by Trish Loye
“No problem,” Marc said. “You can sleep here?”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
“Like sleeping in a herc,” he said in a casual voice.
She caught herself as she was about to nod agreement. He’d meant a Hercules, a typical troop-carrying plane. Noisy and shuddering, they were not meant for luxury. His gaze was laser-focused on her, even though he kept a congenial smile on his face. From the satisfaction in his eyes, he’d caught the barest twitch of her response.
She forced herself not to react. “Two hours to Bogotá.” She lay back and pulled her cap over her eyes. “Wake me when we’re close.”
Suspicion curled through Marc as Quinn settled herself. If he’d had any doubts that she was more than just an ex-army medic before, he no longer did now. She drifted off into a classic combat nap. Right after she’d barely stopped herself from confirming she’d been on a herc. It was entirely possible that she’d been on one before with a stint in the army but she’d told him it had been a short tour. She had a large skill set for someone who hadn’t been in long.
He stretched his aching leg out, alternating between watching the woman and scanning the countryside and road. Quinn’s breathing was even and deep, as if she trusted him. But if he made a move toward her, she’d be up and at his throat before he knew what was happening, just like that morning.
So who was this mystery woman?
She had medical training of some kind. She’d definitely known how to take care of a bullet wound. And she was almost definitely Scottish, both from her accent and her coloring. So he believed it was the British army she’d trained in.
She had had military training, evidenced in her fighting and weapons skills, her calm under fire, and her coming after him in the jungle when someone was shooting at them. Definitely more than a short stint as a medic. But why wouldn’t she have told him that if she believed him to be an American soldier?
Because she obviously didn’t believe him.
He spent more time studying Quinn as the truck drove east to Bogotá. She was smart, ruthless, and competent. He’d bet she’d had extensive training, most likely all of it military. So what was she doing now with Doctors Without Borders? Why would she waste her talent on a two-bit clinic that mostly helped rebels, criminals, and coca farmers?
If she truly was a do-gooder, why wasn’t she somewhere helping children or refugees? Too many things didn’t add up. He’d been fooled once before by a beautiful, seemingly-nice woman; he wouldn’t be again.
He was going to get some answers. How long had she been a soldier? Why wouldn’t she talk about it? Why had she come to Colombia?
Would she answer questions? Would she expect answers in return?
He sighed. For now, all he could do was follow his gut instinct that he could trust her.
To a point.
10
The slowing of the truck coincided with Marc’s voice. “We’re here.”
Quinn’s eyes opened, and she sat up. A glance at her watch confirmed that the full two hours had passed. They approached the edge of a large city. Mid-afternoon traffic flowed around them.
A cool breeze made her shiver. Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, sat near the Andes Mountains visible to the East. The higher altitude made it much more pleasant during the day. They approached from the north and passed by the airport.
“You didn’t want a nap?” she asked, taking in the traffic and how far into the city they’d come. She’d slept harder than she’d expected, to have not known they’d entered the city outskirts.
That or some part of her had trusted that she was safe.
Her gaze flicked over the man sitting with his injured leg stretched out and his Sig Sauer by his side.
“I slept a lot last night,” he said ruefully. “It was your turn. I need you sharp.”
She nodded. It made perfect sense to the soldier in her, but there was a small part that reveled in the fact that someone had put her needs first. Holy crap, she’d been in this assignment too long. “Thanks,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
“What’s the plan?” She had no doubt that Marc had been thinking while she’d been asleep.
“We need a phone first.” His pant leg stuck to him with dark wetness. He’d obviously pulled his stitches.
“No. First, we need somewhere to clean your leg and get you fresh clothes.” She glanced at the dried mud covering her clothes. “Somewhere we can both get fresh clothes.”
“But—”
“You don’t think you’ll be noticed with blood dripping down your leg?” She scanned the area. Not the greatest part of the city. The cleanliness of the few lodging places they passed looked questionable.
The driver pulled over, barely on the edge of Colombia’s capital. They were too close to the highway, and she stood out, with her too-pale skin and red hair. While it would be hard for Pérez’s men to find them in a city this large, there was no sense in taking any chances. She should get under cover sooner rather than later. She began to tuck her hair under her ball cap.
It was busy here. People walked on the streets, the few restaurants full with patrons seated on patios. A cab spit out passengers across the street.
“We need that cab,” she said.
Marc nodded and didn’t question. They hopped out of the truck. He passed the pickup driver some money while she shouldered her pack and dodged cars to snag the cab.
“Chapinero?” she said, keeping her sunglasses on and her voice slightly lowered. Chapinero was a downtown district where she wouldn’t be pointed out for her red hair. It was just north of the main tourist area, La Candelaria district—the old cobblestoned city known for its colorful architecture.
The taxi driver leered at her before he waved her into the back. She opened the door and glanced over as Marc crossed to her.
He was hiding his limp, but a muscle stood out near his jaw and the corners of his eyes were tight. Wetness made his pant leg stick to the wound.
