Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

“São Miguel? You were in the Azores? What yacht?”

  “My yacht. Yeah. The Azores. Now the Netherlands.” He cocked one arm behind his sweaty head, then ran a hand over his hair, his face pressed against his bicep. This man was one ripped badass, and that bicep was a taut bulge of bronze tanned skin over deeply-veined muscles. His chest was the same kind of tempting. “Some asshat got the drop on us. I honestly don’t know who smacked my skull. Don’t know much of anything.”

  Which meant he’d been beaten while he’d been unconscious. Which fit what Mr. Koning had insinuated that ICC guard might do to Walker again. “How long have you been in ICC detention?”

  Hotrod squinted, his one good eye staring her down. “Two days, I think. Not sure. No clocks in there, and lights stay on twenty-four-seven. Jesus, my brain’s killing me. Can I just sleep?”

  “Not until I’m sure you don’t have a concussion.” She reached for that amazing hard head, threading her fingers through his wet hair for— “My hell. You’ve got a knot back here the size of a grapefruit.”

  Persia tugged his forehead against her collarbone, needing to see the back of his head. She parted swatches of hair to better see his scalp. The damned knot she’d felt was large and bruised, but not bleeding. “You’ve got a concussion, Hotrod—”

  By then, he’d buried his face between her breasts, and a flood of memories swamped Persia. How could she hate the man who’d made sweet love with her back in Florida?

  Gently, she cupped that hard head, and eased his nose out from her cleavage. “It’s no wonder your head hurts. I’ll get an ice pack, then we need to get your temp down. There’s a tub across the hall. I’ll run a cold bath, and then somehow, we’ll get you into it.”

  “We,” he breathed, his breath in her face hot and foul, smelling of infection. “You said we.”

  Persia nodded, not afraid of whatever germs this man might be carrying. He was in her custody now, and he was safe. That was all that mattered. “Yes, Hotrod. You and me. We’re going to get you cooled down and then back to bed, where you can sleep the rest of the day, okay? We fly home first thing tomorrow.”

  “You know who I am.” He hadn’t moved, but those battered eyes glittered with what could only be tears. And that broke her heart.

  “Yes, sugar, I know who you are. I use your SEAL handle because that’s who you were the last time we were together.” She hoped that made sense. “Let me help you up.”

  “But they took my Budweiser, damn it. I’m not a SEAL anymore.”

  “You are to me.”

  She had to keep him moving, though. But when she lifted to her feet and grabbed him, arm to the elbow, to get a better grip, he easily pulled her down onto his lap. Persia found herself snuggled inside the steel bands she’d been dreaming about for weeks.

  “This isn’t helpful,” she muttered against the sweaty, solid strength of his chest, loving the feel of him beneath her as much as hating the less than professional position he’d put her in. What would Izza say when she found out that Persia and Hotrod had slept together? That they’d had one hot, steamy, glorious night together in Florida? And Izza would. She had a sixth sense for girl/guy stuff like that. What would Alex say? He’d fire her for sure. The implications…

  No. Just no! Persia couldn’t think about anything except getting this man into the tub, cooled down, then back to his bed, where she could finally replace his bandages and doctor him and kiss him better and… Man, this was going to be her toughest mission ever.

  “But you know who I am,” he growled. “You know I lied to you. And I left. I wasn’t even man enough to tell you goodbye. Hell, I wasn’t man enough all that night.”

  Easing away from her very secure location, she put a fingertip to his lips. “Yes, I know you weren’t exactly honest with me, but I’m not mad. Not anymore. I was at first, but I think I know why you did what you did.”

  “Why… why aren’t you mad? Everyone else is.”

  The anguish in his question was heartbreaking. “Because I’m not everyone else. I saw the man you were the night we were together. That, and I’ve been going over your transcript on the flight over. I haven’t read all of it, but something about your trial isn’t right. Come on, sugar. You’re very sick. Talk can wait.”

  Those poor battered eyelids closed, squeezing one pinkish tear out. It trickled down his nose. It was as if no one had ever called him sugar before. Well, good.

