft, naive. Vulnerable. She could take care of herself now.
During the last six months, she’d made certain of it. She’d taken classes. On the firing range. In martial arts. And she would never be a victim again.
She had a purpose now. She had intent.
And she had a raging need for answers. A consuming drive for revenge.
She planned on getting both. Even if she had to kill to get them.
A greasy knot of nausea rolled through her stomach. She had already killed. It still seemed surreal. And she didn’t feel near enough remorse.
More than her body had been violated on Jolo. More than her innocence had been lost. They’d stolen her humanity, as well. Once, she would have sidestepped an ant to avoid killing it. Once she would have turned the other cheek before engaging in a physical confrontation that could hurt another human being.
Once.
Now she had killed. Was prepared to kill again. As her body had healed, she’d trained to make herself physically and mentally strong; killing those responsible for what had happened to her mother, what had happened to her, had been her driving force.
And hers might not be the only life in danger now. Amy hadn’t been able to reach Jenna during the past two days. She had to get to Argentina. Had to find Jenna. Couldn’t live with herself if something happened to Jenna because of her.
She glanced at the man who so patiently waited. A man who had a right to know.
Which was why she had to leave. Now. Before she weakened and told him. Once he knew, she had no doubt he’d insist on going with her. And now that she was rested and thinking rationally, the one thing she could do was prevent that from happening.
For a long moment, she stood there, searching his eyes, his amazing face…wishing…wishing so many things could have been different between them. Wishing she’d met him when she was the person she’d once been, not the person she’d become.
Silence ticked like a clock. Anger and concern skipped on every beat. And somewhere in the mix an excess of another emotion confused and excited and frightened her.
He wanted more from her than an explanation.
He wanted her. He didn’t want to. He’d never wanted to, but his eyes were heavy and dark with wanting.
Tempered with a measure of remorse.
She felt it too. In her blood. In her bones. In everything that made her a woman. Both the wanting and the regret. Both surprised her. Both made her weary and sad.
She knew there was no future for her with Dallas Garrett. It was possible there was no future for her at all.
And yet…for the first time since Jolo, as she stood there, so close to something so good, she yearned for the sweet side of intimacy with a man. The side filled with both taking and giving without humiliation or fear or pain.
She yearned for it. For the trust required to give herself over to need. For the lovely anticipation of this man’s—and only this man’s—touch. The thrilling glide of his mouth across her skin, caressing, pleasuring, taking care and taking time to give her a memory that wasn’t steeped in horror and degradation and loss.
Through a haze of longing, she understood something with a clarity that made perfect sense. If ever she were to reclaim that part of herself—the sensual part, the trusting part—her one chance stood before her. This man…this incredible, amazing man who knew what she’d been through and didn’t see her as damaged goods or less of a woman because of it.
And she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not…just…yet…
Not…without…
She leaned in close, her mouth mere inches from his. His breath whispered against her face as she closed the distance. Tentative. Testing. Trusting.
She touched her lips to his. Apologetic for placing him in this position. For asking him to be the one to give her back what others had so ruthlessly taken. For knowing he wouldn’t have it in him to turn her down and using that knowledge against him.
His breath felt warm on her face, his scent clean and safe and so arousing she felt herself tremble and burn, overwhelmed by sensation and desire.
Desire, where there had been only pain for so, so long.
The shiver that rippled along her skin thrilled her. Clearly surprised him even as he met her halfway, then hesitated. She could sense the war he waged with himself. She could feel his reluctance battle with the wanting. Tension surrounded him like a force field. Heat radiated from his big body in sensual waves.
Even as his full, mobile lips opened over hers, moved against hers, he whispered an apology. And gave up the fight.
With ultimate care, with carefully controlled need, he kissed her. His hunger growing and giving and promising to take care, to restore all that had been stolen from her. Gentle loving. Desire without cost. Healing without pity. Taking without pain. Giving from bottomless depths.
Oh, God, she needed this. Two days ago she had almost died. Today she realized how badly she wanted to live. Needed to live what life she had left. Even more, she needed him to show her the way back to being a woman. To feel complete again. To return to hope and health and her own humanity.
“Amy,” he whispered against her lips, parted them with his breath, wrapped her in his arms. “I’m sorry. This isn’t…we shouldn’t…you need—”
“You. I need you. Dallas. Please.” She dived into a kiss that pleaded and seduced and left her breathless. “What I need right now is you.”
Jesus. Jesus. He should end this. It was the right thing to do. The best thing to do. Dallas knew that. Knew it times ten. But she’d wrapped her slim arms around his neck, pressed those sweet, sweet breasts against him and clung to him like cellophane. Lush curves, warm woman, wanting and willing and strong.
And Lord…Lord God, he wanted her.
It wasn’t right. In fact it was so wrong it scared the hell out of him. But he had wanted her and wished for her and thought of her like this for months. Of touching her. Of her touching him. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape, his hands surrounding the delicate framework of her ribs. Thought of the two of them lying naked and breathless and knotted together like ropes in a give and sway as old as time, yet as new as a sunrise.
And now, here they were. Naked.