“You might be right about the priorities,” he murmured.
She just slid into the cab.
It took them about thirty minutes to reach the area of Bogotá she wanted. In that time, she discreetly composed a text to her handler under the guise of checking a map of the city. She told Damien the mission was compromised and she was pulling out. She didn’t mention any details or anything about the evidence Anna wanted her to collect.
He replied almost immediately.
Acknowledged. Wait for instructions.
She snorted. Did he think she was going to hide in her clinic?
“What’s so funny?” Marc asked.
“Nothing.” She couldn’t make out any strain in his voice, but the pain still underlay his expression. “You doing okay?” She took a quick glance at his leg.
“I’ll live.”
“You’d better,” she whispered. “I did not stitch you up to have you die of a fever.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a low, humor-laced voice.
“What hotel?” the cabbie asked.
She couldn’t use anywhere she’d stayed before. She looked at Marc, but he just gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just drive and we’ll pick one.”
The cabbie sighed noisily but did what she said. About ten minutes later, she saw a decent candidate. “Hotel El Lago. What do you think?”
“Looks like a fine establishment,” Marc said, and the cabbie pulled over.
It took only moments for them to pay and get out. Marc tried to hide his wince when he put his weight on his leg. She’d made the right decision to focus first on getting somewhere safe to clean it up. If his leg got infected, he’d be useless to his team and they’d have to hump him out. Plus the medic in her couldn’t leave him with a festering wound.
The Hotel El Lago looked like a three-star hotel that age had dragged down to two stars. It had a sparkling glass front door with a new blue canopy while the brick of the building crumbled at the corners. The main lobby window had the name of the hote
l scrolled on it in faded gold letters. Overall, it gave the impression of an aging B Hollywood star, whose lifted face didn’t match his sagging body.
Quinn paid cash for a single night. The room on the third floor had a queen bed, a desk, and a landline. The bathroom was simple but clean.
“Take off your pants and lie down,” she said briskly, opening her pack and taking out the supplies she’d need.
“Usually I like to be wined and dined first, but for you I’ll make an exception.”
His words made her glance up, a snarky comment on her lips, but she froze instead. He was doing what she’d ordered, undoing his cargo pants. Her heart chose that moment to pretend she was in a sprint for her life, beating so fast that it was hard to hear past the thunder in her ears.
Damn it, she was a professional. She swallowed and looked back down at her kit, sorting through the bandages and the antiseptic she’d need. Cloth swished, and the bed creaked. Her face heated.
Omigod. She was not going to face him like a blushing teenager. Get a grip, Sinclair!
It hadn’t been as bad last night, but now she wasn’t as tired and he wasn’t unconscious. Something about an awake and way too sexy man, lying on a bed waiting for her—
Stop it!
“I need to wash my hands.” She zipped into the bathroom and closed the door so he couldn’t see her, but not enough that she’d have to touch the handle to open it again.
She rolled up her sleeves and proceeded to scrub her hands with the little nailbrush in her kit. The repetitive, familiar action soothed her, lowering her heart rate and calming her thinking. The medic in her took over.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she was calm. She focused purely on the leg wound. Marc sat on the bed in his black boxer briefs and gray t-shirt, his head tilted to the side and a slight smile on his face. As if he knew what had gone through her mind moments ago, how she’d been affected by him undressing, how images of—
“How does it feel?” she asked quickly, stopping her thoughts before they spun down the rabbit hole of bad decisions.
He shrugged. “Fine.”
Liar. Most people would have been crying in pain. He’d only taken ibuprofen after being shot in the leg and then sewn up. She moved closer, keeping her gaze on the blood-soaked bandages while she motioned him to lie back.
She cut off the bandages, her focus on the red edges of the wound and the stitches that had pulled at the skin with all his movement. They hadn’t torn through, though, so she wouldn’t need to restitch. She cleaned it, spread on topical painkiller, and put a light waterproof bandage on. He bent his knee up to allow her to wrap the bandage tight around his thigh to hold it in place.
“This will let you shower without getting your stitches wet. I’ll rewrap it when you’re done.”
“Are you still in the army?” he asked quietly.
Why would he ask that? She glanced up at him as she tucked the ends of the bandage in to secure it. He’d raised himself on his elbows to watch. His t-shirt stretched across his wide shoulders and chest, highlighting the muscle there.
She tore her gaze away and started to pack up her supplies. “No, I got out a long time ago,” she said in a casual voice, as if she didn’t care that he’d asked. “I work for Doctors—”
“Without Borders. Right. I heard that the first time,” he said. “How long ago did you get out? You don’t seem like an ordinary medic.”
She met his gaze, and pure curiosity lurked there. She could find no subterfuge, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It just meant he was good at his job. “Ordinary medics don’t work with MSF,” she said, using the initials of the true name of the organization, Médecins Sans Frontières. She turned away from his skeptical look and snagged a bottle of ibuprofen. She threw it to him, and he caught it one-handed. She brought him a glass of water from the bathroom.