  “You came for me,” he ground out, his eyelids squeezed tight.

  Persia put her hand around his stiff neck and tugged until he had no choice but to face her. “Yes, I came for you, and we’re going to get you safely back to the States. But you can’t get on any flights out of here while you’re sick. The altitude will kill you if you’re congested. Let’s do this. Now. Let me up.”

  He did let her up, but he didn’t let her go. With one hand resting heavily on her shoulders, Hotrod allowed Persia to lead him across the hall. Which was an erotic treat all by itself, to be followed by a handsome naked man who dwarfed her by a foot and outweighed her by—a lot.

  Most European homes came with tiny water closet bathrooms, hell, with tiny everything. But this safe house had been built American-style. The tub was extra-large, the tiled walls surrounding it fitted with handicap rails. One of those sturdy plastic shower chairs for people prone to fall, sat to the side.

  Persia ushered Walker onto that chair, where he sat with a thump. She had to look away. This guy might not know it, but his body was definitely on alert. Her fingers trembled as she knelt by the tub and cranked the water tap to lukewarm, remembering how she and he couldn’t seem to get enough of each other back in Florida. How heavenly it had been being inside his arms, with him inside of her.

  Once again, she had to force herself back to her primary mission. Which was not about them. Certainly not them together again. She fluttered her fingers under the faucet. Cold water would lower his temp quicker, but the shock of it might be too much for him in his current condition.

  When at last the two faucets doled out an acceptable mix of hot and cold, she turned back to Hotrod. “Up you go,” she said, her voice as raspy as if she were the sick one. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Come on. We can do this.”

  He obeyed, lifting off the chair. Gingerly, he raised one muscled leg over the tub edge, then the other until he was ready to sit.

  “Oh, my, stop!” She couldn’t take in all she was seeing. Dark, ugly bruises blackened his lower back. “You’re hurt. Hurry. Sit back down. Please. Let me—”

  What? Reverse time? Make those ugly marks disappear? Go back to the ICC and exact vengeance?

  “’S okay, princess,” he told her quietly. “Sorry you had to see that. Must be pretty bad, huh?”

  She could’ve cried. “It’s bad enough. Aren’t you in pain?”

  “Yeah, everything kinda aches all over.”

  “Sit down, Hotrod. Please.”

  He turned back around again, and for one brief moment, he stood there with both hands flattened on the tile behind him, looking down at her on her knees. She looked up the entire length of that glorious all-male physique. His thighs. All those muscles. Velvet over steel. All wrapped in a battered shell that needed someone to care for him, to believe in him. But all that masculinity was so, so beautiful, growing longer and harder to resist by the minute. He had to get into that tub and sit down before she made a drooling fool of herself.

  Persia lifted to her feet, drawn like a magnet to a man she had no business wanting as badly as she did this guy. “Sit down,” she whispered. “Please. If you fall, you’ll hit your head on the edge of this tub. You could kill yourself.” And what would I do then?

  She thought he’d offer some crack about the tub not being the only thing that was hard. Instead, he murmured, “Stay.”

  “Yes,” blurted out of her mouth. “Oh, yes, sugar, I’m not going anywhere. See this chair?” she gestured to the handicapped seat. “I’ll stay righ
t here until you sit down. While you relax in the tub, I’ll just be in the kitchen making lunch.” Meanwhile, she seemed to be sweating. And drooling.

  “’Kay,” he breathed, as at last, he bent his knees and lowered his magnificent ass into the rising water. “Brrr. It’s cold,” he complained when his butt hit the chill.

  “And I’m going to make it colder. Here,” she said as she handed him the tiny plastic clamshell pillow from the counter to lean his head and neck against. Once he was prone, she increased the cold water pouring into the tub and turned down the hot.

  “J-join me,” he murmured, his head resting to the side on that pillow, his poor eyes already closed, and goosebumps popping up on his arms.

  “Nope. Sorry. I—”

  WHOOSH! He pulled her into the tub.

