by M. L. Rhodes
"Lie still. This isn't going to be pleasant,” he informed her as he bent over her hand with a pair of tweezers and began digging around in her raw palm.
"Ow! Stop it!” She tried to pull her hand back again, but this time he didn't let go. Pain coursed through her; every muscle, bone, and inch of skin on her body hurt. “Please ... stop,” she cried.
He set her hand down on the bed and rummaged on the table next to him. Then he cradled her head on one arm and held a bottle to her mouth. “Drink,” he commanded.
She closed her lips tight and shook her head.
"I didn't give you a choice. Do it.” He pried her lips apart with the edge of the bottle and proceeded to pour something nasty and strong into her. It tasted like gasoline and burned like fire.
Coughing and choking, she sputtered and squirmed as half of it ran down her chin. But he kept at it until, whether she liked it or not, she'd swallowed several mouthfuls of it. The liquor hit her empty stomach like a hot lava rock.
He let go of her and her head bounced off the pillow. She glared at him, willing him to suffer a long, agonizing death. But he merely began digging again.
By the time he'd finished with one hand and started on the other, tears poured out of her eyes like a fountain, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a little ball and die.
What kind of a man was this? He'd nearly killed to take her, he'd branded her in front of the other men—she certainly couldn't call what he'd done out there a kiss—then he'd hauled her away to the bedroom. Yet here he sat, picking glass out of her hands. Why hadn't he just raped her and left her to rot? Or maybe this was some perverted form of torture. Maybe he was one of those sickos who enjoyed inflicting pain.
Her heart stuttered at the thought.
"There. Finished."
She stared up at him, surprised. The second hand hadn't hurt nearly as much. Of course, her whole body felt weightless and limp, and her head swam. Jesus ... she was drunk.
A wave of panic hit her. Now he'd rape her. He'd gotten her drunk so she couldn't fight back, then he could do whatever he wanted to her and she'd be powerless to stop him.
She braced herself for his assault.
But instead he wound soft white bandages around her hands and dabbed at a sore spot on her neck—probably where Christo's knife had nicked her in the bar.
He replaced the cool, damp cloth on her forehead, leaned back in the wooden chair, and watched her.
She stared at him, trying to keep him in focus as her head spun in dizzy circles. Was he toying with her?
"You're American.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded.
"Cómo te llamas?"
"I don't speak Spanish."
"What's your name?"
"Elizabeth,” she whispered.
"Well, Elizabeth, as I'm sure you're aware, you're in a heap of trouble.” His dark eyes burned into her from under his equally dark brows. His long, tanned fingers strummed on the arms of the chair.
"I ... I ... they kidnapped me from the bar. You won't get away with this!"
In a fit of sheer bravado, she threw off the covers and attempted to swing her legs over the bed. But her head pounded like a cannon, and the room wouldn't hold still for her. She got sidetracked at the sight of the white T-shirt she wore that definitely was not hers, and noticed the legs sticking out from the covers were bare. Oh, Lord, he'd taken off her jeans. What else had he done to her while she'd been passed out?
The hard wall of him loomed in front of her. With a muttered oath in Spanish, he pressed her back onto the bed.
"Let me lay out your situation for you.” He leaned down until he was inches from her face. His eyes, a rich velvet brown, narrowed into mere slits. His breath, like the rest of him, was warm and clean.
"My men would like nothing better than to use your body in ways a nice woman like you couldn't begin to fathom. And when they finished with you, they would dump you in a pit in the ground like yesterday's garbage. No one would find your remains. If you so much as set a foot outside that door"—he pointed to the wooden portal that sealed her off from the nightmare of Ramirez and Christo—"they'll rape you and you'll wish for death."
The trembling began again, starting with her awkward, bandaged hands and spreading out into her arms and legs.
"I've claimed you as my woman, and as long as you stay close to me, they'll respect that. They won't like it and they'll want to kill me as well, but they will respect it. Comprendes?"
She stared at him, shaking for all she was worth.
"I won't let them touch you, but you must do exactly as I say.” He gripped her face between his long fingers, and stared into her eyes. “If I tell you to jump, you'll do it. If I tell you to be quiet, you will be. If I tell you to touch me, or bare your breasts for me, or touch yourself for me, you'll do that, too. Do you understand?"
She stared at him in defiance, her mind rebelling at what he was saying, but her body oddly tingling at the same time.
"Do—you—understand?” he growled, his hand squeezing harder.
She nodded.
His mouth came down onto hers, scorching and demanding, and she was certain in that instant he was, indeed, the devil, and she'd just made a pact with him. But then his assault turned from hard to hungry. His tongue flicked out to trace her lower lip, sensuously teased her mouth open, and sought entry.
A jolt of unbridled electricity shot through her when his tongue met hers, twisting and seducing her in a primitive dance. And she found herself, to her horror, ensnared by the passion of it.
This was nothing like Lionel's cool, sophisticated kisses. This man tasted like unadulterated sex and danger—things that should have terrified her. Yet she moaned into his mouth, and her weightless, inebriated body arched upward of its own free will, seeking his touch. Which he gave, sliding a hand under her almost-bare fanny and lifting her until her silk panty-covered mound pressed against the granite in the crotch of his jeans.
