The Doctor's Guardian & Tempted By His Target

by Marie Ferrarella

  But she wasn’t being fair, and she knew it. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m just tired, and hungry, and …”

  … not used to being shot at, or depending on strangers.

  Although she didn’t say that last part out loud, he seemed to understand where she was coming from. His face relaxed and they continued moving forward. “I’m hungry, too. What do you want to eat when we get there?”

  She shrugged. “Tehuantepec is pretty rustic. They’ll have traditional Oaxacan food, nothing fast or fancy.”

  He made a sound of approval. “I’ll order one of everything.”

  Although they kept a steady pace, the heat wore them down. The pothole-riddled roadway seemed endless. Isabel would have preferred a shorter walk, but she couldn’t regret leaving the car. Sitting inside it had become unbearable.

  “Tell me about your family,” he requested.

  “My family?”

  He gave her a curious look. “Brothers, sisters, parents. You know.”

  “I have a mom.” “Is that all?”

  She nodded, self-conscious. “Does she look like you?” “Yes.”

  “Beautiful?”

  Her stomach fluttered at the compliment. Although she’d been called that, and compared to her mother many times, the words had never … soaked in … until now. “Everyone says so. She used to be an actress.”

  “Really? Movies or TV?”

  “Both, but mostly Spanish-language horror films. Nothing you’d know of.”

  He looked impressed, nonetheless. And she cursed herself for saying too much. “Where were you born?”

  “Santa Monica.” A harmless lie. She’d been born at her dad’s posh mansion in Beverly Hills, but her best memories were of the little bungalow by the pier where she’d been raised. “How about you?”

  “San Diego.”

  She’d figured he was from California. The accent was unmistakable and he had that West Coast vibe. The fact that he wasn’t an Angelino relaxed her nerves a little. Most San Diegans didn’t hang out in L.A., and vice versa, so it was unlikely that she’d run into him during her party years.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a Raiders fan.”

  She shook her head, sighing. “My dad was.” Football wasn’t on the list of American things she missed, but she wouldn’t mind snuggling up next to Brandon at a game. Another impossible fantasy.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died.”

  His brows drew together. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, and it was. In that sense, Mexico had been good for her. She’d been forced to clean up her act and grieve, rather than masking the pain. She could run away from the authorities, but she couldn’t escape her feelings.

  He talked of inconsequential things for the next few miles, the surfing spots he’d heard about in Guatemala, and his interest in the local archaeology. It finally dawned on her that he was trying to put her at ease, and that his calm attitude was deceptive. Although his natural confidence made him seem relaxed, this wasn’t his idea of a good time.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” she said suddenly. He looked stricken. “You think I’ll ditch you on the side of the road?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “I just … don’t want you to feel obligated.” “I don’t feel obligated.”

  Isabel didn’t believe him, but she dropped the subject. The only other reason he could have for standing by her—sexual attraction—made her even more uncomfortable. And not because she didn’t feel the pull. If he showed an interest in her tonight, she might leap on him. Or she might pass out from exhaustion as soon as she saw a bed.

  It was almost dusk when they arrived, and their presence garnered little attention, as Tehuantepec didn’t thrive on tourism. The bus station had closed, but the schedule was posted. They could leave bright and early tomorrow.

  Hotel accommodations were few and far between. Isabel spotted an old colonial near a corner café. As they walked toward it, her stomach growled at the prospect of a sit-down dinner. Across the street, there was a small pharmacy, its lights on.

  “Do you have any sunglasses?” she asked Brandon.

  “No. I left them in Puerto Escondido.”

  “What about a hat?”

  “Just a baseball cap. It’s in my pack.”

  “Wait here,” she said, ducking into the pharmacy. She found the items she needed quickly and came back out. Although he didn’t ask what she’d purchased, she showed him the box of semipermanent black hair color.

  “You going gray already?” he asked, studying her dark locks.

  “It’s for you. Your hair and eyes are too noticeable. Even with a hat on, you’ll stand out from other men.”

  “I will anyway. I’m a head taller than the average Mayan.”

  “These people are Zapotec.”

  “Whatever. They’re short.”

  She put the dye back in the shopping bag and handed Brandon a pair of cheap sunglasses. He donned them, smiling wryly. They weren’t stylish, but they covered the bruise under his left eye and the bandage above it.

  Inside the hotel lobby, she did the talking while he stood in the shadows, his hands shoved in his pants pockets. Unfortunately, there was only one room available, a single. Isabel was surprised the hotel was full on a weekday during the off-season, but she was too tired to look elsewhere. After securing lodgings for the night, they continued to the café and collapsed in chairs on the outdoor terrace, dusty and disheveled.

  Brandon didn’t bother with the menu. “You order for me.”

  She browsed the selections, which were few. “Do you like mole?”

  “I like anything with meat in it.”

  When the waiter came, she asked him for two house specials, which included a hearty vegetable soup and fresh bread, served with green tomatillo salsa. After they devoured that, he brought two heaping plates of shredded chicken slathered in rich, dark sauce. Black mole, a staple of the area, had a bold, complex flavor with a hint of chocolate.