  “Hotrod!” That was the last word she got out. He had her trapped at his side, one big manly hand under her now wet head, the other cupping her jaw, while he kissed the hell out of her. Germs and all, sick and exhausted and all—

  He kissed her as if his life depended on it. Passionately and thoroughly. Desperately. His tongue turned into a wave of need and hunger sweeping over her lips, painting inside her mouth and behind her teeth with fire.

  Yup, she was thoroughly contaminated now. But what a way to go…

  Persia melted against him, aroused and aflame with mixed feelings for this brave, battered man. “You’re sick and you’re injured,” she murmured around his prehensile lips. “This has to stop.”

  “Funny,” he growled into her mouth, “I’m feeling a lot better. Might even be cured.”

  Lightheaded, soaking wet, and out of her ever-loving mind, she succumbed to the sweet kisses of this gentle warrior. Her body fit perfectly where she’d landed, her belly alongside his hip, and her breasts pressed against his ribcage.

  But when he inhaled a ragged breath, she grabbed the opportunity and placed a stern hand between them. Too bad it landed on his right pec. Temptation flared all over again.

  But somehow… common sense ruled. “No,” she squeaked. Okay, that tone wouldn’t work. Persia pulled her hand off that hot bod and boldly cleared the rasp from her throat. “Hotrod, no. Let me up.”

  “Awww…”

  There was that little boy within the badasssed male again. He was incorrigible, and she was an idiot. Alex would surely fire her for fraternizing with his client now.

  “Hot chicken soup!” she nearly yelled as she extricated her arms from his and climbed very carefully out of the tub. “I’m not going far, just far enough to fix lunch and soup and… and…”

  Her gaze settled on the manly muscle between his leg, and she lost her train of thought. Hotrod might be sick, but he wasn’t dead. There was still a lot of life left in this guy. In that guy, too.

  He held one muscled arm out to her, his fingertips fluttering for her to come back to him. “I’ll get better quicker with you in here with me.”

  And I’m in trouble. “No, sugar. Playtime’s over,” she said airily, before she changed her mind. Or lost it. “Bath first, then soup, then sleep. I’ll see what else there is to eat. Wait here. I’ll be right b-back.”

  Persia left him sitting with the water still running and her heart pounding out a snappy salsa tango. He needed to eat and she needed to get her head back in the game. The real game. The TEAM game. Not Hotrod’s game.

  Distracted, she walked to her bedroom, jerked her last set of dry clothes out of her bag, and all but tore the wet clothes off. Thank goodness she’d dropped her smaller bag back at the front door, or everything she owned would’ve been soaked and ruined. Speaking of which…

  That man! Her sat phone had been in her jeans pocket. Damn! Hurriedly, she retrieved it, and thank goodness for ruggedized, waterproof equipment. It was none the worse from the impromptu dunking. Izza hadn’t called yet, but she would.

  After Persia dressed and made sure her phone was operational, she peeked in on Hotrod to make sure he’d turned the tap off. What a sight, all that lean muscle against the back of the tub, his long arms stretched along the edge, his fingers curled over the lip. His breathing was more even, but till raspy enough she could hear it from where she stood and ogled.

  Walker’s poor blackened eyes were closed, and the dark circles under them made his face seem gaunt. He looked tired and alone. She nearly ran to him when she thought of all those bruises. He’d been kicked when he was down. That seemed to be the vicious circle of life he was stuck in. But he also needed decent food in his stomach. Knowing what she now knew about the ICC, she doubted he’d been fed properly. She wondered about the yacht he’d mentioned. Where was the gear bag he’d been so protective of in Florida?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Life sure had a way of crapping all over a guy, but for once, something decent and good had happened to Walker. Out of nowhere, Persia had stepped back into his screwed-up life, and she didn’t hate him like he’d expected. She’d even let him kiss her. As sick as he was, she’d kissed him back. And her fingers on his cheek and in his hair? They’d felt so damned sweet and gentle, he’d nearly teared up.

  Ducking deeper into the chilled water, Walker let it wash the sweat and those damned tears off his face. He hadn’t been this sick in years, didn’t want to be now. High fevers made a man weak when he needed to be strong. Being sick could get a guy killed. But the weight of Persia’s lush body on his when he’d tripped over the curb, and the brush of her sweet breasts against his tender ribs when he’d pulled her into the water, had given him an odd sense of strength that had nothing to do with physical fitness or core workouts.

