by Lucy Farago
She tried to lift herself off, but her hand slipped on the ice and back down she went.
“Not that I’m complaining, but this seems to be your thing,” he said. “Slipping…falling.” He gave a grunt, like she was too heavy for his lap.
Wasn’t he a funny one. At least he was alive. It would make killing him a whole lot more enjoyable. Using his coat, she pulled herself up to sitting.
“You know, this could be a lot more fun back at the bunker. Which is where you should be.” He blew out an exhausted breath.
She ignored the innuendo and tried to study his face. It was so damn dark. Something wasn’t right. She removed her googles, then his. She didn’t need eyes. When her fingers brushed his face, they came away wet. He was sweating. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t lose it on me.”
Lose it, her ass. She squinted and scanned his body, but the only thing that looked off was his torn pants. She reached out but he snagged her wrist before she could examine the tear.
“Don’t.”
“How bad is it?” she said, reaching down for a calm she surprised herself by finding.
“Bad.”
“Did you get yourself shot?” She had no medical training. How was she to help him?
“No.”
“Then what?” Oh, no. The acrid smell of smoke was coming off him. “Were you in that explosion?”
“Not exactly. Look, I’ll explain everything later, but we need to get out of here. I don’t know how close they are…if they’re close. Can you help me climb?”
“How bad is the leg?” How the hell was she to help him when she herself didn’t think she could make it back up the slope?
“I can’t use it.”
“Then no. We’ll have to go around.” She could do this, she told herself. It would be hard, but so what. She cracked the ice with her booted heels and got to her feet. “Can you stand?”
“Only on one leg.”
She slipped on her goggles, looking for anything to help carry him. She had rope, but building one of those slings she’d seen in movies would take too long. But as she could attest, ice made things easy to glide. “I have an idea.” She removed the rope from the utility belt she taken and knelt beside him.
“Are you planning to strangle me?”
“Later. We can’t go back the way we came. You’ve seen how good I am with slippery inclines. So, we have no choice but to go around.”
“And how do you know there’s an around?”
“I read those maps. Now shut up and let me explain.” She was in charge now, not him. “Put away that little control freak inside your brain if you want my help. I can’t build a sling.”
“You mean a stretcher?”
“I thought I told you to shut up.” He was right, but if she gave him an inch he was sure to take a mile. “But the ground is ice. I should be able to drag you. You’ll get wet and you’ll have to help if we come across anything I’ll need to lift you over, but I think it’s doable.”
He seemed to mull that over. At least that was what she thought he was doing because he said nothing, and if the idea was completely stupid, she doubted he’d have kept quiet.
“It’s not going to be as easy as you think. I’ll be dead weight.”
“I know, but if you use me as a crutch, it will take us longer, and I think my way is easier. Dead weight is better to pull than carry, right?”
“It’s a good thirty minutes. You up for that?”
“Sure,” she said, with confidence she didn’t have. “I’ve run longer at the gym.” Six months ago, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Then let’s go.” He pulled himself forward and allowed her to tie the rope under his arms and around his chest. “You let me know if you get in trouble.”
Because he was going to help how? “Absolutely.” She helped herself to the branch she found by his side. Hopefully, the end would hold up. “Grab your goggles. And I apologize now for any bruises I may inflict on you.”
“You can kiss them better later,” he said.
“Yeah, we’ll just see which one of us will be doing the ass-kissing after this.”
He laughed. It relieved some of her anxiety.
* * * *
The terrain was smooth, and dragging Monty over a flat surface wasn’t as hard as she’d anticipated, but ten minutes in, it was about to get harder as they entered a densely wooded area. She’d just chosen the path easiest to traverse with a hundred and eighty or so pounds when she heard it. Voices. Her head shot around to Monty, who held a finger to his lips as he pointed to his right. Fallen trees had formed a half wall of sorts, large enough to possibly act as cover, if only Monty could crawl over them. The voices drew closer. Russian.
Monty mouthed go, indicating she lead the way. When she shook her head, pointing to him, not her—as it would take him longer—the look he shot her catapulted her over the logs. He’d been right. From here, she was better positioned to help. Thank God for the ice and cloud-covered skies. He slithered over, and together they plastered themselves against the stack of dead trees, her in a tight ball, him with his bad leg extended out. She held her breath, terrified they’d hear. Too afraid to move, she watched as Monty craned his neck. They were just on the other side now.
Two men were arguing, or having one hell of a loud discussion. Unfortunately, they’d stopped to have it. Would they be discovered? An icy gust blew through, carrying the pungent smell of burned wood. Her pulse erupted. Monty’s clothes. She clenched her eyes shut, willing the wind to stop. The odor was pronounced, but he might not be the only one who stank of smoke. She looked to Monty for reassurance, but he was focused on what was being said. Did he understand? Had he drawn the same conclusion? These men had been to the cabin.
Without warning, Monty grabbed her wrist with one hand and her neck with the other as he pulled her ear close to his lips.
“Be prepared,” he whispered, sending a tremor down her back as his voice tickled her eardrum before he released her.