  Brandon cleaned his plate, abandoning any attempt at conversation. Isabel smiled when he was finished, pleased that he’d enjoyed the dish as much as she had. They’d both eaten with more gusto than grace.

  He leaned back in his chair, looking somewhere between satisfied and chagrined. “I think I’d have growled at the waiter if he’d passed by.”

  She laughed a little, taking a sip of her agua fresca. The light, refreshing guava juice complemented the spicy meal perfectly. “One day with me, and you’ve already become uncivilized.”

  He drank from his own glass, his mouth wry. “I wasn’t that civilized before we met.”

  No, she thought, remembering his bared teeth and straining muscles as he choked Carranza’s man into submission. He wasn’t.

  They fell into a charged silence, sipping their drinks and watching the sunset fade from passion-orange to deep pink. After the day they’d had, she should have been drowsy, but the food and exercise revived her. Or maybe it was the company. When she thought about sharing a bed with him again, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

  Brandon wasn’t in a hurry to get back to the hotel room, but they had to stay out of sight as much as possible.

  And staring at her from across the table was becoming a serious test of his willpower. She looked beautiful in profile, her dark hair tied at her nape. Every time she took a sip of juice, his attention was drawn to her lips. She had a delicious mouth. Her words fascinated him, too. She revealed so little about herself; it was only natural for him to crave more. She was a very sexy enigma.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from her face.

  She nodded, rising to her feet.

  He tossed a few bills on the table and waited for her to precede him, stifling the urge to place his hand at the small of her back. This wasn’t a date. It was better than any first date he’d been on, and he’d never felt so at
tuned to a woman, but that didn’t mean either of them were getting lucky tonight.

  He wasn’t used to spending every waking moment with a target, and he didn’t know how to handle it. The more intelligence he gathered on Isabel, the more conflicted—and infatuated—he became. Most of what she’d told him earlier had been truthful, other than the little white lie about where she was born. It was obvious that she missed her mother. She also seemed so innocent compared to her wild child persona. Izzy Sanborn had posed boldly for men’s magazines; Isabel Sanchez blushed at a simple compliment.

  From what he could tell, Izzy had wielded her sexuality like a blunt object. Isabel was subtler, but no less dangerous. Her sex appeal crept up on a man, killing him with a whisper-soft caress.

  They walked the short distance to the hotel and ascended the stairs. She’d secured a room that overlooked the street. When she opened the door, her face fell. It was even smaller than last night’s room, with a modest bed and a set of dresser drawers.

  Brandon took the space near the window, his back to her. If he looked out at the street, he could avoid looking at her.

  She disappeared in the bathroom. A moment later, the shower faucet came on.

  He tried not to imagine water sluicing down her naked body. Unfortunately, he’d studied photos of her in various states of undress, and he couldn’t erase what had already been burned into his brain.

  Groaning, he leaped to his feet and left the hotel, jogging across the street to the pharmacy. There he bought a pay-per-use cell phone and sent a quick text to his boss. He wasn’t supposed to work more than twelve hours without making contact. When he returned to the hotel, she was still in the bathroom. The sound of the shower faucet morphed into a faint sloshing of water. After puzzling over it for a few seconds, he realized she was washing something in the sink, probably clothing. A few moments later, she came out wearing a towel.

  “It’s all yours,” she said, nodding at the bathroom. She clutched the towel to her chest, holding a small bundle of wet clothes.

  He took a cold shower that didn’t cool him off in the least. Taking Isabel’s lead, he scrubbed his shirt and shorts with bar soap. Hanging the shirt up to dry, he put the shorts back on, along with his dusty cargo pants. There was no sense in washing a pair of trousers that wouldn’t dry by morning.

  Isabel knocked on the door. “Brandon?”

  He gave himself a warning look in the mirror before he answered. Don’t touch her.

  Because of their respective heights, her eyes were level with the center of his chest as he opened the door. His muscles tightened on instinct. She dragged her gaze up to his, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “Do you want to use this hair dye?”

  He didn’t want that crap in his hair. Or her hands on him, for that matter. His nerves were as taut as a bowstring, and she looked like a wet dream in that damp towel. He moistened his lips, studying her smooth, suntanned skin.

  “It’s the cheap kind, so it probably won’t last long,” she said. “And you can always get it removed in the States.”

  Anything that helped them blend into the crowd was worth it, so he nodded his assent, standing aside to let her in. While she mixed the ingredients in a small plastic tray, he took a seat on the closed lid of the commode. He examined the terry cloth knot between her breasts, half hoping it would come undone. Tendrils of dark hair clung to her neck, leaving beads of water on her bare shoulders.

  There were mental tricks he’d learned, survival techniques in the event of capture and torture. With a little effort, he could direct his mind elsewhere. But he didn’t. He stared at the hem of her towel, mesmerized. If he inhaled deeply enough, maybe he could catch a trace of her sweet female scent.

  “Your face looks better tonight,” she murmured.

  His eyes rose to meet hers, curious. “The bruises, I mean.” He touched the bandage at his temple. “I’ll leave that on another day. Unless it’s bothering you.”

  “No,” he said, dropping his hand.

