Hush

by Cherry Adair

  “One phone call.”

  “Right.” Fortunately, she remembered the number of the hotel, since she’d confirmed her early reservation. Twice. Her friends would be there. Worried out of their minds, rallying the police. Sending out search parties …

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

  The men at the table watched her, and she could almost read their minds. She wished she couldn’t. She half turned her back.

  Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

  The dog growled low in his throat as suddenly the phone was plucked from her fingers mid-ring. Fejos was standing right behind her. “Sólo una llamada telefónica,” he told her roughly, tucking the phone into his pocket, then falling back into his chair. He picked up his cards. “You understand? Only one phone call. My telephone is only for police business.” He waved her off as he tossed her twenty into the pot. “Go back to your husband. Where you belong.”

  With an iron ball of dread pitted in her stomach, Acadia left the bar, crossed the narrow street, and reentered the clinic.

  With nothing left to do, she curled up in the bed Zak had been placed on what felt like hours before. She leaned against the hard metal headboard, causing it to clank against the wall every time she moved to pet the dog, who was curled up on her feet. “We are well and truly screwed, Dogburt. But I’m resourceful. I got us here, didn’t I?” She glanced at Zak’s watch, now strapped to her wrist. It was way too big, and the face kept sliding under her wrist, but it seemed to be working now. There were scratches and signs of wear all over the cracked face and strap; it reminded her of Zak. Plenty of scars, plenty of stories.

  She wondered if she’d ever get to hear any of them. “He’s been in surgery for over an hour,” she told the dog, whose cold, wet nose was pressed against her bare foot. “Why’s it taking so—”

  The door to the room crashed against the wall, scaring the dog to his feet on the thin mattress, and Acadia bolted upright. The man, in a terrifying bloodstained apron, his eyes wild, motioned her to come. Quickly. “Señora, señora, dale prisa, su marido está muerto.”

  Acadia sprang off the bed. “God—what—”

  He gestured wildly. “¡Rápido! Entre por aquí!”

  Muerto. As in … Her knees buckled, and she dropped back onto the hard, saggy mattress to stare at him with dull eyes. “Zak is …” Her mouth dried to bitter cotton.

  “Dead?”

  TEN

  Still raining.

  Zak opened surprisingly heavy lids. No. Inside. Not rain. Hard, narrow bed.

  Unfamiliar.

  Jennifer?

  He waited for the typical heavy sensation of loss to lodge in the pit of his stomach; waited for that cold knot to crystallize as it always did on first waking.

  Two beats. Three. It didn’t come.

  He blinked rapidly, but his vision was still blurry and he couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten wherever he was. Had the three of them done the jump from Burj Khalifa’s Spire in Dubai?

  Yeah, a while back.

  Zak frowned. Tibet, about to kayak down the Sanpo River? No. He remembered that trip with Gideon, and several more extreme sports trips the two of them had gone on afterward.

  He flipped through memories like old postcards. Jennifer in Dubai, dark hair blowing, laughing into the wind. That last trip with her. Turkey … smile tight, eyes hard … Haiti—

  Tangled honey-blond hair and soft, smiling gray eyes. The sweet, soft fragrance of night-blooming jasmine …

  Something inside him lightened, flew free.

  Acadia. Venezuela.

  Got it. A surge of relief relaxed his limbs as his brain sluggishly ground into gear, moving him into the present. Not the cell. Not jungle. Tent? He blinked rapidly, his vision slamming back into focus. The smell—disinfectant? A hospital, then. His brain connected the dots.

  Shot.

  From the neat white bandage across his chest and his immobilized left arm, he had to be in a medical unit of some kind.

  What hurt? Nothing.

  The IV hooked to the side of his bed, dripping into his left arm. No pain. Well, that explained his oddly subdued emotions. But it still didn’t tell him where the hell they were. Caracas? Had Acadia actually gotten them back while he’d been out? Impossible. She was good, in a Girl-Scout-be-prepared sort of way, but not that good.

  “Hey?” he said into the semidarkness. No one answered, and he turned his gaze back to the bathroom, where someone was showering.