Prepared for what? To fight? To run?
Whatever the two argued over, it turned physical; an angry growl was followed by the only Russian word she knew—a curse she’d promised Bubbe D never to repeat. She raised two fists in a silent question. He nodded. Maybe they’d get lucky and they’d kill each other. She involuntarily flinched as grunts and groans carried to their hiding spot. What if this soon-to-be brawl led to their discovery?
Monty retrieved a gun from inside his coat and handed it to her before he took one for himself. She’d brought the Walther, but Monty’s looked meaner. She stared down at the lethal weapon in her hand as, on the other side, fists began to fly. Did Monty really expect her to shoot someone? She had her answer when he lay her down and pointed her gun upward. Then he did the same, his head to her feet. She understood and did her best to swallow her fear. Should someone’s head appear, he wanted her to shoot. Her life or theirs. Monty’s too. She removed her gloves and held the gun with both hands.
But she’d never know whether she’d have followed through. The Russians seemed to flush whatever crawled up their asses and, after picking themselves up, stormed off, each man muttering under his breath.
“What if they come back?” she whispered. “Or there are more searching the woods?” She and Monty had left a path of broken ice, one easily followed if the two goons hadn’t been preoccupied with killing each other.
But Monty didn’t have to answer. He only smiled as a snowflake settled on her nose.
Chapter 11
Taylor moved the lantern to better see her handiwork, then cautiously applied gauze to Monty’s knee. The burn looked extensive enough that when his pants rubbed against it, the pain would’ve been like taking a cheese grater to his skin. She’d had to cut off his wet cargos and soak his injury in sterilized water to remove the glove glued to his skin—then cle
an it. Bits of timber made the wound even nastier…and painful. When he hissed, she pointed to the glass in his hand. “Drink.”
He hadn’t wanted the morphine she’d found, but he’d taken the shots of whiskey she’d warmed. Nothing said sleepy time like warm alcohol. For a guy who didn’t drink, he threw it back like a trooper and set the tumbler on the nightstand by his bed. She’d considered asking why they needed narcotics on hand but after remembering the surgical tweezer, she realized she was better off not knowing.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asked, more relaxed than when they’d started. Three generous portions of whiskey tended to do that. “You already have my clothes off.”
And hadn’t that been fun? “Behave and tomorrow I’ll give you a sponge bath.” She liked the hot gleam he got in his eyes when they flirted with each other. “And I don’t like hurting you. The whiskey is more for me than you.” She wasn’t completely lying but discovered Monty was more cooperative if he thought he was doing her a favor.
“You were great,” Monty said, watching her bandage his leg.
Pulling him hadn’t been that bad once she’d set her mind to it. Keeping her eyes off his boxers… now there was a challenge. “So were you. Sorry about that last bump. I couldn’t see a way around it.” Because of the snow, it had taken them longer than anticipated.
Snow was good, Monty had told her. Snow would cover their tracks. But snow made it harder for her to see what lay beneath her feet.
“All good,” he said. “We made it back alive.”
He filled her in on the explosion as she worked on his leg. She didn’t know what was worse, the thought of being used as someone’s sex toy or being blown to bits. She’d consider herself lucky they no longer thought of her as a commodity, but then Monty warned her that may not be the case. Krupin’s men may have acted without his authority.
Lovely. Rogue goons. “This is the mob, isn’t it? It can’t be good for your health to go against your boss.”
“It isn’t. Suffice it to say, I’ve seen what can happen. One of Krupin’s men was granted amnesty from the FBI in exchange for information. It didn’t end well.”
“I thought you said you didn’t work with the police.”
“I never said that. If I recall, I was pretty vague about it.”
“Vague this: I have your knee in my hands and I’m not afraid to squeeze.” She wouldn’t, but the threat sounded good.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you flirting with me?”
“You’re such an ass.”
He laughed, his eyes going droopy.
Even though he thought he was being sooo funny, it was good not to see him grimace in pain. Satisfied with the gauze over the burn, she started to tape. She wanted to ask why the first aid kit was more extensive than any ER but again, the answer might terrify her. Plus, she doubted he’d be truthful.
“We were hired to protect the informant,” he said, surprising her by the admission.
“Don’t the feds do things like that?”
“They do, but the agent in charge thought he had a leak. Which he did, because their spy ended up dead shortly after we handed him back.”
“Oh.” It was hard to feel sorry for a guy like that. “Too bad it wasn’t our friend Daniel.” For him, she only wished bad luck…or worse.
“No, his name was Belov. Peter, if my memory serves me right.”
Now that Monty was being open, and because he’d had a little, or a lot, of whiskey, maybe he’d be more open to answering other questions. “You’re a smart guy. Why would you come up here with no way to communicate with your ride home? What if you hurt yourself?” she said, nodding toward his leg.
“Or found a beautiful mermaid floundering in a creek?”
