Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  When he was within ten feet of the gang, the one to Trevor’s front left charged him, fist raised, swinging at Trevor’s jaw. Trevor swiveled toward him, bringing both arms up and slamming them into the boy’s forearm, effectively stopping the punch, then rammed his elbow into the boy’s jaw. Grabbing the boy by the neck and bicep, he yanked him in close as he brought a knee up into his stomach, then punched him twice in the face before shoving him hard toward the leader. They collided; the boy sat down hard as the leader stumbled back.

  Trevor grabbed Shelby’s upper arm and pushed her with him so that they were both beyond the gang. “Go to the other end. Wait there.”

  Instead of running with her, he turned back to the pack. Shelby took several steps away, but then stopped. No way was she leaving him to face five attackers by himself.

  In the short time they’d maneuvered around the first three, the other two reached the group. The one with the pipe in his right hand swung it overhand toward Trevor’s head. Trevor threw his left arm up, blocking the attack by smacking his forearm against the man’s wrist. He looped his right arm under Pipe’s and seized his own left wrist as he stepped close and jerked his arms inward, forcing Pipe’s elbow into Trevor’s chest. Trevor yanked his arms down hard, hearing Pipe’s shoulder ligaments pop, then punched his kidneys several times before letting him sag to the ground. Pipe clutched his shredded shoulder, screaming obscenities.

  “You fucking son of a bitch!” The first boy got up, wiping blood from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, and lunged for Shelby. He grabbed her upper arms, pulling her in front of him.

  Her training as a Foreign Ser­vice Officer included an annual self-­defense course for women. Mustering her courage, she raked her shoe’s sharp heel down his leg, wrenching herself free as he cried out in pain. Curling her fingers back, she brought her palm up, striking him as hard as she could under his jaw, then grabbed his shirt at the neck and drove her knee up into his groin. And again and again, until he sagged to the ground, clutching himself and moaning. She backed up several steps.

  The other boy hit Trevor from the side, fist slamming into Trevor’s jaw and temple. Trevor ducked away. Before she realized what she was doing, she darted forward, hitting the man from the side and pummeling him with her fists. He turned and clocked her in the face. She fell hard, ears ringing.

  With a roar of rage, Trevor seized her attacker and swung him around, fist cocked back, just as the leader’s hand arced down. The knife bit deeply into the boy’s shoulder. He screamed.

  “Shelby!”

  “I’m okay,” she croaked, managing to get to her hands and knees.

  The man on the right reached for something at the small of his back.

  “Gun!” she gasped.

  Trevor leapt past the first two to the third just as the man brought a revolver out from under his shirt. The man yelled something she couldn’t make out. Moving almost too fast for her to see, Trevor drove his left palm into the man’s right shoulder and smashed his fist into the man’s face. The man ignored the blood spurting from his nose, managing to bring the revolver up to Trevor’s midsection. Trevor knocked the gun aside, capturing the man’s wrist and continuing to swivel his own body so he cradled the man’s arm under his own. Scooping the man’s wrist and turning, he brought the gun up and tore it from the man’s hand, reversing it so it was now pointed at him. The man froze, gaping.

  Trevor pressed forward half an inch so that the barrel of the revolver pressed into the man’s eye. He leaned forward until his mouth nearly touched the other man’s.

  “Run.”

  The man held his shaking hands up in a gesture of surrender, taking several shaky steps back. “No trouble, mate, yeah? We’re gone.”

  One of the boys put his arm around the bleeding leader’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet and supporting him. The one who’d grabbed Shelby groaned as he struggled upright, clutching himself. All five backed away and shuffled to the mouth of the alley, disappearing around the corner.

  The entire fight had taken less than a minute.

  Trevor watched for a moment more, then came to squat next to her. She gave up trying to get to her feet. He gripped her chin lightly and turned her head, making a soft sound as he traced the puffy part of her face where she’d been hit.

  “Bastard.”

