Revulsion gagged her as rough hands dragged her toward the outdoor shower area reserved for the guards. There she was forced to strip off her pants and, completely naked, was shoved under the solar shower with a block of coarse soap.
She was beyond mortified as the guard watched her, beyond resigned to her fate as she scrubbed her body like an automaton, then rubbed the soap over her matted hair to work up a lather. When she had finally succeeded in removing over a week's worth of dirt, sweat, and grime, the guard shoved a blanket that felt like burlap into her hands.
Grateful, she wrapped the rough cloth around her body sarong style and secured the ends between her breasts.
As she'd stood under the spray, she had tried to prepare herself for what would come next. The thought sickened her, but she could do it. She could prostitute herself to this man and maybe buy her freedom. It wasn't as if she had a choice. She was weak from lack of food, exhausted and sapped of her strength. He was going to do what he wanted anyway; she had to try to work it to her advantage.
She swallowed hard as she was marched back across the compound and past the block of tents set up on the perimeter. One was reserved for the general. She'd gotten glimpses of communication equipment in another. There was the cook tent where the general's meals were prepared. The fourth was a barracks for the guards. The fifth was reserved for important visitors. Since she'd been here, she'd seen two other Asian men--both businessmen, judging by their clothes--come and go. One had spent the night in the tent she was being taken to now.
"It's about damn time," the American grumbled when the guard shoved her inside. "Sit. I've ordered food. It should arrive any moment."
Her stomach growled involuntarily, and hope rose out of the ashes of her degradation. He was going to feed her. That had to be good, right?
Seconds later, the general announced himself outside the tent flap and entered, followed by his aide, who set a tray heavy with covered dishes on a small, low, wooden table.
"Excellent. For stamina," the American said, giving her a predatory wink. "Can't have you passing out when things get a little rough."
Nausea roiled in her stomach. She hated the police who had arrested her. Hated the judge who had sentenced her, and the guard who'd delighted in beating her. But this man was the vilest of all. His arrival had raised her hopes of rescue, but he'd turned out to be one more insult to her safety and her sanity. For that, she felt more contempt for him than she did for her captors.
With their big whips and bigger guns, they at least looked the part of villains. This tall, unreasonably handsome American with the perfectly styled dark hair, deep brown eyes, and easy smile was evil and deception incarnate. Pretty on the outside but, inside, nothing but ugliness and depravity.
"Well," the American said, digging into his backpack, then tossing a string of foil packets onto the table, "let's get this party started."
He moved toward the tent flap, all long limbs and athletic grace, then indicated with a lift of his hand that the general could leave now. His smile said he had an agenda that didn't include spectators.
The general hesitated, then with a glare at Carrie that clearly said, "Please him or else," he and his aide left.
CAV WATCHED CARRIE Granger's face as she stood awaiting her fate. Whoever had said that eyes were a window to the soul could have been talking about hers. Those blue eyes said volumes about her opinion of him. They also told him that despite the horror she'd gone through, she hadn't given up. She still had some fight left in her. Clearly, she would like to gut him, skin him, then burn him alive. After she cut off his balls.
But she was smarter than that. Even though she saw him as a bastard who had bought her for sex, she understood that he was still her best chance for a ticket out of hell.
Much as he wanted to reassure her, he needed to keep her in the dark until he was certain she wouldn't give him away. The general had left guards outside the tent and they could potentially hear everything that happened inside.
"Eat." He pointed toward the table.
Her gaze cut to the food. He could see how badly she wanted and needed it, and how desperately she fought the hunger.
Her control broke and she turned venom-filled eyes back to his face. "I'd rather eat dirt."
She might be half starved, beaten down by exhaustion and fear, but she still had grit to spare. Good. She was going to need it.
Keeping her in sight, for fear she might attack him if he turned his back on her, he walked over to the table that held the food and his backpack. He fished around inside the pack and came up with a notebook and pen.
"You're American," she said letting go of her animosity long enough to appeal to him. "Please. You have to help me." The slight hint of a Georgia drawl colored her words. "If you can't take me with you when you leave, please, please get a message to my family. Or to the U.S. embassy--"
"I'm not your good Samaritan, sweetheart, so save your breath," he snapped for the benefit of any ears outside the thin tent walls.
If she'd wanted his balls before, she wanted his heart now. On a stake.
He quickly wrote in the notebook, then held it out to her.
"Go ahead, take it," he said, knowing that anyone who might be listening would assume he was offering food. "Take it," he demanded harshly.
Eyes wary, she slowly reached out a hand and, after shooting another distrustful glance his way, lowered her head and read his note.
Don't react. Wyatt sent me. I'm here to get you home.
Her head flew up. Her eyes widened with hope and disbelief as she frantically searched his face for confirmation that it was true.
Cav pressed his finger to his lips in warning. One wrong word, one careless action, and this whole thing could blow like a block of C-4.
He reached for the note, tugged it out of her frozen grip, and added, Play along, Carrie. It's going to be okay.
After she read it, she just sort of crumpled. He caught her as her shoulders sagged and her knees buckled.