He thought she was beautiful? Sure, he’d thrown out all kinds of innuendos, but she figured he’d been having some fun with her. “No, that was me you found.” She smiled, loving how sexy he looked, especially now with some of the pain gone. It was a wicked burn, but between the ointment with an analgesic and the whiskey, he seemed more relaxed.
He grunted. “I get the impression you don’t know how beautiful you truly are.”
“I know I’m not some ugly duckling, but men were always more interested in my money than me.” She finished taping his knee and carefully covered his leg with the comforter.
“Then they were stupid.”
“And you’re avoiding my question.”
He gave her a lazy grin and shrugged. “You’re still beautiful. But I wasn’t being honest with you when I told you I came here to sort out some stuff. My team dumped me here. You see, they believe I needed to learn to chilllax and…” He studied her for a moment before saying, “and not be such a control freak.”
Seeing how hard it was for him to admit it, she refrained from smiling, or giving him a big aha-ha.
“I…uh…I…fucked up. I was doing too many things at once…and left a team hanging. They ended up in a precarious situation because of it.”
“Are they all right?”
“Yeah. But I was the reason they had to get them out. If I’d allowed my assistant to help, we could’ve given them the information they’d needed faster. I just don’t think Carrie is ready for what the team needs, but that’s on me. I need to spend more time training her.”
Or he needed to let go of his control issues, but again she said nothing. She knew very little of what he truly did, so it was hard to judge Monty’s real work. “So, they forced…what? A vacation on you?”
“They believed I needed time away from my control room.”
“And an island getaway wasn’t good enough? I don’t know about you, but nothing says time-off like a margarita on a beautiful beach.” She should know. She’d spent a small fortune doing just that.
“Yup, but they wanted me to unplug. Literally. And the only way to do that was to make sure I didn’t have any access to power.” He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “The jerkoffs.”
“But again, what if something happened?”
“I had a panic button. I was to hit it only in case of an emergency. Otherwise, they’d leave me here for another month. And they’d do it too.”
Now she was confused. “You had a way to contact them and you didn’t. Where is this button? I’ll push it.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not? I’d say this is an emergency. Men are trying to kill us, and if that burn gets infected… Where’s the button?” She couldn’t believe he hadn’t used the stupid thing.
“Under the cabin.”
“What do you mean, under the cabin? Like some secret room?” What was up with all these hidey-holes?
“Yup.”
“Okay.” She could do it. “Well…I can go—”
He opened one eye and closed it. “No.”
“Why not?” She had to give the FBI the information needed to shut Krupin’s operation down, before more young women got hurt.
“Taylor,” he said, with a condescending patience she didn’t appreciate, “the button is in the panic room under the cabin. The cabin blew up. I know you didn’t see it, but they put enough firepower in that explosion to make sure they incinerated everything within ten feet of it. Or under it.”
Her hopes plummeted to the pit of her stomach and sat there like yesterday’s lunch. “No panic button?”
“No panic button.”
That sucked. “What are we going to do?”
“Taylor?”
“Yes?” she said, deflated.
“Come closer.”
If she didn’t know he’d had three shots of whiskey, she might think that husky tone had nothing to do with fatigue. “I’m here.” She was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.
He reached out and stroked the length of her chin with his fingertips. It tickled. Th
en, before she understood what he was up to, he slipped his hand behind her head and pulled her in for a shocking kiss. A…nice kiss. Monty was kissing her. And she was kissing him back. She was stunned, in a nice—turned-on—way. She even…oh, God…allowed his tongue in her mouth. Why was he kissing her? She should stop overanalyzing it. That was the new her, but the old her, the one who’d had too much fun for her own good, wouldn’t have waited for Monty. She’d have kissed him first. Maybe a little of her old self wasn’t such a bad thing. Her life was in shambles. Why not enjoy the kiss? Forget that maybe this might be the whiskey.
But just her luck, as quickly as it began, it ended, and Monty released her. Why the hell had she allowed her brain to take over? Damn, she should have just enjoyed it.
“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. And you’ve been so…I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone fuss over me. It’s nice.”
She blinked. “It’s nice to fuss over someone. I never appreciated my nanny until I gave her up.”
Taylor had given new meaning to the words spoiled heiress. “You had a nanny? As an adult?”
As that was going to embarrass her, she found something else she wanted to do besides talk. Holding his face in her hands, she returned the kiss without the debate in her head. She kissed him like she’d been wanting to. No caring if this was right or wrong. She shut off her brain and enjoyed the man. She tasted the whiskey, smelled the smoke still clinging to his skin, and the lingering cold Alaskan air. She envisioned the two of them cuddling by a blazing fire, their bodies intertwined, their lips locked. She wanted to feel his skin next to hers, naked. Reading her thoughts, his arms snaked around her waist, tugging her closer. His mouth suddenly withdrew in a sharp hiss.
“Damn, sorry. I forgot. My leg.”
“Oh, no. I hurt you.” She attempted to pull away, but he held on to her.
“No. It was me,” he said, his face relaxing. “I tried to shift my weight and bent my knee.”
And there went the mood. “I’m sorry you were hurt,” she said. She slipped free of him and stood.