Somewhere in the midst of endless kisses and silken touches, they had removed each other’s clothes. Made it to his bed. He’d even managed to suit up with a condom. Otherwise, they were stripped to the skin. Him on his back with her kneeling above him. Gloriously wanton. Absorbed in the moment. Totally in control…a control he gladly gave over to her.
It was a necessary submission on his part to let her direct the speed, the force, the unrelenting need. And her need was apparent in spades. Not to be taken, but to take. Not to be vanquished but to conquer. She needed to call the shots. To feel safe. To feel strong.
So he let her. Holy saints did he let her. Let her bend and shift and take everything she wanted, any way she wanted it. And she wanted it in ways he could never have imagined.
“Amy.” Her name soughed out on a tortured breath as he gripped her hips while she rode him, relentless, focused, all lightning-quick reactions and wild, gasping cries.
He came like a cannon. No finesse. No control. All velocity, explosion and speed. Given completely over to her will.
She clenched around him with a moan, arched her back and whispered his name like a prayer. Sighed her pleasure like an epiphany.
If he lived to be a hundred, hell, if he lived through the night, he’d never forget that moment. Never forget the feel of her moist heat convulsing around him, the fire and mist in her eyes, the tumble of blond hair falling across her face, the full swaying weight of her breasts as she caught her breath then collapsed onto his chest. Sprawling and spent. Wasted and sated.
Amazing.
She felt amazing, her weight liquid and hot pressed all over him. Her ragged breath feathered across his still erect nipple. Her knees tu
cked up against his ribs; the silk of her hair brushed his lips.
He lifted his left hand, pressed her cheek closer against his chest, caressed her sweet bare ass with his other hand and thought: What have I done? What in God’s name have I done?
It was his last thought as he drifted off to sleep, his arms full of woman, his heart full of something that should have been regret but instead felt full and rich and rare.
CHAPTER SIX
Amy dressed in careful silence in the pale, predawn light. And tried not to think about leaving the man sound asleep on the bed.
He was so beautiful. Dark, unruly hair, damp from exertion fell across his forehead. Thick lashes brushed his cheeks as he lay supine and still on the bed where he’d given her back her sense of wonder.
What he’d given her…my God, what he’d given her. Tears filled her eyes. She had thought she’d never feel this way again. Never trust, never need, never feel clean and fresh and steeped in the heady pleasure of a man’s gentle touch. A man’s giving and gracious desire. Her own passion, honest and true.
And how did she thank him for giving her back that part of herself? The only way she could. By leaving him. She was going to leave him with his hands tied to the bedposts. Hands that had caressed her and finessed her into orgasms that still vibrated deep and woman-low inside of her. Hands he’d let her tie, giving himself over completely to her bidding.
This strong, dominant male had relinquished all the power. His blue eyes glazed with passion, his muscles quivering with the need to take her, he’d let her do the taking. Understood she’d needed control with a desperation born on a tropical island where paradise had been lost in a nightmare of degradation, violence and shame.
She stuffed the last of her things in her backpack then indulged in one last lingering look. Everything about him was beautiful. Vital. Strong, ropey muscles. Long, athletic legs. His skin a temptation to touch and taste and explore. There were scars. Scars that made her afraid for him. In particular the jagged remains of what had to have been a near-death injury that ran from his right rib to low over his abdomen.
The scars shouldn’t have surprised her. He was, after all, a warrior who’d been willing to bleed, even die for a cause.
Well, she wasn’t about to let him die for her. If she stayed, if she explained, he’d want to go with her. And if he did, he’d surely bleed again. Maybe even die this time. After what he’d given her…she simply couldn’t place him in that position.
Regret skirted around the edge of determination as she grabbed her backpack, slipped out of the room and let herself quietly out of his condo and into the dark.
If anything, the intensity of the rain had increased and along with it the wind. She struggled against the force of it, lowered her head as thunder rolled with a teeth-jarring concussion of sound and fury. A lightning strike flashed on its heels as she cleared the parking lot and headed across the street at a fast trot.
That’s when she heard footsteps closing in fast behind her. Since she’d left Dallas tied to the bed, those footsteps meant only one thing: they’d followed her. And they’d found her.
Pulse spiking, she kicked up her pace to a flat-out run, splashed through the water running ankle deep at the curb and dug frantically into her backpack for her Glock.
She was thinking of Dallas and hoping against hope she was leading them away from him when she was hit from behind. The force of the blow knocked her flat on her face in the grass. Her backpack, with the pistol inside, went flying.
Pain exploded through her body. Her knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall. She fought past the searing shock of it, reminded herself she hadn’t spent the last six months just looking for answers or cowering in a closet, licking her wounds. She’d learned that there were ways to insure she would never become a victim again. There was a dead man in a snow-shrouded ravine in New York that proved that she didn’t have to be.
She made herself go completely limp, as if she’d been knocked out by the force of the blow that had taken her down. When a big hand gripped her shoulder and rolled her to her back, she was ready. She laid into him with a swift chop to the windpipe—realized too late to pull it that it was Dallas.
