HER SECRET GUARDIAN

by Sally Tyler Hayes

  "Grace?" he whispered.

  She made a vain attempt at wetting her painfully dry lips in hopes of being able to talk. He must be a mind reader. Because the next thing she knew, he knelt beside her, his big, strong hand supporting her head and neck. Cold, wonderfully wet water slid into her mouth and down her parched throat. She was painfully grateful, wanted to gulp it all down. He wouldn't let her.

  "Slowly. You'll make yourself sick."

  Grace frowned. She knew that. Her stomach was roiling even now. But she was so thirsty, she didn't care.

  He eased her back down, sat on the ground beside her. "So, you finally decided to wake up."

  "How long did I sleep?" she whispered.

  "Round the clock. It's almost midnight."

  She took that in, considered. Had she been sleeping? Or unconscious?

  "You scared me," he said softly.

  He had an amazingly pleasant voice. Full and deep and moving over her senses in a way that had her feeling warm all over. And he was speaking English, she realized. A familiar American English with that hint of the South. The same voice he'd used to tell her she'd grown into a real beauty. Right before he'd kissed her a year and a half ago, a continent away, then disappeared.

  It was the first time she'd ever heard him use the same accent twice, which made her wonder if this little part of him was real. Had he merely slipped up? Or was he finally going to stop playing games with her? Finally tell her who he was and what in the world he'd been doing with her all this time?

  It was probably a foolish thing to be considering at the moment, given how little she knew about her own predicament. But that was the first thought that ran through her muddled head.

  She forced herself to be practical, something that was normally second nature to her. "I was kidnapped?"

  "Yes."

  "In San Reino?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "Two and a half days ago," he said.

  She'd lost two and a half days? Grace felt sick once again.

  They could have done anything to her in two and a half days.

  She remembered being shoved into the car, hitting her head as she went. Remembered the dirty cloth pressed against her nose and mouth, the bitter taste of the drug. She remembered her wrists and ankles being bound, checked automatically to make sure they still weren't. She found no tape, but sores left in its wake.

  She remembered the guard … shoving her legs apart and climbing on top of her.

  "Aah!" All the breath went rushing out of her body.

  "It's all right," her mystery man soothed. His hand pressed against her shoulder, his thumb making little circles on the upper part of her arm in a soothing yet impersonal touch. "They don't have you anymore."

  "You got me out?"

  "Yes."

  So it hadn't been a dream after all. At least not all of it. Then she remembered something else.

  "And the guard? You killed him?"

  "Yes."

  "You…" Couldn't have done anything less drastic?

  "It was the only way to get you out of there," he said, as if that was the only thing that mattered to him.

  He's rescued her once again, and she still didn't know who he was, still wasn't convinced this was real and not a dream. God, if this wasn't real … if she was still back in that cell in the dungeon…

  "Grace?"

  "Am I ever going to see your face?" she asked.

  "Does it matter so much? It's just a face. I told you, I'm just a man."

  "Are you?"

  "What else would I be?"

  "Oh, I don't know. My friend Jane calls you the caped crusader."

  He laughed. Beautifully. She thought she remembered that laugh. She wanted it to be the same one. It would mean he was real.

  "I must be out of it," she whispered.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "How am I ever going to know if this is real? If you are?"

  "I kissed you, Grace. In the courtyard of the church. I held you in my arms. You felt that. Didn't that seem real?"

  "No," she said. It felt better than any reality she'd ever known. Much better than any romantic encounter she'd ever had, despite the simplicity of it – merely a kiss – and despite its briefness. In the past year and a half, she'd wasted so much time dreaming of him and nothing but a kiss.

  "It didn't?" He seemed indignant at the thought.

  "It doesn't matter," she lied. Ridiculous as it was, it mattered to her. But it wasn't the point. Not at the moment. The point was the panic she couldn't quite shake, the unreality of the situation, her utter confusion. "I just … I don't understand you at all. Nothing about you. I never have. I can't even be sure that you're here, that you're real, and because of that, I'm wondering if I'm losing my mind right now. Because I can't make sense of any of this."

  "Shh," he soothed. His hand went to the side of her face, her neck. His thumb brushed across her lips. "It's all right."

  "No. It's not. And I won't be quiet," she protested. "You don't understand. You can't have any idea how I feel right now. How confused you make me."

  "I'm sorry, Grace."

  "I could be dreaming this whole thing. I could still be back in that cell. Did they have me in a cell? In a dungeon?"

  "You're not far off. The basement level of a stone fortress."

  "Dammit," she whispered. It had been real. The cell. Probably everything that happened there.

  "Hey, I got you out of there, Grace. A day ago. You've been sleeping ever since. You've been right here with me, and I would never do anything to hurt you."

  "Who are you?" she cried.

  "An American."

  At last. She actually knew his nationality. "That narrows things down considerably."

  He laughed again. Briefly. Irritatingly.

  "It's not funny," she cried, the fear coming through loud and clear in her voice.

  "I'm sorry. I've never been drugged before, but I have been hit on the head. I should have remembered how disorienting it can be. I'm an American, Grace, and I'm going to take care of you. I promise you that."