  “Good.” She stepped forward, wielding a tray of dye and a little brush. “I have to do the edges first.”

  He sat still while she applied black gunk to his hairline. She was much too careful, as if worried about displeasing an important customer. Biting her lower lip in concentration, she brushed on the dye, making him tilt his head this way and that. When this first step was completed, she put on a pair of clear plastic gloves and got down to business. Grabbing a small handful of paste, she worked it into his hair.

  Brandon expected to have trouble with her proximity, but he hadn’t anticipated enjoying her touch so much. It felt like she was massaging his head, caressing him with circular motions. Tantalized by the fact that her body was naked under the towel, and her breasts mere inches from his face, he couldn’t control his response. She was standing between his open thighs, her legs bare all the way up to there. If her towel fell open a few inches …

  He groaned, clenching his hands into fists.

  “Does your head still hurt?” she asked, pausing in concern.

  “No.”

  She gentled her touch anyway, killing him softly. He couldn’t have been more aroused if she’d been stroking his erection. It was as though his scalp had a direct connection to his groin, and his entire body reacted, his gut tightening, spine tingling.

  Weakened by desire, he allowed the nearly nude photos of her to spring to the forefront of his mind. There was one picture in particular that stood out to him as painfully erotic. She’d been straddling a surfboard in a fishnet bikini. Her right hand was draped across her breasts, left cupped over her sex. Without their strategic placement, the photo could have been called pornographic.

  She finished the job and stepped back, studying her work. “Good thing your eyebrows are kind of dark.”

  His beard stubble came in dark, too, although it wasn’t anywhere near black. He might have to shave if the difference was glaring.

  Removing her gloves, she tossed the mess into the trash. After waiting a few minutes for the dye to set, she said, “Put your head in the sink.”

  He leaned over and let her rinse the excess dye from his hair. When he straightened, she rubbed a dry towel over his head and left it hanging around his shoulders. Then she retreated, giving him room to stand. “See how it looks.”

  “I don’t care how it looks.”

  She flinched at his gruff tone, totally unaware of the effect she had on him.

  His gaze wandered from her frowning mouth to the terry cloth knot between her breasts, analyzing the resistance of both barriers. Her confusion faded into understanding and she stilled, sucking in a sharp breath. He remained silent, letting her decide what to do about their predicament. She could walk away. He couldn’t even stand.

  Moistening her lips, she brought a trembling hand to her chest. For a quick, hot second, he thought she might let the towel drop. He pictured her untwisting the terry cloth and standing naked before him, offering herself. In the next heartbeat, he’d have her legs around his waist and her back against the wall.

  But she didn’t loosen her towel; she clutched it tight. “I can’t.”

  That made two of them. “Why not?”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It’s complicated.”

  His raging hormones disagreed. They said it was as easy as unbuttoning his trousers and urging her down on his lap.

  “I like you—”

  “I like you, too.”

  Her eyes filled with anguish. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Then let me get to know you,” he said, frustrated. “Why won’t you tell me what those assholes want? What have you done that’s so bad?”

  She let her shoulders rest on the wall behind her, staring up at the ceiling. “They think I killed someone.”

  “Did you?”

  Her gaze reconnected with his. “I don’t know.” “How can you not know?” “I was drunk. And high. I—feel responsible.” He believed her. “This happened in the U.S.?” She crossed
her arms over her chest, refusing to say more.

  He wanted to advise her to go to the police, and promise to help her, but that kind of conversation wasn’t permitted in his line of work. Tipping off a subject was an egregious offense, worse than seducing one.

  And, although he felt certain that she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderess, he couldn’t trust her not to hit him over the head and bolt.

  When he’d recovered well enough to stand, and to touch her without losing control, he rose to his feet. Cupping her chin with one hand, he tilted her face up to look at him. “Let’s try to get some rest,” he said, brushing his lips over hers, very gently. “Trust me on this. Everything will be okay.”

  Her eyes shone with tears, but she nodded, accepting the lie as easily as he’d told it. They turned off the lights and climbed into bed, both longing for what they couldn’t have. Almost an hour later, her breathing turned soft and steady. He rose from the bed to stare out the window, feeling twice as conflicted as the night before.

  Chapter 7

  Isabel woke at dawn.

  Once again, Brandon’s side of the bed was empty. He was standing in the dim light by the window, looking down at the street below. “Buenos días,” he said in a gruff voice, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  The towel she was wearing must have fallen away as she slept, because she was naked beneath a thin sheet.

  Sometime during the night, he’d covered her.

  She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Had he looked his fill before leaving the bed? Maybe it had been too dark to see anything until now.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, flushing a little. Last night she hadn’t been plagued by nightmares of dead and dying men. A very healthy, very vibrant fantasy of Brandon had invaded her dreams instead. Her tummy quivered at the possibility that she’d moaned his name or writhed against him, insensible.

  “I don’t think the café is open,” he said, “but we can buy breakfast from a street vendor on the way to the bus station.”

  She nodded, wondering how to get up without exposing herself further. Her towel was draped over the edge of the mattress, but she couldn’t put it on without letting the sheet drop. He followed her gaze, understanding the dilemma.