"Easy," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her sob. "Keep it together. You've made it this far. We're going to get you out of here."
Small hands pressed against his chest, and her fingers tightened in a death grip on his shirt. "Don't... don't leave me... here."
Aw, God.
He'd always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. Always had a great appreciation for the softness and the strengths and the surprises inherent to women. But never had he been so utterly and unexpectedly moved as he was by the collapse of this strong woman's guard and the raw desperation that caused it.
Careful of the bruise he'd seen on her ribs, he drew her tighter against him because it felt as though she were coming apart in his arms.
"When I leave, you leave," he promised against her damp hair, and then he felt a subtle shift back to strength in the fragile body pressed against his.
If her momentary collapse had shaken him, her valiant effort to regroup humbled him. Though her body felt delicate and slight, she possessed rock-solid core strength.
Every protective instinct in him roared to life like an enraged lion. No woman should ever have to go through this hell. He fought the knee-jerk burn to make the bastards pay for what they'd done to her. Pay with their blood. Make them sorry they'd ever laid a hand on her. He wanted it with a fervor that had him shaking.
He needed to get a grip. He'd let things get way too personal, way too touchy-feely way too fast. Not his MO. So why?
He swallowed hard, recognizing with brutal honesty that this wasn't just about her. It was also about turning his back on the CIA when this was over, about dealing with the demons that constantly baited him with the promise of oblivion in scotch.
And it was about Carrie Granger not being the only American on this mountain in need of rescue.
He drew a deep breath and made himself disengage. Now was not the time to indulge in the mind fuck of self-pity. And until he could get a handle on what was happen
ing with his head he needed to be very careful around this woman.
"It's going to be okay," he promised her, surprised at the gruffness in his voice. Surprised again when he lifted a hand and gently brushed a fall of blond hair out of her eyes. "Take it to the bank, Carrie. You're going to be okay now."
"Thank you." A world of gratitude, relief, and trust shimmered in her eyes.
Eyes so brave and true, he found himself praying he deserved that trust.
Praying? Hell, he didn't pray. And even if he did, prayer wasn't going to get them out of this. Keeping his head in the game was. Starting now.
"Eat," he said forcefully for the benefit of the guards. "We need to get some protein in you."
This time she didn't hesitate. With one hand latched in a death grip on the blanket between her breasts, she rushed to the table and sat down on the woven matting that covered the dirt floor. Then she tore into the soup, white rice, and chicken curry.
He'd been hungry himself before, but he'd never understood the term ravenous until he watched her eat.
"Easy," he cautioned. Ignoring the warning alarms telling him not to, he reached for the whiskey bottle the general had left. He poured a tall shot and downed it in one swallow. "Slow down or you're going to make yourself sick."
He watched her get control again. Couldn't help but notice that despite the brutality of her captivity, there was no disguising how astonishingly beautiful she was. The bones always told, and hers were amazing. She had high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, and a cupid's bow upper lip that just begged for attention.
Christ.
He thought about hitting that bottle one more time... but he knew where that road led and the last thing he wanted to do was let this woman down.
Five
Daylight had faded, and the inside of the tent was cast in shadows by the time she'd eaten her fill, savoring every bite. Cav understood. It was as much about nourishment for the soul as it was for her body.
Her body.
She was naked beneath the blanket. He did his damnedest not to think about it. Or to remember the generous perfection of the breasts the guards had brutally forced her to bare.
What he needed to think about were the bruises crisscrossing her shoulders and back. The angry welt on her rib cage, just below her left breast. The cuts on her feet, the blisters on her hands.
A motor roared to life in the distance, and a bare bulb flickered to dim life overhead. He'd noticed the gas-powered generator on the other side of the camp earlier. Its noise would provide partial cover for their conversation.
"How are you, physically?" he asked, still cautious, leaning in close so they wouldn't be overheard.
"Much better now."
"Infections? Fever? Anything broken?"
She shook her head, and the ends of the blanket picked that moment to slip and fall away from her breasts. She reached up and caught it, but not before he got a glimpse of a dusky rose nipple.
"I need to check your ribs."
Her face flushed pink in the pale light. "It's just a bruise."
"The skin is broken."
Her eyes met his, beseeching.
He got it. She was humiliated over the way they'd stripped her, then held her there for everyone to see her naked from the waist up.
Yeah, he got it, but he couldn't give her a pass. Besides, he had to start acting the part of the paying customer. Daylight had actually provided more anonymity inside the tent than the night did. The overhead light, anemic as it was, cast their shadows against the tent walls for inquisitive eyes to see.
"Trust me," he mouthed and sat down cross-legged beside her. "On my lap."
Her eyes widened, suspicion rampant on her face as she glanced at the strip of condoms he'd dropped on the table earlier.
"They're props," he assured her quickly. "If you talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk to convince the bad guys. Trust me," he whispered again, and nodded toward the tent wall.
He saw the moment she understood. Just like the condoms, this was for show. Whoever was out there would see their shadows and assume they were watching a man having his way with a woman.
Very gingerly, she moved toward him and settled herself sideways on his lap, her right side pressing against his chest.