  "And you're real? All of this is real?"

  He frowned, leaned closer. A sliver of light flared between them and then it was shining in her eyes as he stared down at her.

  She winced. The light hurt. And she couldn't help but be surprised. He had a light. The man who never showed up except in the blackest part of the night had a tiny flashlight.

  She was utterly intrigued, fascinated with him yet again, and he was obviously wondering how hard she'd been hit and how much of the drug was still in her system. Which she'd think would be her main concern, as well. But it wasn't. Hers was him.

  He leaned back, the light extinguished. She had the childish urge to steal it and shine it in his face. Finally, she'd be able to see something of him, and maybe she'd feel better somehow. She could put a face to her mysterious, nameless American stranger.

  "Your pupils are a bit sluggish," he said.

  Grace was not particularly surprised, given the depths of her confusion and the time she'd lost, the utter fascination she had at a time like this with the idea of actually seeing him.

  She was irked with him, as well. "Not that you've given me cause to be confused," she complained.

  He frowned yet again. She could feel it through the darkness. He was looking down at her and frowning.

  "I want to sit up," she said.

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "I'm the doctor here. I want to sit up." She wanted to see the world from an upright position, was hoping so many things would fall into place when she did.

  He gave an exasperated sigh, but he helped her. She was cradled against that big, powerful body of his for a moment, his arms tight around her back, as he helped her slide into a semisitting position and pushed something soft and bulky behind her, for her to lean on.

  "Don't fall over and crack your head again," he ordered.

  Grace wasn't about to admit it
was a distinct possibility. The world hadn't quite righted itself. Her surroundings were still spinning.

  "Okay?" he said.

  She frowned, wishing it was. Truth was, she was still spooked, rattled, downright scared. It wasn't going away. "No."

  "Oh, hell. Here." He handed her the flashlight. She was so stunned, she didn't do anything at first. Then he handed her something else. Something slick and smooth and heavy that she grasped easily within her right hand.

  "Careful," he said, when she went to hold it up to her face to see.

  He aimed the light at it. At a knife. Not the kind she used. A big one with a mean-looking blade. Before she could say anything else, do anything else, a tanned, muscular forearm was shoved toward her, highlighted within the narrow stream of light.

  "Go ahead. Cut me."

  "What?"

  "You want to know if I'm real?" he said. "Cut me. I'll bleed."

  "I … no," she stammered. She couldn't just sink a knife into his flesh. She wasn't that crazy, was she? So much so that she needed to cut a man just to prove he would do what any human being would in that case. He'd bleed. Because he was a human. Not an illusion. Not an angel of any kind. Just a man.

  "Go ahead," he urged. "My blood's as red as yours."

  "It's not necessary."

  "I think it is, sweetheart." He took the knife from her and before she could stop him, slid it across his skin.

  Grace gasped.

  He didn't so much as flinch. Not a millimeter. But he did bleed.

  "Dammit," she protested. "I told you it wasn't necessary."

  She tugged at the long shirt she was wearing until she had the ends in her hand and quickly pressed the cloth over the small cut.

  "I can't believe you did that," she said.

  "You needed to see it," he said, as if that meant everything. She needed; he provided.

  Grace remembered being in her cell with him, the second time, when she'd begged him to simply make her disappear. He'd said he couldn't. But that he'd die for her. That he'd save her or die trying.

  She could fathom that. A man willing to die for her? Bleed for her?

  She stared up at him, feeling now the warmth of his skin beneath her palm.

  "You didn't have to do that," she said again of the cut. She didn't want him hurt. Not for her.

  He had the nerve to laugh. "Grace, it's nothing."

  But it wasn't. She knew that. He'd cut himself, just to prove a point to her. "I don't want you hurt," she said, because she didn't. She didn't know who he was or why he was here, why he was watching over her. But she didn't want him hurt.

  "Sweetheart, I've got more scars on my body than you could count—"

  "I don't want you hurt," she insisted.

  "Okay," he said gently. "If that's what you want, I'll do my best, Grace. I want to keep you happy."

  His hand closed gently over hers, pulling it and her shirt away from him. Briefly, matter-of-factly, he smoothed the shirt back into place. His big, warm hands were gone almost as quickly as they'd come. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she wasn't wearing anything else at all and that his hand – accidentally, it seemed – grazed the sensitive skin of her belly. Aware too that they both gave a small start at the contact.

  His arm, absolutely impersonal, came around her back, and he eased her down until she was lying flat, something soft against the back of her head and neck again.

  It was ridiculously good just to lie back down. She had a million more questions, but she was so tired.

  He was arguing with her about something, she realized vaguely. He was an incredibly annoying man.

  Eating. That was it. He wanted her to stay awake and eat. She couldn't. She was exhausted. She couldn't even lift the flashlight still clutched in her hand so she could finally see his face.

  * * *

  She woke to that infernal blackness. That cursed, stubborn, maddening blackness, and was disoriented, but for merely a few seconds. If she was in a cave with that man – a man who'd bleed for her and maybe even die for her – and she'd really been kidnapped, her head was finally clearing.