  Shelby couldn’t seem to drag enough air into her lungs. “Knife. Knife. He had a knife.”

  Trevor put both hands on her cheeks. “Shelby. It’s over. They’re gone. Breathe.”

  She was embarrassed at the tears clogging her vision. “Are you . . . hurt?”

  Trevor grinned at that, the cocky grin she remembered so well from Azakistan. “From those juvenile delinquents? You don’t think much of my training, if you think they posed any kind of a threat.”

  His I can take on the world and win attitude radiated from him. But anyone could fall to the stab of a knife. Shelby couldn’t stop Floyd’s face from swimming to the fore. “Do you think your friends left the museum? Do you think Floyd is still alive?”

  Something shuttered in Trevor’s face. He still thought she and Floyd were together. Now wasn’t the time for that particular conversation, though. “We need to get somewhere safe. Regroup. Wash.”

  They were both filthy, with blood and dirt and God knew what else stuck to their clothing. Walking to the opposite end of the alley, Shelby paused while Trevor peered out. “We’re not far enough from the museum. It’s about a block down, but all the focus is away from us.” He batted ineffectually at the grime and sweat. “If we move naturally, we should be okay. There are a lot of gawkers.”

  Shelby gathered her nerve. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  They stepped into the street. She couldn’t help the glance toward the museum and its mass of emergency vehicles. She couldn’t see much. The street was clogged with ­people watching the drama unfold, and the news crews had arrived to add their chaos to the mix.

  Trevor grabbed her hand, and they walked casually, hand in hand, down the street and away.

  “Why don’t you turn yourself in now? Get it all straightened out?”

  Trevor pulled out his cell phone. “I’m putting you somewhere safe first. There’s no telling what Eric or Crawley might do. I need to get an update.”

  They reached the end of the street and turned left. Trevor cursed. “Pardon my language. There are too many ­people ringing or taking videos. All phone circuits are busy. All right. Let’s grab a taxi.”

  “And go where?”

  “Your flat,” he said at once. “We can get cleaned up and you can pack a hold-­all. I’ll take you to safety, and then go back to HQ.”

  The taxis passing took one look at their disheveled appearance and passed them by. Finally, a minicab slowed beside them. He looked almost as rumpled and dirty as they did. “Show me some cash.”

  Trevor pulled out his wallet and held up a few bills. The driver nodded, and they climbed into the back seat.

  “We’ve had a load of building material dumped on us,” Trevor said. “We’re not sleeping rough, though I agree we look like tramps.”

  The driver grunted acknowledgment. “Where to, then?”

  Shelby gave him her address, then settled back in the seat. Trevor remained tense beside her. It took almost thirty minutes of driving through the congested London traffic before they reached Shelby’s flat. Trevor paid the man, adding a generous tip. The building housing her London flat, though much nicer than her apartment building in Azakistan had been, had no elevator. They walked up the three flights of stairs to her door.

  “I don’t have my key,” she said, realization dawning. “No keys, no ID, no money.”

  “Not a problem,” Trevor said. He pulled out a leather tool kit, and in a short time, her locks clicked open.

  “If I knew it was that easy to pick a lock, I’d’ve gotten five or six deadbolt
s.”

  Trevor opened her door and gestured for her to enter first, ever the gentleman. She made a beeline for the kitchen, and grabbed two bottles of water. They both drank thirstily.

  “Why don’t you shower first,” she suggested. “I’ll pack a bag.”

  “Brilliant. After I check your knee.”

  “What? It’s fine.”

  “It’s not. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you limping, though I appreciate your willingness to soldier on.”

  She also wanted to see how bad the damage was. Pulling out a kitchen chair, she sat down, unbuckling her strappy platform heels and kicking them off. Her dress hit her mid-­thigh, so it was simple for Trevor to crouch in front of her and probe her knee. She sucked in a breath.

  “Hurts, does it?”

  “A little.”