“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate what you’ve done, even if you’re lying to me.”
She widened her eyes as if innocent, even though she seethed inside. It wasn’t as though he was forthcoming with who and what he was. As if he was just an American soldier. But if she questioned him, then that would definitely blow her cover.
Time for a distraction. “I’m going out to get a phone and some clean clothes.”
“I’ll come.” He started to swing his legs toward the floor.
“And pull those stitches completely out?” She shook her head. “Try to trust me to do these simple tasks.” His eyes searched her face, and she sighed. “What’s the worst that I can do? Not come back?”
“There’s a lot worse than that.”
There was a note in his voice. A note of betrayal that told her he’d lived through the worse at least once already.
“You have weapons,” she said. “You have water and power bars. I’m going to get some fresh clothes and a phone. Try being a bit grateful instead.” She strode to the door. “Otherwise I’ll get you a pair of pants in the wrong size, and you can try outrunning the bad guys with a wedgie.”
He barked out a laugh and held up a hand. “Okay, Red. I…trust you.”
He said it as if the words cost him a bit. So instead of snarking back at him, she held his gaze and nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”
As soon as the fiery Quinn McKenzie left the room, Marc swung his legs to the floor. He grabbed his pants and put them back on. Blood-soaked and dirty, at least they were pants. If he had to run, then he sure as hell wasn’t running in his boxers. He pulled on his boots, grabbed his Sig Sauer, and settled back on the bed with the remote. Maybe he could find a game while he waited.
Flicking through the channels on the TV, he found a soccer game and muted the sound. He alternated between lying on the bed and standing by the hotel window, scanning the streets he could see, out of view of those below. And of course he brooded.
What other word was there for his almost obsessive thoughts about a redheaded mystery woman? He went over everything he’d learned about her in the last day.
Could she really just be a simple medic?
Not simple. Never simple.
But was she telling him the truth? Could he trust her?
He needed to contact his team and have them do a background check. He wanted to take what she said on faith. She was a smart, courageous woman who’d saved his life. But his gut told him she was something more than a medic and his gut had saved his life multiple times.
The only thing he knew for sure was that she wasn’t working for Pérez. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he muttered.
If she was a simple medic, then why wasn’t she hightailing it to the British Embassy or the airport? Why was she planning on staying in a country where a crazed drug lord could track her down?
Marc spotted her ball cap on the street below. Her left arm carried two bags, leaving the right one free. To access her weapon. He moved back into the shadows just as she glanced up, as if she could feel his gaze. He made his way back to the bed to wait for her arrival with one thought predominant in his head: Quinn McKenzie was way more than a medic.
She knocked once before she used the key to open the door. She didn’t smile at him when she entered, but her gaze went to his leg and the pants and boots he now wore. “You’ve been up?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “I just felt too exposed lying here without pants on.”
A brief smile flashed across her face. He couldn’t tell whether it was real or not. Why was she helping him? What was her endgame?
He kept all these questions to himself and off his face.
She set the bags down on the desk and dug through them. A pair of light cargo pants and a navy t-shirt landed on the bed.
Practical and efficient. He raised an eyebrow. “First you order me to strip and lie on the bed, and now you’re buying me clothes. I’m beginning to feel like a kept man,” he teased.
She huffed. “Like any woman could keep you.”
He tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?�
�
“You’re obviously a player.” She shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing, and probably for the best when you’re a soldier or whatever you are, but you can drop the charming stuff with me. It won’t work.”
Since when had charming become a bad thing? “As you wish,” he said. “No charm for you.”
She frowned. “You just can’t turn it off, can you?”
He almost grinned. He was getting to her, and he wasn’t even trying hard yet. A part of him wanted to put on the charm, to seduce, to try to get answers. It had worked in the past.
Something stopped him. If he tried to seduce this woman, she might just seduce him right back and leave him bare, bleeding, and wondering what the hell had happened.
But it might be worth it.
“Fine.” He smiled naturally. “I’ll…turn it off.”
She stared at him for a second before she growled something under her breath and turned away. Apparently, she didn’t like his smile. That was a first, but he could deal because she tossed him a phone. He caught it in one hand.
“Call your team. I’m going to shower.” She grabbed her pack and went into the bathroom.
He waited until the shower ran and then listened at the bathroom door for noises. From the water splashes, it sounded as if she was actually taking a shower. He raised his eyebrows. She actually trusted him enough to get naked in the next room.
That thought derailed him for precious seconds. The image of Quinn naked with water sluicing down her body, her gorgeous red hair slicked back, her creamy skin pinkened with the heat, her lips parting…
Fuck, he was actually getting hard outside the bathroom door, like some creepy stalker. He limped back to the bed and grabbed the phone. He had shit to do. Fantasizing about a woman who he wasn’t sure he could trust and who also clearly disdained him was not productive or even sane.
He tapped in a number.
“Yes?” Cat answered, not identifying herself because he was calling from an unknown phone.
“It’s Spooky.”
“Where the hell are you?”