  She shifted a bit on the rock-hard ground. The blanket rustled, and her head protested yet again. She remembered the blanket well. How could anything so slight make such a racket?

  The wind was still blowing. It was still raining like the devil outside. It was damp in the cave, and there were gusts of air and an unnerving, howling sound. Probably the wind rushing past the mouth of the cave.

  She thought about trying to walk or even crawl to the entrance. If only she could see. Anything but this awful darkness. But as she shifted on the hard floor of the cave, she realized why she was so wonderfully warm. He was asleep behind her.

  She remembered thinking, that first night after she'd been taken, that someone had lit a furnace and aimed it directly at her face. Not a furnace, it seemed. Him. He generated heat like no man she'd ever met before.

  His arm, big and muscular and hard, was looped around her waist in a hold that wasn't tight but absolutely unrelenting, and heat spread from that point, too. He was lying on his side, right up against her, holding her, and she was on her back, tucked against his side.

  It was not at all an unpleasant way to sleep.

  She thought about the fact that she still had no idea who he was, except that he was an American and that he'd rescued her once again. She thought about the fact that she was alone with him, somewhere in the darkness yet again, but closer to him than ever before.

  She went to turn onto her side, to see if she could make out anything of his features, but he wouldn't let her. His arm tightened around her. It cupped her rib cage, and he turned her himself. Until she was on her side, too, facing away from him, their bodies pressed even more tightly together.

  She let the weight of her body sink back against his, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Now that she thought about it, her feet were freezing. She found a gap between his ankles and burrowed between his calves with one foot, then the other.

  He swore softly. "How can anyone possibly be that cold?"

  "Sorry."

  He laughed a bit but let her feet stay where they were. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes," she said, realizing that despite everything, she was.

  "Your head?"

  "Not as muddled."

  "Good. Try to sleep a little longer. It's still early."

  His head was pressed against the side of hers, which was resting on one of his arms. His breath, steamy hot, rushed past her ear, causing her to shiver once again. In answer, he pulled her even closer. She was fascinated by how big he was. How tall, how wide, how hard his entire body was. Vaguely, she remembered sleeping on top of him that night in her cold cell. He'd been not much more than an impression of sheer power and heat, and she'd thought of nothing but being warm and safe.

  But her brain wasn't so muddled now. She was very much aware of the fact that he was a man. A big, strong, tough man. Gentle, when he chose to be. Fast and deadly when he did not.

  She had a quick flash of memory of the guard, the knife, and shivered once again.

  "You can't possibly still be cold," he murmured. "And I know I said I'd do anything for you, Grace, but right now, the only other thing I could do to warm you up is to strip down to my skin, strip you, too, and wrap that blanket around both of us. It would be like an oven, but…"

  But?

  She shifted against him once more, not looking for warmth, just trying to get a bit closer. Just for the sake of being close and the reassurance that came from it. And maybe so she could feel those delicious muscles in his powerful chest, his rock-hard abs, his…

  "Oh," she said.

  They were caught together like two spoons in a drawer. Against the fleshy curve of her derriere was something very hard, as well. Instinct, shameless, thoughtless instinct, had her pressing even closer.

  He swore softy in the darkness.

  She didn't shiver this time. It was more like a minor earthqu
ake that shook nothing but her own body.

  He still held her firmly, but he eased his lower body away from hers.

  "Sorry," he said. "I can't quite help that. Not…" Not when a woman was wrapped around his body. "I understand."

  She went to move away from him, but the arm at her waist didn't give an inch.

  "You can stay. I can't control the reaction, but I don't have to do anything about it. I'm not going to hurt you, Grace."

  "I know," she said.

  "The guard?" he asked. "He scared you, but that was it, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes. You got there in time." One more time, she realized.

  "And you're not afraid of me? You're not afraid to be here with me like this?"

  "No."

  "You're still shivering," he said.

  "I'm not cold," she admitted, thinking that told him all he needed to know. He was thoroughly, she would guess painfully, aroused, and she was trembling in his big, strong arms.

  Despite everything she'd been through and how tired, how weak she was, she couldn't help but react to the overwhelming feel of his body pressed so tightly to hers. She felt boneless and tingly and hot all over at the moment. She didn't want to budge, unless it was to get closer.

  "Then sleep here," he said, accepting everything and seemingly dismissing it, as well.

  They weren't going to do anything tonight. Except … what?

  Snuggle? That was much too tame a word for it.

  It made Grace a little dizzy, and not because of anything wrong with her head. It made her think of a dozen, thoroughly shameless possibilities of things they might do on another night, in the cool, deep darkness, before they were through.

  She eased against him once more. He was still impressively aroused.

  "Sorry," she said. "I'm sure that's … uncomfortable."

  His mouth was practically pressed against her neck and she definitely felt a grin.

  "Grace," he said, in that beautifully deep, slow, heated voice of his. "I've fallen asleep more nights than I can remember wishing I had you right here in my arms. Just like this. It's not exactly a hardship—"

  He broke off abruptly, seeming to realize at the same moment she did, just what he'd said. She refrained from making any jokes at all, though she wondered, if he felt that way, why hadn't he come to her? He seemed to always know where she was, after all. She doubted she would have resisted.