“Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done,” she said suddenly. “It doesn’t matter what you say. You can’t top me.”
“Somehow, I really doubt that.”
She stared at him, and for just a second her face was illuminated by the overhead flares set off by the local soldiers—a cry for help. From anyone. She looked beautiful, despite the cuts and bruises. Beautiful and strong, and he wondered why the hell he would notice that now.
“I slept with the man who held me hostage. Willingly. I seduced him, because I wasn’t about to be a victim. I stayed in control. I made my own choices,” she said, her teeth gritted at the memory of what she’d done. “I wasn’t forced. They’re going to say that I was and I’m going to have to agree. But that’s a lie.”
What she’d just told him was something she’d never reveal to anyone else. And now she needed the same thing from him. She was daring him really, and he’d never been one to back down from a dare in his life.
She’s not going to remember any of this, so just tell her.
“I killed my stepfather,” he told her.
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE TYLER
HARD TO HOLD
TOO HOT TO HOLD
(Coming December 2009)
HOLD ON TIGHT
(Coming January 2010)
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE TYLER
CO-WRITING WITH LARISSA IONE
AS SYDNEY CROFT
RIDING THE STORM
UNLEASHING THE STORM
SEDUCED BY THE STORM
TAMING THE FIRE
ANTHOLOGIES
HOT NIGHTS, DARK DESIRES
(includes stories by Stephanie Tyler
and Sydney Croft)
For Zoo and Lily—
I couldn’t do this without either of you. And for
my grandfather, who served in the United States Navy,
and whose influence I felt during every step
of writing this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is never a solitary process, and I have many people to thank for their enthusiasm and unyielding faith in me.
First and foremost, a special thanks to my editor, Shauna Summers, for her wonderful insights and guidance through this entire process.
Thanks to everyone at Bantam Dell who helped make this the best book possible, cover to cover—from Jessica Sebor, who always goes above and beyond to help; to the art department, who rock my world with their awesome covers; and to Pam Feinstein, for being such an amazing copy editor.
Special thanks to Boone Medlock and Bryan Estell, whose military insights and personal stories were invaluable.
Thanks to authors Lynn Viehl, aka PBW, and Holly Lisle, for giving so much of their time to mentor and share their own experiences with so many writers via their blogs. I can’t tell you how much this helped me.
Finally, last but never least, thanks to my fellow authors whom I’m proud to call friends: Lara Adrian, Maya Banks, Jaci Burton, Alison Kent, Amy Knupp, and especially Larissa Ione, for all their support in ways too numerous to list.
PROLOGUE
“We want to be in a situation under maximum
pressure, maximum intensity, and maximum danger.
When it’s shared with others, it provides a bond which
is stronger than any tie that can exist.”
—SEAL Team Six Officer
Lieutenant Junior Grade Jake Hansen had already muttered the word motherfucker as many times as he possibly could in under a minute’s time. He’d used it as noun and then a verb, planned on continuing to think of new and inventive ways to utilize it in his vocabulary until his Navy SEAL teammate and best friend finally told him to shut up so he could motherfucking bandage Jake’s bleeding biceps.
It was a flesh wound, but it still hurt—and bled—like hell. Not that he’d ever admit that first part. And there was no way he was stopping, although Nick hadn’t bothered to suggest that. Probably because Nick had been running with a stress fracture along his shin for the better part of the afternoon, at the tail end of a mission that had gone totally to shit after the first five minutes.
Those first five minutes happened three days ago. Now they were intent on getting the hell out of Djibouti, Africa. The water—and the point of convergence with their team sharpshooter, senior chief and CO—was only five miles away.
“Just rebel fire—not aimed at us,” Nick spoke quietly into the mic attached to his headset as the gunfire continued to pop, lighting the backdrop of the night sky to their west.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jake muttered, his anger directed more at himself for letting the bullet catch him than at the random firefight. This country was full of small skirmishes and all-out wars, but none of that had been SEAL Team Twelve’s concern this trip. They’d been forced to scatter to complete their mission to secure the missing equipment and the intel it contained. Now they were headed home.
Nick was still listening to the voice on the other end of his headset, intently enough to make Jake switch on his own earpiece.
“Hostage reported … one klick north … seen and left for dead by the rebels,” the team’s senior chief was saying, although the line was breaking up fast.
“Who reported the hostage?” Jake asked.
“Source was verified reliable. Red Cross relief workers got a call about the incident, and also heard it from the refugees moving north. They were scared to stop and take her—didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’d survived. She’s American. Can you get there?”
“Confirmed. We can get there,” Nick said.
Jake mentally traced the route—one mile back the way they came. Toward the line of fire. He and Nick began to hump it, weapons drawn, and still listening to the report.
“… Senator Cresswell’s daughter … a doctor … first name, Isabelle, last name, Markham … thirty-one … missing and believed kidnapped for seventy-two hours …”
This way, Jake motioned as they cut through some thick underbrush and headed up a path off the main road. It was easy to see how they’d missed the small hut in the first place—it was completely camouflaged by brush and entirely invisible in the dark.