  Bathroom door ajar, shadowy figure behind a thin plastic curtain, the medicinal smell of cheap soap and chemically treated water. He closed his eyes while he gathered his strength and tried to put the sequence of events together.

  Acadia. His eyes sprang open. Was she—?

  Through the partially open door he saw a quick flash of the curve of her ass, the slope of her back. White-gold skin shimmered in the light as she half turned under the silver streamers of water and light haze of steam.

  He took a deep breath. She was here. Somehow—God only knew how—she’d managed to bring him to a hospital. Primitive, but someone had dug out the bullet and bandaged him up, hooked him to the IV …

  No pain … Tired.

  His lids drifted closed. Exhausted. Brain still not fully engaged, but not willing to disengage completely.

  She confused the shit out of him with her sassy mouth, inexplicable humor, and annoying but endearing preparedness. He’d thought her pockets full of camping trinkets amusing, until their lives had depended on them. Hell, it only proved once again, he was no hero.

  The curtain slid aside as she turned to face him, arms raised above her head, hair and hands covered in white foam. His gaze tracked a blob of lather as it slowly inched its way down the slope of her left breast. His dick stirred beneath the thin sheet.

  Acadia tilted her head under the spray; her hair, slickly darkened by the water, conformed to the shape of her back in a sweet S curve that made Zak’s fingers flex on the sheet. She turned slowly, and the islands of white suds slid over her shiny wet skin in slow motion. Down the slopes of her breasts, suspended for a breathless moment on the soft apricot tips of her nipples, then over, clinging to the plump slope before trailing down the gentle curve of her belly to converge in the soft light brown nest between her thighs.

  Suddenly painfully hard, Zak kept his gaze on Acadia as he slid his hand beneath the sheet. He wrapped his fist around the hard, silken spear of his cock.

  Vaguely he heard the rattle of the pipes when the shower cut off. His hand moved; not optimal, but—She stepped over the edge of the tub. Everything in him froze with … lust? Hell, yeah. But more.

  Yearning.

  Watching her made him feel alive for the first time in—God—longer than two years. A lot longer than two years. He’d been sure Jennifer had killed anything soft and loving inside him. Until Acadia had walked into that cantina wearing a flimsy dress and an open smile … Zak suddenly realized he hadn’t felt a genuine emotion in a long, long time. He sure as shit hadn’t been happy.

  He doubted he could ever express how much he appreciated her saving his ass. She was nothing like Jen. Not only was she genuinely brave, she owned her behavior, had spunk in spades, was loyal to a fault.

  In another time and place …

  The minimum-wattage lighting wrapped her wet skin in a veil of sparkling liquid gold. Zak’s fingers tightened as she bent over, exposing her heart-shaped ass when she wrung the water out of her hair. God, he loved a woman with a sweetly rounded ass.

  At the hotel he’d gripped it in both hands, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pounded into her from behind, flipped her, and took her from the front, her silken legs bracketing his head, his—Zak’s hand moved, up and down. Fast. Faster. His head dug into the flat pillow as his hips arched off the thin mattress. Didn’t want to close his eyes, but Jesus—

  SHOVING A PLASTIC BUCKET under the rusty faucet, Acadia turned on the taps again. With hardly any water pressure, it would take a while to f
ill. She wrapped a threadbare, once-white towel under her arms. It was too small to overlap, exposing a wide V of skin down the front. Leaving the bathroom light on, she walked into the dimly lit room. God, it felt good to be clean. Half an hour before, she’d sat at a spindly table in the mission kitchen with Sister Clemencia and inhaled a spicy meal of pabellón—stewed, shredded meat accompanied by rice, black beans, and what looked like a banana. Filling and delicious.

  Zak lay as she’d left him an hour ago. Sleeping. Thank God. “He scared ten years off my life dying like that,” she whispered to Dogburt, who lay with his nose on his paws beside Zak’s bedside, where she’d instructed him to keep guard. The dog’s eyebrows moved as he tracked her progress to the side of the bed. “And he did die.” Flatline died. Heart-stopped died. Drastic-measures died.

