by Lucy Farago
Chapter 10
How could a woman be so frustrating and cute at the same time? After ignoring the erection she’d given him with that you-know-you-want-it smile, he put their dishes in the sink, then poured Taylor another glass. He deserved her retaliation. He didn’t know what had come over him. He’d never in his life played games with a woman. If he was interested, he let her know. But for some reason, every uncertainty he’d endured living with a woman whose entire life centered around finding a man, every doubt that he was good enough, had boiled to the surface, and he lost his balls.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the wine from him. “This has been fun, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll drink this in my room and fall asleep with that book I started. I’m exhausted.”
“Sure, insult me and go to bed.” He’d actually hoped she would join him on the couch. Maybe he could coax out a mouse or two with some fresh pancakes.
“Pfft.” She began to walk away. “You’re a smart man. You know you have issues with control. You just don’t like knowing I know about them.”
“Then how about the backhanded compliment?” he shouted after her. Was she as attracted to him as he was to her?
“Nothing backhanded about it,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “You’re one good-looking guy. A real cutie.” And at that, she shut her bedroom door.
A cutie? He wasn’t cute. He was rough and tough, just like the other guys. He might not be as big and nasty as Dozier, but he could hold his own with anyone on the team. He wasn’t cute. What kind of thing was that to say to a guy? Cute. Like some helpless little puppy. Cute. She was the one who was cute, with those crazy ideas about marriage. Good on her for trying, but come on. Getting married was stupid. It ruined everything. And he was not cute. Or obsessive. Even though he was starting to sound like it. Damn, what was it about her that made him feel…that made him feel…. Damn. He scrubbed his hands over his face. What the hell was wrong with him?
He polished off his wine and left the glass in the sink with the dishes. He hadn’t been serious about sleeping on the couch, but given that only a pocket door separated the two rooms, he didn’t want to risk alerting Taylor to his leaving. There’d been too much going on at the cabin, especially considering Daniel’s behavior. Being trigger happy was nothing that uncommon for one of Krupin’s men, but to shoot a man for not tracking Taylor?
He’d had to return to weigh their options. Could he reach the panic button and alert the team to trouble? They’d flown in on a biplane and he had to assume they’d return the same way. Krupin’s men were sure to hear it. While the guys never left home ill-equipped, the Russians would outgun them. He was fully prepared to arm himself and stake out the landing area, but if the cabin remained compromised, more firepower was needed flying in.
After about an hour, Monty figured he’d given Taylor enough time to fall asleep. As she’d said, the day had been exhausting. He slipped quietly into the control room and then into the supply room for warmer clothing, more supplies, and night googles, which he’d stupidly forgotten the first time around. In his defense, Taylor had thrown him off balance with all her fussing. He wasn’t used to it. It was unsettling to think he was now responsible for an innocent woman’s life—Taylor’s life.
Slipping on the double-lined utility gloves, he made his way out the tunnel and into the cold night. Guilt at leaving Taylor alone—but hopefully, none the wiser to his mission—niggled the back of his brain. But it was better she didn’t know. Unaware of his training, she’d worry far too much. And he couldn’t very well explain it to her that this was a walk in the park—or wilderness—compared to some of the missions he’d been on. That didn’t mean he liked freezing his ass off. He didn’t. His monitor rooms were temperature-controlled. People-controlled too.
It had stopped raining, but an arctic wind slashed his face. If the coal-black sky was any indication, snow was imminent. Taylor would be safe in the bunker, but if either or both of them had to leave, snow left footprints. But he wasn’t going to think about that now. Nor would he think about Taylor or the way she’d zeroed in on his crotch. She’d done it to get back at him for the way he’d toyed with her. What would she have done if she’d known he hadn’t exactly been kidding? He’d have been more than happy to share that couch, and it wouldn’t have been the fireplace keeping them warm and cozy.
