Jill Sorenson – Tempted by His Target (страница 7)
She glanced around to make sure the road was clear before pressing on the gas. “We’re even.”
The highway from Puerto Escondido to Oaxaca City wasn’t for the faint of heart.
During the day, the hairpin turns, deep potholes and absent road signs kept even the most experienced drivers on their toes. At night, the journey was extremely dangerous, almost impassable.
The good news was that they were all alone.
Isabel went as fast as she dared, watching out for headlights and herd animals, feeling safer with every mile gained. Brandon voiced no complaints but she sensed his discomfort. Every time they went over a hard bump or around a sharp curve, his arm tightened around her waist and his shoulders tensed, as if he was steeling himself from the pain. He’d taken some hard knocks to the head.
She’d been surprised by the skill and ferocity of his counterattack. He’d shown no hesitation in taking on a much larger man. She still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to break free. One moment he was getting pummeled, the next he was choking his opponent into submission. Isabel had watched the brutish display with a mixture of awe and unease, mesmerized by the corded muscles in his neck.
Although she’d known he was fast, she’d underestimated his strength. His lean elegance was deceptive. He fought like a professional.
She shivered at the thought. Even now, after hours on the road, she was aware of the hard thighs beneath her bottom, the locked forearm around her waist and the solid wall of his chest against her back. Well-built surfers were the rule, rather than the exception, but they didn’t typically excel at ultra violence. Her mind raced with questions, and she had to force herself not to squirm on his lap.
Who the hell was he?
The noise of the engine and the speed of travel inhibited conversation. By the time the city lights of Oaxaca were visible, it was well past midnight, and Isabel was exhausted. “I’m going to find a hotel,” she said as soon as they exited the highway.
Brandon made a sound of agreement. His injuries needed attention, and he had to be as tired as she was. If he wanted to take his chances at the airport, or split up, he was welcome to hail a cab from the hotel.
Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy at this hour. She spotted a run-down three-story building, well off the main drag, with a private parking garage and a back exit. Luckily, there was an employee at the gate.
“Pretend you’re drunk,” she murmured to Brandon.
He slumped against her back, compliant.
After a brief exchange with the guard, who was happy to accept cash in exchange for a room key, she parked her motorcycle and helped Brandon up the stairs. He leaned on her, either playing drunk or because he was really hurting.
The room was cramped but clean. She flipped on the light, relieved when a ceiling fan whirred into motion. It was hot in here. At least there was a private bath, as promised. She urged Brandon toward the bed, sweat trickling between her breasts.
He sat down on the mattress, groaning as he touched his temple. Blood had matted his left eyebrow and dried in dark rivulets along his jaw. His mouth was swollen, his shirt torn. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.
She wondered if he had a concussion, though he’d never lost consciousness. “Is anything broken?”
He rested his head against the pillows. “Just my skull.”
Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. “I’ll try to get you some ice,” she said, grabbing the bucket from the nightstand. Ice was a luxury amenity in a dive hotel like this, so she was pleased to find a functional ice maker on the bottom floor. There was also a vending machine. After returning to the room, she emptied a pillowcase and filled it with a few handfuls of ice. “Here,” she said, pressing the makeshift pack to his temple.
“Thanks,” he said, holding it in place.
She rummaged through her messenger bag, which had a first aid kit, complete with bandages and over-the-counter painkillers. Ripping open the square package, she offered him the two pills in her upturned palm. He washed them down with water and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His cuts needed to be cleaned, but that could wait until the pills kicked in. “Are you hungry? The vending machine has snacks.”
He didn’t say no, so she returned to the bottom floor to buy cold sodas, snack cakes and tortilla chips. She carried the items upstairs and set them on the nightstand. “If you want to shower, you should do it now, before I fix you up.”
“You go first,” he said, his lips barely moving.
She took her bag into the bathroom, eager to wash and change. The mirror was small and scratched but it reflected her unsightly appearance all too well. There was an ugly scrape on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes.
“Ugh,” she said, pulling off her soiled clothes. They stank of sweat and blood and vehicle exhaust. She stepped into the shower stall and stood under the weak, lukewarm spray, her heart pounding with anxiety.
She’d stabbed a man. Killed him, maybe. Reliving the sensation of his blood gushing over her hands, she scrubbed them with a little too much vigor. Using the harsh soap, she lathered every inch of her body, trying to remove the taint of death.
Murderer, the hissing showerhead whispered. Murderer, criminal, thief.
She rinsed off and left the stall, drying her tingling skin with a nubby towel. There was a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants in her messenger bag. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, and hung up her wet towel on the way out.
Brandon looked a little more alert. He’d opened his soda and finished a bag of chips. His blue eyes traveled down her body, settling on her bare toes. Her mind flashed back to the days of four-star hotels with spa services and complimentary pedicures.
“It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.
He rose from the bed, wincing, and picked up his pack. She moved aside as he passed by, noting that the top of his head barely cleared the doorway. At well over six feet tall, he’d have to duck down to shower.
Stomach growling, she sat down to eat. The snack cakes didn’t taste very good, but the chips were okay. She devoured both, crunching noisily.
Her Beverly Hills manners were long gone, too.
When Brandon came out of the bathroom, wearing only trousers, she almost choked on the last mouthful of soda. She’d seen his bare chest at the beach. But now they were in a tiny room with a single bed, and his masculine presence seemed magnified. The smell of clean male skin permeated the space, assaulting her senses.
He blotted his eyebrow, which was still seeping, with a small towel.
Flushing, she set the empty can aside and rose to retrieve her first aid kit. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the edge of the mattress. He complied, taking the towel away from his brow as she stepped forward to treat him. She stood between his splayed thighs, her hands trembling as she cleaned the area around the cut with an alcohol square. It probably didn’t need stitches; head wounds just bled a lot. “This might scar.”
“Who were those guys?”
“Thugs,” she said vaguely, dabbing a bit of antibiotic ointment on the cut. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“‘Nam.”
She ignored the sarcastic answer, realizing that he was annoyed with her evasiveness. It took all of her concentration to prepare a butterfly bandage without fumbling. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time. Her breasts were inches from his face. His gaze rose to meet hers, conveying a reluctant sexual interest and faint distrust.
The feeling was mutual.
“Hold still,” she said, pressing the edges of the cut together and securing it with the bandage. He sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth in discomfort. Then she was done, and the wound was closed up tight, almost as if she’d stitched it.
“Those guys are with La Familia,” she said, sitting down next to him.
He didn’t ask what that meant. The most powerful drug cartel in Mexico was infamous. “Why are they after me?”
She hesitated to give him a straight answer. Being as honest as possible was the least she could do, after dragging him into this mess, but she had to look out for herself first. “They’re not after you.”
His brows lifted. “They want you?”
“They want something I have.”
“What?”
Isabel couldn’t tell him, so she reached for the antibiotic ointment again. Using a light touch, she applied the medicine to his bruised lower lip. After so many months of deprivation, the action seemed unbearably sensual. Her nipples tightened, poking against the soft fabric of her tank top in an all-too-obvious bid for attention.
Flustered, she jerked her hand away from his mouth. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he’d thought of something amusing. Instead of sharing the joke, he made a fist, revealing swollen knuckles and a rash of small cuts. She put ointment on his knuckles and bandaged them lightly, trying to ignore the heat between them. “You don’t do manual labor,” she commented. His hands were strong, with ropy veins, but his palms weren’t heavily callused.