Trap? Nick motioned.
Jake walked the perimeter slowly while Nick followed, weapon drawn. No wires were apparent and when they walked around the front, he saw the structure had no door.
Seen and left for dead. Jake’s stomach had turned on hearing that atrocity, but the reality hit him like a punch to the gut when they actually found Dr. Isabelle Markham. All his doubts about the veracity of the report fell away as he and Nick moved forward into the darkened room. Nick took the sweep, speaking quietly into the mic and Jake turned his off and dropped to his knees beside the prone body.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
She lay on her stomach, hands tied behind her back, cheek to the dusty floor, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t yell. Eyes closed. Pale. Naked. Gingerly, he brushed a hand down the back of her neck. She didn’t stir, and he was frozen.
Nick knelt opposite him, his fingers on Isabelle’s wrist. “There’s a strong pulse,” he said, before he turned to work on freeing her hands.
Jake untied the filthy gag and pulled it out of her mouth. She made a quick gasping sound but didn’t wake up.
“Doesn’t look like there’s head trauma. We need to turn her, make sure she’s not bleeding anywhere,” Nick said. He threw the filthy ropes that had once bound her behind him as Jake unbuttoned his jacket, trying to ignore the fact that his fingers felt like lead, and placed it over her where she lay. There was no way to put it on her fully without actually turning her and exposing her more.
He’d been in the military for eleven years—since he was fifteen, had seen shit both before and after his e
nlistment that could turn a man ugly or crazy or cold.
He’d gone none of those ways, no matter how hard others might argue, but nothing he’d ever seen or done had prepared him for this. Because, even though she was down, Isabelle Markham was not out. He could tell by the set of her shoulders, defiant, even in sleep, could tell by the way her hands were bruised and her nails broken, because she’d fought back. She was still fighting and he wasn’t sure why that affected him so deeply, but it did.
“Can she make the trip?” he asked Nick, who was assessing her facial area with a penlight, and at the sound of his voice, Isabelle stirred and finally opened her eyes. They were a dark hazel, her pupils dilated from fear and pain, and they locked onto his with a force he felt physically.
“Dr. Markham, you’re safe. We’re with the U.S. Navy, and we’re going to get you out of here,” he said, placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Can’t move me,” she whispered, her voice breathless, as if it hurt to speak. “Not far.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Ribs … broken. Too close … to my lung,” she managed. “Not safe.”
“We need a vehicle to take her out of here.”
Nick nodded his assent, then asked, “Ma’am, can we turn you?” even though she was staring up at Jake.
“Yes. Onto … right side,” she whispered after a long moment, as though she realized they’d see her completely exposed.
She’d been through so much already, neither man could stand that she’d have to bear more humiliation. But the fire-fight was drawing closer, and Jake forced his emotions to lose to logic.
“Let’s do it, then. On my count,” he said. “One, two, three.”
He rolled Isabelle to her back as one unit by pushing simultaneously on her hip and shoulder, avoiding her side completely. Nick had already laid the jacket out underneath her and Jake noted a dark bruise by her temple from a blow hard enough to knock her out. Tears streaked her face, fresh ones, and her breathing was labored, and still she held it together.
But when she grabbed at the jacket sleeves, she let out a cry at the pain that small movement gave her.
“I’ve got it,” Jake told her. He eased one of her arms gently into the jacket, and while Nick did the same to the other, Jake made a quick assessment of the injuries he saw on her body.
She was filthy, her body smeared with dirt and blood. He immediately focused on the worst of it, a large mass of bruises on her left side, where she’d indicated the broken ribs. It looked like she’d been kicked and he sucked in air between his gritted teeth and wished he could find the men who did this to her. All of them.
She stared up at him as though she could read his mind and he reached out and buttoned the jacket, covering her body.
The jacket only reached mid-thigh, but she’d already relaxed. Then Jake pulled a clean T-shirt from his bag. One of the only things he had left since they’d been forced to drop nearly everything but their first-line gear to hop and pop their way to the border.
“Dr. Markham, I’d like to put this on you,” he said. She looked at him, slightly confused. “I don’t have any pants for you, but I can put this on so you’re covered.”
“Name?” she asked.
“I’m Lieutenant Junior Grade Jake Hansen,” he said. “And this is Ensign Nick Devane.”
She nodded and Jake wound the shirt between her legs, tying it firmly around her hips. She didn’t take her eyes off him for second, and he maintained as much eye contact as he could.
“You need to try to drink something,” he told her, once he’d pulled the jacket down again.
“Yes,” she said.
He eased her onto her right side and she braced herself with her right arm under her head. Then he offered her water from his canteen, which she took down in small sips, her breath coming faster as she attempted to hydrate.