If he thought the stories he read about her were still half true, he’d have at least given her some genuine indication he was interested. But the Taylor back in the bunker wasn’t the party-girl socialite whose antics consistently made headlines. She definitely wasn’t the spoiled heiress the paparazzi loved to pursue. Pantiless shots and drunken adventures didn’t seem part of her repertoire—anymore. If they had, he’d have recognized her right away. Even her hair color was different. That Taylor had been a platinum blonde, wore enough makeup to show up Gene Simmons and, if he recalled correctly, had even been arrested. What had happened to that girl? She certainly wasn’t running a dating service. Or running for her life.
Frustrated that he’d let his mind wander back to Taylor, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. If he didn’t, he’d fall straight on his ass. Freezing rain covered the ground with a thick layer of ice. Even with his slip-resistant boots, he barely reached the hill without cracking his skull. He secured the rope he’d brought to a tree and used it to repel down the now-icy slope. He’d need it to get back up or take the twenty-minute detour around it. He wished he’d brought an ax. He pulled his hat over his ears, flexed his gloved hands, and kept going.
Except for the occasional crunch of ice beneath his weight, the woods were silent. He debated if doing this tonight had been a good move. Now he’d need the snow to cover the broken ice trail he was leaving, or he’d be giving them a road map right to Taylor. He’d have to find a way to send them in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, while covering up his return was a good thing, it would be impossible for them to leave the bunker or him to warn his friends, without alerting the Russians to the whereabouts. But he’d gone too far now to turn around.
He made it to the dense woods behind the cabin and hid behind the large stack of firewood he’d angrily chopped. Being pissed at his friends had at least served one purpose. The Russian had posted no guards, at least none outside. Either they didn’t see him as a threat or they were stupid, which didn’t fit Krupin’s profile. He didn’t hire men who couldn’t think. Even the largest of his henchmen had had some semblance of an IQ. It was possible they assumed he and Taylor had run as far and as fast as they could to make their escape. But something didn’t feel right. The cabin was dark. They wouldn’t have known to bring a generator and had been using the fireplace and gas lanterns for light. But now, no smoke emanated from the chimney. He told himself to be on his guard. Even if they’d gone, they could’ve left men behind, lurking, waiting to make a move.
On his hand and knees, he crawled to the back window to look inside. His weight would be better distributed and ice, if it cracked, would do so with less noise. When he reached his target, he used the now-icy log he’d last stood on to look inside. Except for the front, which kept the original integrity of the old cabin, the rest of the windows had been redesigned to ensure no one got in or out without them knowing. How Taylor had managed to make it without breaking her neck was beyond him. And all for a stupid lipstick? He made a mental note to get his hands on that so-called lipstick. Question was, did he do it before or after he slept with her? Because like it or not, Taylor was right; he could be a tad obsessive. And right now, he was most definitely obsessing about her. She wasn’t even his type. She was into relationship and getting married. But his team had nailed it; when he got an idea in his head, there was no reasoning with him.
He had one advantage over Krupin’s men: he knew about the secret entrance. Unfortunately, this ice could make opening the trapdoor without detection difficult. Still, he had to try. He lowered himself and liter
ally slid to the back of the cabin. How had this much ice formed in such a short while? The tunnel leading to the underground room extended fifty feet from the back wall. He hadn’t bothered scoping it out when he’d first arrived because he’d seen no need. He wished he had. Shit. A tree had fallen over the false stump, and in normal circumstances, when the ground wasn’t a skating rink, he’d be able to find a footing and lift it off. Now, not only could he not do that, but with the sudden temperature drop, he’d need something hard to chip off the ice that glued it to the stump. He wasn’t getting in this way. Not without being heard.