A sudden vision filled her head of what his cock would look like—long, ribbed with veins, impossibly stiff, and eager to fill her, stretch her, fuck her. She groaned.
He pulled his mouth off hers and lowered her back to the bed, and she blinked up at him, reeling and confused at her own reaction. But he paused an inch or so above her mouth and whispered in a husky tone, “I won't let them touch you."
Then he rose, towering over her, remote and unreadable. “Get some sleep."
He returned to the wooden chair next to the bed, and switched off the dim light with a flick of his long fingers.
Elizabeth stared into the darkness, trying to see the imposing figure she felt sitting a few feet away. Trying to gather her steamrolled emotions and thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out what had just happened ... what wild, physical reaction she'd just experienced.
She didn't know if this man was her executioner or her savior. Or maybe both.
Her last thought before drunken oblivion claimed her was that she didn't even know his name.
* * * *
Miguel Delgado stared at the sleeping woman in his bed. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he watched her eyelashes flickering as she dreamed, saw her chest, clothed in one of his T-shirts, rise and fall rapidly, and remembered all too well what the sight of those breasts had done to his insides. He'd gotten her out of her torn shirt and into one of his as quickly as he could to avoid temptation. But clearly it hadn't worked. He hissed in a deep breath and did his damnedest to will away his aching erection.
What in the name of hell was he going to do with her?
With her wavy, dark-chestnut-brown hair, her big, innocent blue eyes, and even underneath her obvious terror, a sassy attitude, he knew keeping her here was going to be trouble. He rubbed his eyes between thumb and forefinger. As if he didn't have enough to deal with stuck in this hell hole.
He'd spent the past three months working his way into a position he hoped would earn him an “in” with Galis
ta's organization, and had thought things were progressing well ... until now. He couldn't figure why Galista's crew would have waged a completely unprovoked attack on his men tonight. What was the meaning behind that? Unless ... unless Galista was beginning to suspect he was after more than one of the coveted cartel heroine contracts.
That would be bad. Very bad. He had to get to the bottom of this and make sure his position was secure. But with Ramirez and Christo being completely unpredictable, it wasn't going to be easy. Their loyalty to him was suspect anyway, and now he'd had to draw an invisible line in the sand between himself and them because of this unexpected complication.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the woman again. She was so obviously pampered, white-bread American it almost hurt to look at her. Elizabeth. Even her name sounded pampered. She looked young—probably in her twenties. What was someone like her doing alone in La Tortuga bar? She either had to be incredibly stupid or incredibly lost.
In either case, he was now stuck with her.
He sure as hell didn't want her or need her, yet he couldn't set her free right now because that would appear to his men to be an act of weakness at a time when he needed more than ever for them to believe in him. Not to mention the fact that Ramirez or, worse, Christo would hunt her down and take what he wanted from her. And that was the last thing Miguel needed on his conscience. He'd seen their handiwork before.
She sighed and rolled onto her side facing him, resting her head on her hand.
He spied the raw, red mark around her wrist and scowled. He knew she had a matching one on the other wrist as well—he'd seen them when he'd cleaned and bandaged her hands. Had Ramirez or Christo tied her up when they brought her to the house?
When she sighed again, he tucked the blanket up under her chin. She had a pert nose and sexy, bow-shaped lips.
Desire, thick as magma, surged through him again at how she'd arched toward him, at the little moaning sounds that had fluttered out of her throat in the heat of the kiss.
He straightened in the chair and let out a string of swear words under his breath. He was too old to be thinking lustful thoughts about a girl like this, especially one he'd gotten drunk. Especially one whose silk underwear screamed money. He had no use for the wealthy, with their power trips and game playing. And he'd fallen victim to big, innocent eyes like hers before. He knew firsthand looks could be deceiving ... and deadly.
Here, in this armpit of the underworld, he trusted no one.
She cried out in her sleep and held her hands up as if to fend someone off. “Please, no..."
Her soft, desperate voice was like a hot knife slicing through his resolve. Instinctively, Miguel moved to the bed and smoothed her thick hair off her damp forehead. When she cried out again, he drew her up against him, whispering soft words near her cheek.
Just for tonight, he told himself.
Tomorrow he'd make it clear what he expected of her. She'd follow his instructions to the letter with no arguments.
If she wanted to get out of this alive.
CHAPTER 2
Elizabeth awoke to the sound of gunshots.
Lurching up in the bed, she clutched the covers around her, slid off onto the floor, and huddled next to the bed, hoping it would offer some protection.
But a quick glance around showed she was alone in the room and no one was shooting at her.
More gunfire rattled through the air, then she heard muffled laughter. With a sigh of relief, she realized it was happening outside.
I'm alone!
The sudden thought spurred her into action. She found her jeans at the foot of the bed and dragged them on with difficulty—the bandages on her hands presented a challenge. Her sandals sat on the peeling vinyl floor nearby and she slid her feet into them. Her own shirt had been ruined last night, so there was no choice but to wear the white tee.