  “Well, the good news is I don’t think you’ve done any damage. When you hit your knee just in the right place, it hurts like a moth . . . er, it hurts a lot. Your knee is swollen and you’ll have one hell of a bruise, but you’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before she could think too much about how good it felt to have his hands on her, if only to check her knee, she fetched some towels and put them on the back of the toilet. “You’ll have to use my soap and shampoo,” she said. “You’re going to end up smelling like a grapefruit.”

  He smiled at her. “I don’t mind. I remember your scent very well.”

  Her breath whooshed out. Had he really just brought that up? His face closed down, as though he, too, realized the poor timing. Without another word, he went into the bathroom and closed the door in her face. She waited until the water turned on and the shower curtain screeched back before she went into the living room and turned on the television. She flipped to BBC One. As expected, they were covering the hostage crisis.

  “Specialist Firearms Officers stormed the museum after negotiations with the terrorists failed to yield results. The suspected terrorists, members of anarchist group Philosophy of Bedlam, fled on foot and evaded police blockades. Twelve of the fourteen hostages were released unharmed. One hostage was apparently shot; he was rushed to St. Baldwin’s Hospital, where his condition remains closely guarded. Specialist Crime and Operations Chief Superintendent Stuart Anton reported that the fourteenth hostage, a woman whose name has not yet been released to the public, is believed to have been taken with the anarchists when they fled. It is unclear whether the woman is actually a hostage, or is herself a member of the Philosophy of Bedlam. We will, of course, keep you updated on this serious situation. Anthony, back to you.”

  They’d gotten the detail about Floyd’s stabbing wrong, but it was possible he might still be alive. She breathed a silent prayer. He might be a rat bastard, a married man who’d pressured her for weeks to sleep with him, but he didn’t deserve to die in the basement of his own museum, stabbed in the gut by a madman.

  The shower stopped. Shelby couldn’t stop the shiver of awareness that Trevor stood, naked and dripping wet, less than twenty feet from her. Memories of his amazing physique swamped her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Running her hands across soft skin over steel muscle had been a treasure. Feeling him holding her while they writhed together . . . her breathing deepened and moisture gathered at her core. The bathroom door opened and he stepped out.

  He’d evidently used her razor to scrape the scruff from his jaw and had slicked back his long dark hair. Water droplets winked at her from his broad shoulders. One slid down past his ear. She traced the movement with her eyes, then dropped her gaze to his trim waist and narrow hips, hidden by the towel. His skin was bronzed by the sun, testament to his long hours of training and multiple missions.

  His chest deepened, and she realized he’d inhaled, and jerked her gaze back up to his. His attention was laser-­like, dark slashing brows over intense brown eyes centered on her lips. His own parted on a sigh. His eyes swam with remembered passion and heat and a craving she could see pouring from him.

  He turned away abruptly, one big hand holding the towel. “It’s your turn in the shower.”

  His curt tone made it clear he wasn’t interested in a repeat performance. Shelby couldn’t blame him. Did she want to make love to him under the stinging spray of hot water? Yes, if she were going to be honest. But it would be the worst idea to become involved with him again. He lived a dangerous, unpredictable life. And he’d left her bed to go to another woman. That still hurt, all these months later. Still, if her life thus far had instilled anything in her, it was the knowledge that men were rarely reliable.

  “Thank you.” She walked past him down the hallway, entered the bathroom, and closed the door in his face, much as he had to her earlier. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, using her loofah to scrub herself clean. Of the dust and grime, the terror of being held hostage, the betrayal of finding out Floyd was married. Of his stabbing, of rekindled feelings toward Trevor she thought she’d crushed. When she finally finished, there was not a drop of hot water left, and her skin was red from scrubbing.

  Wrapping a towel around her torso and another around her wet hair, she peeked out the door to make sure Trevor wasn’t nearby, then darted across the hall to her bedroom. She changed quickly into fresh clothes, dried her hair, and reapplied her makeup. Finally ready, she went back out into the living room. Trevor wasn’t there, but enticing smells wafted from the kitchen. She followed her nose.