  For a single, eternal second, her world had tunneled into raw, choking fear. And grief—God, she never wanted to watch anyone die ever again.

  She’d done it too many times already.

  “Okay, so jumping on him like that wasn’t my finest hour.”

  She hadn’t gone that crazy even when her father had died. Zakary Stark was a pain in the ass. An arrogant, mirthless robot of a man who had a powerful death wish. “But not on my watch!”

  She’d almost lost him. She shuddered, rubbing goose bumps of residual fear on her arms. Padding over to one of the beds, she dropped the towel on the scrolled footboard and drew on a man’s clean white dress shirt, supplied by Sister Clemencia. It smelled of lye and sunshine as she buttoned it over her damp skin.

  The bathroom was crude and primitive, and not remotely clean. She hadn’t cared. The tepid shower had gone a long way in helping her stay awake and restoring her spirits. The straight-backed chair shoved under the door handle would do the rest.

  The idea of lying down was almost like the freaking Holy Grail, but Zak needed attention before she shut down for a few hours of well-deserved rest. When she was done washing him, she was going to drag one of the other beds beside his, so she could touch him and know if he needed anything in the night; then she’d sleep until someone woke her. Preferably for breakfast.

  Preferably not by kicking in her makeshift lock and kidnapping them. Again.

  Back in the bathroom, she turned off the tap and lugged the half-filled bucket of warm water, with a small piece of strong-smelling soap, to Zak’s side and pulled the sheet down to the end of the bed.

  His body was tanned all over, and perfectly proportioned from his broad shoulders down to his lean hips.

  Acadia grinned, dizzy with exhaustion but amused to see that Zak had his fingers cupped around an impressive erection. “Naughty boy, even dead you want attention.” She carefully moved his hand out of the way, then sluiced the washcloth in the water and rubbed the bar of soap into the fabric.

  “You’re going to be so sorry when you wake up tomorrow and find out that you missed participating in a sponge bath from a half-naked nurse.” She kept her voice as low as possible, so as not to wake him. She ran the cloth over his forehead, inspected the bump and bruise in the iffy light.

  “You could’ve died then. When that goon hit you over the head with the Uzi. Good thing you have such a hard head, Zakary Stark. And now you’ll have one more scar to show off to the ladies on your next adventure.”

  She didn’t like the idea of other women. At all. She kept talking, remembering reading an article somewhere about how even unconscious patients reacted to the soothing sound of a familiar voice. She wasn’t his brother, or his beloved late wife, but she was the only voice around right now.

  “That’s a guy fantasy, right? Playing doctor?” She ran the cloth over his eyelashes, across his nose, and down first one cheek, then the other. His face was prickly with several days’ growth. Even asleep he looked like a guy who could walk down a dark alley knowing nobody would mess with him because his whole demeanor screamed, “I don’t give a shit if I live or die, so get your ass over here and give it your best shot.”

  When a man wasn’t afraid to die, people knew not to mess with him.

  No wonder he was covered in dings and scars.

  Being careful of Sister Clemencia’s dressing, Acadia washed away the dried blood on his throat and long arms; his tough, ropy muscles flexed under her ministrations, looking lethally strong. He had a powerful chest, and she ran her fingers over it lightly. When they’d had their wild marathon of lovemaking back at the hotel a lifetime ago, they hadn’t taken the time to learn. To explore in the dark. Sex had been hard and fast and often.

  She considered it a luxury to be able to look her fill.

  There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His pecs were solid iron, covered by soft, crisp dark hair that ran down between his impressive abs to form a dark nest for his erect penis. Acadia smothered a very un-nurse-like giggle. Holy crap. I mean, wow.

  She turned to the bucket on the rickety table beside the bed, rinsed out the cloth, then turned back to keep on going with Zak’s sponge bath. She took a moment to admire the length, breadth, and sheer scope of him again. Seriously. Wow.

  Without warning, his right hand shot out, his fingers closing around her wrist. Startled, Acadia let out a little shriek and met a pair of gleaming, wickedly hazel eyes not looking in the least bit sleepy.

  “Either stop petting it,” he murmured thickly, “or do something about it.”