  Persia trusted him. She believed him, and she believed in him; he could read it in her eyes. Yet he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. She knew he’d lied, yet she wasn’t angry? That alone didn’t compute. Most women, like What’s-Her-Name, his ex, would’ve been hysterical drama queens if they’d awakened to find the guy beside them was gone.

  But Persia had been sensible and firm. She’d read his trial transcript, too. Why? Who the hell was she? On the surface, it was one twisted, ugly story of cold-blooded murder. But most of it had been fiction invented by NCIS and the Navy JAG. So why was she here saving his sorry ass, especially after the way he’d treated her? When even the FBI was after him? And now the damned International Criminal Court…

  Yet she’d called him sugar, like she actually liked him or something. Him. The man the Navy had condemned to prison, then disavowed instead of making sure he served time behind bars. Did she care that no one wanted him, not even the country he’d given his soul for? And if she knew all that, why didn’t it matter to her? Or was this all too good to be true? It did feel like a dream, him being here instead of back there.

  In the long run, he was too weak to do anything that would change his ever-growing legal nightmare. More than anything, well, except for Persia, he needed enough downtime to recoup his energy. Then he needed to find his damned bag with his ammo and his cash. His pistols and his yacht. Man, he’d lost everything.

  “Hey,” she murmured from where she was standing at the half-open door with a bottled sports drink in her hand. “Soup’s ready, but I thought you’d like something to drink first. You’ll need it to take these pills, a good strong antibiotic and four ibuprofens. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

  “Nope.” He had to know. “Why are you doing this?”

  That question drew her into the room. Closing the door, she sat at the edge of the white, plastic shower chair and handed him the drink. “Take these first, then we’ll talk,” she ordered sweetly, her other palm extended with several pills in the center of it.

  His arm felt heavy when he reached for the pills and the bottle, but, oh well. Tilting his head back, Walker tossed the meds down his throat, then emptied the sports drink. It was ice cold and felt good going down. When he finished, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and asked, “Why do you still call me Hotrod?”

  “Would you rath
er I call you Walker?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Okay then. Walker Judge. Why were you incarcerated at the ICC? How’d you get here to the Netherlands all the way from Florida? You mentioned a yacht, where is it?”

  He stretched, needing to see more of her. “I have no idea. But one thing at a time. For starters, I was in Minas Gerais the same time you were, and Agent Juarez is a damned good friend of mine. Our helo went down off the northern coast of Brazil, where he and I took out a dozen or so Matryoshka Dolls. You know, those blood thirsty Russian assassins. But when the Army Night Stalkers came to rescue us, I split.”

  He let that settle. As he expected, she blinked those beautiful browns, while absorbing the minute intricacies behind his revelation. That was one of her tells, blinking. “I wasn’t aware the Dolls were active in Brazil.”

  “They weren’t until Orlando Zapata decided to trade one of his gold mines for three Russian ICBMs. That’s why the Dolls showed. They must’ve known about the transaction, then tried to sabotage the deal. But Agent Juarez got to Oz and the Russians first. By the time the Dolls arrived, everyone was dead, and the missiles were leaking radiation. The Dolls set explosive charges to detonate the nukes, but Agent Juarez took the Dolls out before they could blow Minas Gerais off the map.”

  “They would’ve killed thousands if they’d detonated those ICBMs,” Persia breathed.

  It was good knowing she was up to speed on the latest terrorist threat out of old Mother Russia. The Matryoshka Dolls, so named because so many double and triple agents comprised their ranks, were one of the cruelest mobs on the planet today.

  Planting her elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palm. “I know Agent Juarez. I was there when he ended Domingo Zapata. He’s a good man. I watched him step between the woman and little boy he loves, so they didn’t have to watch Zapata die.”

  “I know. You told me that back in Florida.”

  “I made pancakes…”

  “Blueberry pancakes…”

  “You wanted peaches…”