He glanced up at the roof. It made no sense. Unless they had another source of heat, where was the fire? Was this a trick, or had they really left? He circled back to the front. Taylor had said gut instincts proved the most successful. Was she right? There was only one way to find out. He kicked at the woodpile, cracking the coat of ice. A single log rolled off and landed at his feet. The windows were bulletproof and near impossible to break, but if anyone was inside, the impact would be felt, if not heard. He withdrew his gun and set it on the woodpile so he’d have quick access to it. He picked up the log. Firing a round would only alert them to someone shooting. This way he had the element of surprise and confusion. He was a good shot and with any luck, he’d nail a few of them before they retreated inside. On three, he thought to himself.
“One.” He prayed he wasn’t making a mistake. “Two.” He’d be screwed otherwise. He put his entire body behind the throw. “Three,” he grunted out.
Lightning fast, he went for his gun. “Shit.” Before he could react, his only means of defense slipped off its perch and, uninhibited by the blanket of ice, slid some twenty paces away. “Shit.” Using the ice to his advantage, he skated past his firearm, turned, and fell to his stomach. He snatched his gun, aimed, and waited. Nothing happened. He waited some more, and still no one came. The cabin was empty. Grinning, he let out a long breath and rolled onto his back—where, in an ear-piercing boom, the once-black sky morphed red as his world erupted into flames. He shielded his head as debris pelted the ground in disturbing thuds and thwacks of crackles. Something caught the corner of his knee and he winced. The ice beneath him suddenly was no more and he found himself on wet grass. He flipped and tried to avoid the burning wreckage. It was everywhere. Ignoring the pain in his knee, he crawled toward the shelter of the woods, as muffled snaps and pops from the woodpile bonfire serenaded his escape. What the hell had just happened?
A safe distance away, he looked back. If there’d been anyone in the cabin, they’d be dead, engulfed in flames. He sat on his ass and flexed his jaw. As if that would relieve the ringing in his ears. But he knew from experience, time was the only solution. His head began to throb. He did a quick body check and noticed his left pant leg was torn and charred. Later. Now he had to get out of there.
Using a tree for support, he stood on his good leg, then took a tentative step forward. His knee buckled. This was going to be fun. He scanned the trees and ground, searching for anything he could use. Hobbling a few paces forward, he bent down and picked up the fallen branch. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing. At least the forest cover hadn’t allowed much rain through and it wasn’t as slippery as the rest of his trek had been. He’d be good until he passed the creek.
Before he set off, he shot a quick thank you to Mother Nature. He’d grown up knowing it was better not to fuck with her, and now she’d gone and saved his life, not to mention the surrounding forest. If his gun hadn’t slid off the frozen woodpile, he’d have been standing at the time of the explosion. But not for long. The fireball had shot over his head. It would’ve shot straight through him. And only the coating of ice saved the trees from going the way of the cabin. He took one last look and made a mental note to kiss Taylor. He’d have analyzed the shit out of it, then probably have gone inside. He’d be dead if it weren’t for her.
By the time he reached the spot where he’d first seen Taylor, he knew he was in trouble. His leg hurt worse than the snake bite he’d suffered a few years back, and that had laid him up for weeks. And he was fairly certain the remnants of his pants weren’t doing the burn any good. He had to get back to the bunker. But, for now, he’d settle for some relief. The creek water was clean, but he needed something less temporary. He removed the lining from inside his gloves and filled one with as much ice as he could chip off the bushes. Then he knotted the thumbs together and wrapped the pair around his knee, securing the ice pack with the remaining fingers. It would be a bitch to pull off, but at least the cold ice would alleviate some of the pain.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was manageable. He stayed as close to the creek as he could. The running stream of water meant no ice and purchase for his makeshift cane. When he knew he had to cut across to get to the hill, he groaned. It had been hard enough getting down here with two good legs. How was he going to make it with one? And the ringing in his ears was making him nuts. This was why he didn’t go to concerts or loud bars. It had nothing to do with being antisocial, like his friends had accused him of. He simply preferred quieter settings…and fewer people. Wasn’t the joke on him? They’d dumped him up here, giving him exactly what he’d been professing he wanted—solitude. Was that why Ryan had done it? To teach him a lesson? He guessed he had that coming. He knew they’d forced this on him out of concern for his sanity. The assholes. But wouldn’t the joke be on them if he died? The branch lost footing and he strained to put more weight on his bad leg. Fuck. He was back to hating his friends.