She ran to the door, rested her ear against the wood, and, hearing nothing, clutched the knob. Dragging in a deep breath to fortify her courage, she tried to twist it. Again the bandages got in the way and her hand slid on the metal. But finally she managed to jiggle it back and forth. Locked.
Her heart sank. It had been foolish to think she could just walk out.
Still not ready to give up yet, though, she crossed the room to the lone window. Heavy green drapes covered it. When she pushed them aside, even the sunlight pouring through the dirty glass couldn't ease the frustration of finding black iron bars blocking her way.
"Damn it!"
The sight from the window wasn't encouraging either. There were no other buildings to be seen, unless you counted a shack that stood fifty yards from the house. A small clump of scraggly trees huddled near it. And other than that, all she could see was a monotonous view of heat-withered yellow grass. Obviously they were no longer in the little town with the bar.
The twinge in her bladder brought her back to immediate requirements. She had a foggy memory of seeing the man in black emerge from another doorway near the bed last night with a damp cloth. She could see the glint of white porcelain just beyond the sagging door. Thank God. Maybe there was another window in there ... or something she could use to free herself.
The bathroom, small and hard-used though it was, with its chipped and rusting white sink, commode, and yellowed bathtub, was clean. The subtle woody scent she'd smelled on the man last night lingered in the air. At least that was one thing she could be grateful for—the leader took a vested interest in personal hygiene and keeping his space clean, unlike his minions.
She used the facilities as quickly as she could—there was no lock on the bathroom door—then did a quick search to see if there might be anything she could use as a weapon or a means of escape. Nothing presented itself. Masculine toiletries sat on the edge of the sink, but if he had a razor or even fingernail clippers, he'd removed them before she woke up. She didn't even see the tweezers he'd used on her hands.
Elizabeth crossed the bedroom once again to peer out the window. She wasn't wearing her watch, and there wasn't a clock in the room, so she had no idea what time it might be. Mid to late morning, she'd guess.
Another gunshot startled her and she crouched below the window, her heart pounding. But once again she realized it was outside, and from the sound of it, farther away than the ones earlier had been.
Oh, God. What was she going to do? From the looks of things in the bar, she'd gotten herself caught in the middle of some kind of vendetta or drug war shoot ‘em up.
But the worst part was that no one had any idea where she was. She'd bolted out of the hotel last night intent only on getting as far away as she could. She hadn't taken time to leave a note for her dad and stepmother, who'd been in Acapulco for the impending wedding. She'd just wanted out. It hadn't occurred to her that today she wouldn't be on a plane back to the States, and by tonight be back in her apartment with a cup of tea, a hot bath, and a good book to help bury her hurt.
How long would it be before her dad even realized she was missing? She had no idea if Lionel would be a big enough man to admit she'd left him, or if he'd just keep quiet and play dumb. If he did admit she'd called off the wedding, then her dad might think she'd decided to go back to the States and lay low for a few days, to nurse her broken heart or to be alone.
The knot that had been in her stomach since Lionel's revelation last night gave a particularly sick twinge.
How could she not have known? How could she have spent the past five months with Lionel and not have known about his ... preferences?
Because you were so in love with the way he romanced you, you didn't see anything you didn't want to.
Had she been more in love with the idea of romance than with Lionel himself? But she already knew the answer. While she'd had several relationships in the past, she'd never been truly swept away by anyone, and was beginning to wonder if she ever would be. But then she and Lionel had met at the wedding of a mutual friend. He wasn't her type in the socio-economic sense—she preferred to stay away from the
wealthy, high society guys because, when she'd moved out on her own, she'd wanted to escape that pretentious life. But Lionel had been so attentive, so sweet, he'd said and done all the right things, and even though he'd never actually made her heart pound with overwhelming love and desire, the part of her that craved romance could find no fault with him.
They'd seemed so compatible. They'd liked the same music, movies, foods. Granted, their sex life had been spotty—not bad, just not frequent—because he'd just taken a job with a large law firm, and as the youngest and newest attorney on staff, he often worked the longest hours. But she'd taken it in stride as part of life. She wasn't a total fool. She knew real life love affairs weren't anything like the passionate, overwhelming connections she read in romance novels
But nothing had prepared her for what had happened last night; she'd never seen it coming. He should have been honest with her from the start, damn it! As it was, the way she'd finally found out ... the seduction, the subterfuge ... Her stomach churned again. While he'd done nothing to physically harm her last night—had, in fact, probably hoped she'd be turned on by the truth—the whole thing had left her feeling dirty and betrayed. He'd used her. And that hurt worse than anything else.
And now?
She looked around at the little room that was her prison. Now, for some reason she couldn't fathom, the universe had decided she hadn't had enough shock over the past twenty-four hours, and had tossed her into this nightmare.
With a shudder, she knew with a certainty if the man in black hadn't intervened last night she'd be dead by now. Or wishing she were. But was he any better than the men he'd saved her from? He was their leader, after all. Still ... he'd been gentle with her last night. Sort of. Yet he'd also said things ... things about her having to touch him or herself.
Anxiety trembled within her. What would she do if he actually insisted on that? A part of her rebelled at the possibility. But there was some tiny part of her, buried down deep inside, that experienced a tingle of forbidden pleasure at the thought.