  Trevor stood at the stove, feet planted wide, clad in nothing but that stupid towel as he stirred something in a saucepan. Watching him, half naked and cooking, caused hot flashes to travel from her hair to her toes and back again. He looked like a wet dream.

  As though sensing her presence, he half turned, looking over his shoulder. “I thought as long as we had a minute or two, I’d create sustenance.”

  It was such an odd way of saying he was cooking a meal that she laughed. She tried to ignore him, but all that golden skin made her ache for something she’d lost. Maybe never had.

  “It’s just an omelet,” he said, turning back to the stove.

  She couldn’t help the way her eyes tracked down his spine to the white towel. To say the day had been stressful would be a major understatement. Taken hostage, finding out the man she’d been dating already had a wife and might even now be dying, then banging around in dark tunnels. Her knee ached, though the swelling had gone down. The last thing on her mind was sex. But intimacy? A warm, reassuring hug?

  Well, she’d made her bed when she’d rejected him.

  “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have to do something about it.”

  She gasped. “Your back is turned. How did you know I was . . . um . . .”

  “I feel your eyes on me. I like it that you look at me that way. Shelby—­”

  Suddenly, she did not want to hear what he had to say. All the reasons she should never have gotten involved with him were still there. Nothing had changed. It had been one night, and it couldn’t happen again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “that I didn’t think to put your clothes in the washer before I showered. I’ll do it now.”

  He nodded, still without turning around. “I have a small pouch under the inner sole of my shoe with some cash in it. Would you get that while you’re at it?”

  “Sure.”

  As she tossed his clothes into the machine, she couldn’t help but bring his shirt to her nose. Beneath the grime, it smelled of him. Delicious and sinful. There was no underwear. Did he go commando?

  By the time she returned, he’d put two plates on the coffee table and was flipping through the channels.

  “The news said earlier they escaped, but left the hostages behind,” she offered. “They’re all safe. There was no update on Floyd.”

  He didn’t respond. She sat as far from him on the sofa as she could and dug into her omelet. It was delicious. “So you can c
ook, too?”

  “Too?” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “As well as what?”

  Make love like a dream. She bit the words back. Trevor had proven to be the same as any other man. They liked to fuck. Sometimes they liked to fuck enough to marry. They didn’t stay faithful for long, though. Inviting a physical relationship with Trevor would just lead to heartache and betrayal.

  “Fight,” she said instead. “Go undercover. Be an SAS officer.”

  “Hmm.”

  He looked like he was about to say more when adverts ended and the news came back on. The newscasters gave a recap of the hostage situation, now resolved but for the disappearance of one of the hostages. Her picture flashed up on the screen, and the commentator gave a few brief lines about her background and job with the State Department.

  “One of the hostages, Floyd Panderson, curator of the August Gallery, where the standoff occurred earlier today, is in critical but stable condition at St. Baldwin’s Hospital near Soho. He is expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad he’s not dead,” she whispered.

  “Not dead is different from still alive.” Trevor’s voice was soft and questioning.

  She met his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’d only been dating for a few weeks. I didn’t know he was married.”

  “Obviously. Did you”—­he stopped to clear his throat—­“visit his office?”

  She pressed her lips together and released them; a nervous gesture. “No. He was pushing to become intimate. But I wasn’t ready.”

  “Good.” This time, his voice was even softer.

  “Trevor, I’m not sleeping with you, either,” she said baldly.

  His eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened. “I didn’t suggest you should. After last time, it’s not worth it to me.”

  That stung. “Look, I owe you an apology. What I did in the hospital . . . it was a shitty thing to do, and I feel terrible about it. But you did, in point of fact, leave my side to go to another woman. I met her at the hospital. Christina Madison.”