She was tall and lean, and while she'd doubtless dropped some weight during her captivity he was very much aware that she still had plenty of curves.
"That's more like it, baby." Even if the guards didn't understand English, they'd recognize his lewd tone. "How about a little gratitude for getting you out of your cage for the night?"
She stiffened but let him pull her against him.
"Easy," he whispered, pressing his mouth against her ear and trying not to think about her firm ass nestled up tight against his groin. "Once we make our break, we have to head through some rough territory. In this climate, in this terrain, even a small cut is ripe for infection."
She turned her face toward him, her mouth very near his. Anyone outside watching their shadows would think she was letting him kiss her. "When? When are we leaving?"
The anxious edge in her voice made it clear she wanted him to say "now."
"When I say it's time." He ran his hand over her hair to enhance the visual, then stroked her shoulder and reached down to her thigh. "Now I need to look at those ribs."
She stiffened involuntarily and he made himself slow down.
"You trust Wyatt, right?"
She swallowed, then nodded.
"And he trusts me to get you out of here. You need to follow his lead. Let's just get this over with so we can move on."
She closed her eyes and, in what must have taken formidable effort, lifted her right arm and wrapped it around his shoulders.
Progress. Only he was the one shaken now. He'd asked for her trust and now that he had it, it felt like a Mack truck had just parked on his shoulders.
"What about the others?" she asked tentatively. "When we go, we can't just leave them here."
Cav had already thought about releasing the workers, creating a little pandemonium to buy them some time, and then he'd thought better of it.
"If we release them when we make our break, it will wake up the entire camp. The guards will come out shooting and a lot of people will get gunned down. We'll do more harm than good." He saw the compassion in her eyes and felt regret in his gut.
"But--"
"No discussion, Carrie. We go out alone tonight. But I promise you this: I'll be back." He had made that decision the moment he'd set foot on the mining site. When the time was right he would get these poor souls out of here. Until then, he'd be haunted by the dead eyes that had looked right through him.
"Take it to the bank," he assured her. "I'll be back with a team to get them out."
The regret in her eyes slowly transitioned to grim acceptance.
After a long, quiet moment, she finally relaxed enough to lean against him. Like a lover. Like a woman who knew what the action would do to a man.
The tent was warm. Her skin was hot. Flickering light played along the slender line of her throat and the gentle slope of her shoulder. Her thigh was warm beneath his hand, and her weight was all woman and enticing on his lap. In the moment, the idea that she'd been summoned to his tent as a sexual diversion felt a little too close for comfort.
He still didn't understand why he was having such a strong reaction to her. She was just another woman in a long line of them.
"How do you know Wyatt?" she asked quietly.
"Long story. We can talk about it later," he said, then warned her so she could prepare herself. "I'm going to pull the blanket away now."
Louder, he said, "Okay, doll. Let's have another look at the merchandise... Nice," he said when the blanket pooled around her hips.
She closed her eyes and covered her breasts with her free arm, a small concession to her modesty and an action that would appear seductive from the outside looking in.
Hell, it was seductive. And it was very...
southern. Like her voice. And very sweet.
Yet she was very, very tough, he conceded as he probed her bruises and she barely flinched.
"Give me a groan," he whispered. "A loud one. And make it sexy." If nothing else, it would give her a cover for the pain he knew he was inflicting.
She hesitated but then gave it her all.
"Oh, God," she whispered, lowering her head. "That sounded ridiculous."
He smiled against her hair. "Trust me. They're panting out there."
"Then they're sick."
He chuckled softly. "Tell me what you can about the camp routine. When do the guards change shifts?"
Her breath was warm against his throat as she leaned farther into him to enhance the show. "They change around eleven and again around seven. Maybe also around four in the afternoon. That's as close as I can figure, judging by the position of the sun."
"Good observations. I counted around twenty guards."
"Twenty-four," she corrected.
"All with automatic weapons," Cav muttered absently as he lowered his mouth to the curve of her throat and traced her ribs with his fingertips in search of more injuries. "And there are what... a hundred and forty, maybe a hundred fifty workers?"
"Something like that."
"I saw five vehicles. Two trucks, two old jeeps, and the sedan that brought me here. That sum it up?"
She nodded. "They use the trucks to transport supplies, fresh troops, and new batches of workers. The general makes use of the two jeeps to move around the mine site."
He traced the welt that ran from just below her left breast, under her arm, and around her back, where it stopped under her shoulder blade. Her skin was very soft. Her bones extremely fine. And damn...
She sucked in a quick, pained breath when he pressed at the swelling.
"Bad?" He studied her profile with concern.
She bit her lower lip, shook her head in denial of the pain.
"You're not much of a liar," he whispered, then said in a louder voice, "It's okay, baby. You can scream if you like it. Turns me on."
What came out was more of a growl but she stuck to her guns about the pain. "It's better than it was."
Yeah, he was right about the tough part. And she was very sexy, too.
He backed away from that thought in double time. Wrong time, wrong place, and Jesus, wrong thinking. Damn, he wanted another drink.
Deadly Promises Page 13