“God damn it!” he swore, when she chopped his neck hard with her forearm. Capturing her wrists in his hands, he pinned them to the grass above her head. Rain pelted down like bullets, hitting her in the face, pouring from his hair. “Stop fighting me!” he croaked.
Tension, shock, surprise…all three vied for dominance as she lay there, feeling cornered and confused and relieved at the same time. If any other man—any other man—had dominated her this way, she would have fought, scratched, gouged, bit, screamed bloody murder. And she’d have relived the horror of Jolo every nanosecond.
But this was Dallas. The man who had saved her life and her sanity. The man she had just made love with and whom she did not want to lead into danger.
She searched his eyes as he loomed above her, soaking wet, his chest bare, imprisoning her with legs covered in soaked denim. “Please, Dallas, just let me go.”
For a long moment, only their labored breathes and the relentless downpour broke the silence of the predawn darkness.
“In a pig’s eye. Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you.”
Light from a distant security lamp cast his profile in misty, golden shadows. Emotions too huge to accommodate swelled in her chest. “Dallas—”
“Shut up,” he ordered.
Rising to his feet, he held out a hand to help her up.
His hand was big. Powerful. Heavily veined. Rough with calluses. Waiting.
She lifted her hand, gripped his tight and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her knees burned beneath her soggy jeans. She worked her sore elbows. Overriding the pain was guilt.
She dragged sodden hair from her eyes. Had she really thought when she’d come here that he would let her walk away? That he wouldn’t feel compelled to help her? “Dallas, I—”
“Back inside.” He gripped her upper arm, steered her across the lot. “Where I can nurse my wounds in private.”
“Oh, God.” She stopped abruptly. Panic made her heart trip. She’d practiced her moves hundreds of times in class but had never employed them for real. “Did I really hurt you?”
He rubbed the side of his neck where she’d connected, then scrubbed rain from his face. “Let’s just say you bruised more than my ego. And so you know, the last person to sucker punch me didn’t live long enough to brag about it.”
Nothing about this situation was remotely funny, but she smiled at the bruised pride in his tone. It was pained, knee-jerk, and riddled with a relief she felt guilty for feeling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Yeah.” He grunted. “You do that.” Then he hustled her through the water-logged street toward his condo.
When he’d shut and locked the door behind them, he turned and leaned back against it. His wet hair lay plastered to his head as he considered her through narrowed eyes.
“Let’s get something straight here. Whatever bind you’re in, I want to help you. I need to help you. And you need to let me.
“You need to let me,” he repeated, his gaze locked on hers. “There’s no fighting it any longer. Got it?”
Yeah. She finally got it. He was right. What happened on Jolo, what happened in his bed…it bound them.
She didn’t know what it all meant. Hadn’t figured out the whys or the hows or if there was even a remote possibility anything further could happen between them. But he was right. And it was a relief to finally accept it.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
A combination of relief and satisfaction crossed his face. “So, what happens next? Where do we go from here?”
Where they went from here was somewhere that might make it impossible for them to ever return. “Argentina.”
If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. He just pushed away from the door. “I’ll get my passport. You can fill me in on
the flight.”
Two showers and two hours later, they were on a Delta jet bound for Atlanta. From there they’d catch a connecting flight to Buenos Aires. Once there, Amy figured, they would enter the fight of their lives.
She just prayed to God that they got to Jenna before it was too late.
Same day, Leleque, in the Argentinean Patagonia
Iraq. Lebanon. Argentina. One of these things is not like the other.” Jenna McMillan sang the Sesame Street song whisper-quiet as she sat on her butt on the damp, dirt floor, her arms draped over her upraised knees.
Yeah, she thought as a cockroach roughly the size of an Abrams tank scuttled across the thick black bars of her cell, Third-World nations and terrorist strongholds equated to random abductions and indiscriminate, unjust imprisonment. But Argentina? Argentina was known for its beef, gauchos, Evita, the tango, and yeah, for a little drug action, for God’s sake. American citizens weren’t just plucked off the streets and thrown in prison.
Yet here she was. Locked in a six-by-six jail cell, miles from the civilized world, no charges filed, no jurisprudence or right to a speedy trial in play.
In short, as her daddy used to say, she was up shit creek without the proverbial paddle. And she wasn’t really sure she had the balls for it.
Weary to the bone, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the grimy adobe wall. A single light bulb on a frayed cord hung from the ceiling in the hallway. It was almost more frightening with the light on than in the dark.
She was hungry. She was scared—although she’d never let those bastards see it. And after two days in this bug-infested cell, she was wondering if she’d ever see the purple mountains’ majesty again.
God she missed Wyoming. Home. Hell, even Iraq had a certain appeal.
And was a breath of fresh freaking air too much to ask for?
“It smells like a cesspool in here!” she complained loudly. As if anyone would give a rip.
On a weary breath, she pushed to her feet. Her multicolored gauzy skirt was ripped and caked with dust, her sweat-stained silk tank hardly recognizable as white. And her hair. Gawd. She forked her fingers through the long tangled mass of auburn curls, attempted to work through the snarls. What she wouldn’t give for a brush. And a shower.
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