Finally, drained, exhausted and far too lightheaded, he reached the base of the incline. He wrapped the robe around one hand and started to climb, using only his good leg. About five feet in, it was evident he wouldn’t make it. Without the lining in his gloves, his fingers had grown numb and he couldn’t kick at the ice to get a firm foothold. His other leg was now dead weight and completely useless, making every inch he traveled a reminder of just how fucked his knee was. He released his hold on the cord and slid back down. Fuck, he’d have to go the long way. He slumped down at the base of a tree and closed his eyes, making himself relax, anything to replenish his reserves. As it was, he might very well have to crawl to the bunker.
* * * *
Taylor did her best to control her breathing. She understood the principles of inhaling and exhaling, but right now all she could do was worry about finding Monty, because when she did, she’d give him that big kiss she’d been dreaming about; then she’d kill him. She overshot another tree and had to grab a branch or risk a near slalom down a slippery slope. She’d skied plenty in her life—she was good—but never without poles. Even after having drunk far too much to be out skiing, she’d always managed to hang on to her gear. Good thing, considering all the night skiing she’d done alone. Right now, what she wouldn’t give to be the heiress whose only concern was where the next party was. She stopped to catch her breath and slow her heart.
If she hadn’t wanted a bottle of water, she’d never have realized Monty wasn’t in the bunker. She hadn’t allowed herself to panic like the last time and had only gone in the tunnel to get another pair of socks from the supply room. She hadn’t planned to go outside and had simply been curious whether the rain had stopped. She’d just slid open the passage door when she heard it—a deafening boom. Never having experienced anything like it before, she wasn’t sure what to expect. And outside, the distant sky was no longer pitch black. This was no reflection from city lights. Something was on fire.
She remembered the maps she’d read and did a rough calculation. The cabin was in the same direction as the smoke now clouding overhead. Then she gave herself permission to panic. But not too much. Monty would be mad if she left the bunker again. But then fear and worry knocked her sorry ass over. She’d changed, suited up in proper gear, even grabbed a few supplies, and now she was free skating in the wilderness of Alaska, trying not to break a leg and desperately praying Monty was all right. Who had blown
the cabin? Daniel? Why? She forced down the questions for later. This was too important to get distracted.
She spotted a rope tied around a tree, its end dangling down the sharp incline. This was the embankment they’d climbed. The night goggles had just proved their worth; otherwise, falling into a creek would be nothing compared to what she might have broken had she not caught this. Cautiously, she approached the edge and snatched up the rope. Monty must have left it. Words escaped her as she looked down the sharp incline. She wanted to shout, to call to him. But what if it wasn’t Monty? She scanned the area and saw no one. She made a decision because whoever was at the bottom of the hill wasn’t moving. They could be hurt. Which gave her an advantage. And she had a gun. Making certain she had a firm grip on the rope, she prayed this wasn’t harder than she imagined.
Turned out, it was a lot harder. In fact, going up had been a piece of cake. Her feet kept shooting out from underneath her, which made her grip precarious with each sudden drop. She’d recover only to slip again seconds later. More than halfway down, her heart beating wildly, both feet lost their footing and she found herself dangling, her muscles straining to support her weight. She vowed that if she made it down the hill in one piece, she’d reactivate that gym membership and go every single day. Some four feet away, a rock protruded. A good foothold. All she had to do was stretch her right leg…. Her foot made contact, but she failed to anticipate the ice, so when she tried to support her weight, her leg went flying. She lost her hold on the rope and the rest was a blur of trees, branches and, ow, rocks.
She landed…face-first…in the man’s lap.
“Taylor? What the hell? Are you all right?”