  Her gaze shot to his face. His cheeks were flushed. Not with fever, she realized, but with lust. His eyes picked up shards of golden light from the bathroom as he gave her a knowing look.

  “You’re awake,” she accused, trying to tug her hand from his implacable grip.

  “And horny as hell.”

  “I see that. But we can’t—You shouldn’t.” Her brain short-circuited as his heated gaze slide like a caress over her. “No.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked in a wicked grin. “Put your knee on the bed.”

  “Absolutely not,” she told him indignantly. “Two hours ago you were dead, Zak. It took a lot of work to bring you back. You have an IV stuck in your arm. You’re …”

  He stroked his hand down her thigh, then curled his fingers in the sensitive area behind her knee. Delicious and compelling, his touch raised a shimmer of goose bumps on her skin and completely scattered her wits.

  “The harder you make me have to work for it, the more likely I am to rip out this IV, not to mention my stitches.”

  “That’s childish,” she chided. “And as compelling as your sob story is, I’m not having sex with you until you’re IV free, and able to walk out of here under your own steam.”

  “I’m horny now.”

  “And you’ll be horny again,” she told him unsympathetically, running the warm soapy cloth down his left leg. Scar on his knee. Scar on his thigh. Scar on his big toe. “Imagine how traumatized I’d be if we were having sex and you died right in the middle of it. I’d be ruined for life, and there I’d be. In my prime and celibate. Think of what a waste it would be if I could never enjoy sex again because my last lover croaked while we were doing it. No thank you.”

  She moved to the other leg and noticed that his erection was no longer so prominent. Although, with Zak being so large, it was hard to tell.

  “So just relax, knowing no matter how you plead your case, it isn’t going to happen.” She tried to keep her touch impersonal and finished washing him in record time, then pulled the sheet up to cover him.

  “Spoilsport.” His voice was sleepy.

  Acadia carried the bucket back to the bathroom, dumped the water, and turned off the light. Stark white moonlight illuminated the room and reflected off the white walls.

  Zak caught her hand as she stood looking down at him. “Stay.”

  Acadia smoothed his dark hair off his forehead. “I’m not leaving you for a second,” she assured him softly. “Let go so I can drag the other bed next to you.”

  “Share.”

  The beds were far too narrow for two adults to lie side by side, especiall
y when one of them was hooked up to an IV and several beeping monitors. She pulled the second bed up flush to his good side and climbed onto the mattress.

  Dogburt immediately jumped up to curl at the foot of the bed. Acadia stretched out, then slid her hand into Zak’s. His breathing was even; his hand felt cool to the touch. The monitors beeped steadily on the other side of him. He wasn’t—thank God—dead. She sent up a little prayer of gratitude, then lay there staring at the moonlit ceiling.

  She was wide awake, wired with residual adrenaline and waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop fear. Where were Piñero and her men? How soon could Zak be moved? How was he to be moved? Where was she going to find the money to pay someone to—

  “Stop thinking so hard. I can practically hear your mind doing wheelies.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Your thoughts are keeping me wide awake.”

  He wasn’t wide awake at all. His voice was a little thick. Understandable under the circumstances; he was being pumped full of antibiotics and other drugs after his death-defying stunt this afternoon. “Talk to me.”

  Acadia rolled over to face him. “Tell me how you got this scar.” She touched the small scar on his temple gently. The cut beside it—where he’d been knocked unconscious—was healing, the swelling had gone down, and the whole area was bruised yellow and blue.

  “Wake-boarding in Bulgaria. An awesome ride that unhappily ended on the rocks. Worth it, though. That one gave me a few of the dings on my legs as well.”

  “Crazy man. Why do you do it?”

  He smiled. “You never feel more alive than when your heart goes manic and you stand on that fine line, challenging fate to a duel. There’s a rush, a feeling of euphoria that’s hard to describe.”

  “Why does your brother think you have a death wish?” she asked softly, sifting her fingers through the silky strand of hair at his temple. “He gets the same rush as you do.”

  “Jennifer …”

  What about Jennifer? Acadia was dying to know who this woman had been to have such a strong hold on her husband years after her death. “How long were you married?”