He was going to have to run an IV. He could give her a light dose of morphine too, for the pain, if she’d help him rule out abdominal injuries. She’d need something if they were going to move her even the shortest distance, because there was no way she was walking out of here on her own two feet.
“Dr. Markham, we’ve got to get you out of this place, at least,” he said.
She shook her head no. Dammit.
Nick had walked toward the door to try to make contact with the team and to assess just how much time, if any, they had to get out of range of the next skirmish headed their way. For right now, it was suddenly all quiet, which worried Jake more than if there had been major fire. Too quiet always equaled trouble.
Nick motioned for Jake to come to him.
“I’ll be right back,” Jake told her. She grabbed his wrist. “I’m not leaving—just moving to that corner. You can watch me the whole time,” he assured her, and she did just that.
“What’s up?”
“No comms,” Nick said. “One of us is going to have to go on ahead and bring back help, unless you want to build a board.”
It was an option—the easier one, probably, but not the best solution for Isabelle. They’d end up jostling her too much and if they got caught along the way, covering her would prove difficult.
“I’ll stay,” Jake said, and Nick, his best friend and brother, looked at him. “Come on, man, this is no time to play big brother on me. Besides, I outrank you.”
“Asshole,” Nick muttered, but he didn’t argue. They were on limited time. Rendezvous with the helo was at 0500. Three short hours away. Keeping Isabelle here was the path of least resistance—it was the safest place, since the rebels thought she was dead already.
“At least move her to the side, out of view of the doorway,” Nick said.
“I’ll do that myself. Go now, before you lose the dark,” Jake said. For a second, the men clasped hands, fist over fist in the familiar ritual they’d been performing since they were eight years old. Nick edged out the doorway, and within seconds Jake lost sight of him.
He immediately turned his attention back to Isabelle.
“I’m going to run some fluids and then give you a small dose of morphine. Then I’m going to lift you—carry you over to the corner,” he told her when he crouched down beside her again.
She nodded, continued watching him prepare the IV and find a strong vein in her forearm. Once he got the bag running, he pinned it to his own shoulder to keep it the correct height and flowing, and then he injected the morphine.
“That should work quickly,” he said. She nodded, and within five minutes she was telling him that he could attempt the short move. He picked her up carefully, ignoring the burning pain in his own arm, watched her face carefully for signs of major discomfort as he transported her five feet to the corner on the right side of the door. The corner where he’d have the best element of surprise if someone came knocking.
When he laid her back down on her right side, he checked her color, her breathing. Labored, but no worse.
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Do you know how long you’ve been here?” he asked as he attached the IV bag to the thatched wall behind her.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday. It’s 0200 hours—close to two in the morning civilian time.”
“Not long. Maybe since this morning.”
Good. That was good. Nick and the others would hump it back within an hour at most, and if Isabelle had made it this long, she could make it just that little bit longer.
He cradled the M4 in his right arm and sat next to her on the floor.
“Why did the other man leave?” she asked.
“He’s going to get help.”
“I thought you were help.”
“Dr. Markham, everything’s going to be fine. You just rest,” he said. But the morphine, mixed with her nervousness, made her more talkative.
“I think we’re on a first name basis,” she said. “You said you were Navy?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think they sent sailors out to rescue hostag
es.”
“I’m with the SEALs, Isabelle. This is the kind of mission we’re built for. You’re going to be fine.”
She nodded slowly. “When will my mother know I’m all right? That I’m alive?”
“She’ll be notified as soon as we can get you out of here. You’re our first priority—not your mother,” he said.
“She wouldn’t be happy to hear you say that.”
“Then it’s a good thing she’s not here.”
“A very good thing … don’t need to hear I told you so, Izzy …”
Sometime during her last sentence, she’d fallen asleep. He waited until her breaths grew even before spending the better part of half an hour getting familiar with her legs, putting antiseptic on the larger lacerations and getting angrier with every bruise he encountered.
His reaction was visceral, on a level so deep he couldn’t explain it or shake it and he had to force himself to cover her legs when he was done. The jacket’s sleeves reached mid-palm on her, but despite the heat, her skin still felt cool to his touch. Shock, probably.
Her dark hair had fallen loose, and as he brushed some of it off her cheeks, his fists tightened on seeing the finger-print-sized bruises along her neck.
She’s going to be fine.
He forced himself to leave her for a few minutes. Staying low to the ground, he checked the door, spent a few minutes assessing the new pattern of gunfire that started up suddenly. The sound came from the opposite direction Nick had run to, and Jake calculated that his teammate should be at the convergence point by now. The problem they’d run into was getting a vehicle, but his teammates were nothing if not resourceful.
When he returned to Isabelle’s side, he found that she’d opened her eyes at the staccato of the now steady machine-gun fire. It was definitely drawing closer. She automatically reached a hand out for his free one, and he let her take it, twine her fingers through his.
Hard to Hold Page 1
