Breaking Point (13 page)

As mementos of the wonderful time she had in Mexico? Great idea, McBride.

He paid with the credit card, then carried three bags stuffed with purchases back to the elevator and up to their room. There he found Natalie sound asleep, still wearing only her towel. It looked as if she’d simply collapsed on the bed and fallen asleep the moment he’d left. He couldn’t blame her.

He dropped the bags on the floor, locked and bolted the door. Then, barely able to stay on his feet, he propped an AK against the wall next to the headboard, put the Glock on the bedside table, and stretched out on the bed beside her.

 

NATALIE AWOKE FROM a dreamless sleep to the sound of someone taking a shower. She opened her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t figure out where she was. It was the sight of the hunter green duffel bag—and the weapons inside—that brought it all back to her.

She sat bolt upright, only to realize she was wearing nothing but a towel. The indentation in the pillow next to hers told her that Zach had slept beside her all night. Slept beside her—and apparently hadn’t touched her.

Still sleepy, she rose, wondering where she’d left her clothes. Then she spotted a pile of women’s clothing on a chair in the corner and remembered Zach saying he was going down to the lobby to buy them a few things. A
few
things?

A small wardrobe sat there, the tags still on—panties, skirts in a rainbow of colors, blouses, T-shirts, a pair of linen pants, and a white silk nightgown. She reached out, touched the different fabrics, surprised that he’d bought so many things for her. Even without looking at the prices, she knew this must have cost him a few hundred U.S. dollars. This was a lot more clothing than she’d need for the single day it would take to drive to the border, unless . . .

Unless he doesn’t plan on driving to the border.

Her heart gave a hard knock. She looked over at the closed bathroom door and wondered for a moment if she should take this chance to call the paper and tell them where she was or perhaps run downstairs and take a cab to the U.S. consulate. Did Nuevos Casas Grandes even have a consulate? She had no idea.

Even if it does, you can’t go there naked, can you, girl?

No, she couldn’t.

She slipped into a pair of lacy white panties and a tiered cotton skirt in turquoise blue, then searched through the pile of clothing for a bra, only to realize he hadn’t bought one. Consigned to going without, at least until she could wash her old one, she pulled a white tank top over her head, then dug through a pile of newly purchased hygiene supplies for a hairbrush and began to brush her hair, quickly working through the tangles.

By the time she was presentable, she had decided against making a run for it. She didn’t know whom to trust here in Mexico. But she knew she could trust her friends at the paper. She could call them, tell them where she was, and they could contact the State Department for her without risking giving her away to the Zetas. She hurried around the bed to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed 0 for the operator, trying to remember her Spanish.

“Natalie, don’t!”

She whirled toward the bathroom to see Zach standing in the bathroom doorway wearing nothing but a towel, his hair wet and ruffled, water beaded on the skin of his chest and trickling down his belly. He crossed the room in three long strides, took the handset, and slammed it down. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. “I said no phone calls—not yet.”

But it wasn’t the face she knew.

Gone was the thick stubble, the dirt, and the grime. The dark circles were gone, too. His skin was tanned and smooth, the hollows in his cheeks seeming deeper, his lips somehow fuller. And she found herself remembering how he’d kissed her and battling an unexpected urge to reach up and run her thumb along his lower lip just to see what it felt like.

Then those lips pressed together in a hard line.

He stood back and glared at her, his gray eyes hard as steel. “Do you want to tell me what in the hell you were just doing?”

CHAPTER 9

ZACH KNEW HE should have ripped the damned phone out of the wall. “Did you give them your name or location?”

“Wh-what?”

He stepped closer. “Did you tell the operator who you are?” She shook her head. “No, of course not. I . . . I was trying to call the paper to let them know I’m okay.”

It was then that Zach noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra. The soft fabric of her tank top clung to her breasts, accentuating her curves, the dark circles of her nipples just visible through the thin white cotton.

His mouth watered, blood rushing to his groin.

He jerked his gaze back to her face, but it was too late. He was already on the brink of embarrassing himself, the towel he’d tied around his hips not enough to hide his growing hard-on. Silently cursing his dick, he turned his back to her, walked over to the table, grabbed a pair of boxer briefs, and slid them on beneath his towel.

“I told you not to call anyone yet.” He reached for the gray Dockers he’d bought, tucking his half-hard penis inside. “We need to agree on what you can say and whom you can call
before
you start dialing.”

He turned to face her, determined to treat her like he would any other woman on any other case. But one look at those big aqua eyes, and he knew he was screwed.

Whatever this was between them—he could feel it from across the room.

What the hell is wrong with you? You didn’t react this way to Gisella.

Then again Gisella was half porn star, half barbed wire.

Natalie was one hundred percent woman.

He willed himself to focus. “Listen, Natalie, you weren’t taken from that bus randomly. Cárdenas wanted you for some reason. Now he wants revenge. He’s probably turning Juárez upside down to find you. If you call the State Department or the consulate, there’s a chance that word will get to Cárdenas through wiretaps, moles, dirty agents—you name it. I won’t take that risk—not when both our lives are at stake.”

“So you don’t even think it’s safe for me to tell my friends? I can assure you that none of them have ties to Cárdenas.” The arch of a graceful brow and the cool tone of her voice told him she thought he was being ridiculous.

“If you call the paper, they’ll want to write an article—”

“They won’t write anything if I tell them to keep it secret.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Do you know what I think this is really about?”

“Do tell.”
This ought to be good.

“You don’t want to go anywhere near U.S. authorities or the media because you’re afraid you might be arrested.” There was defiance on her face, but beneath it was a hint of fear. “Or maybe you don’t intend to take me home at all.”

That last bit took a moment to sink in. When it did, he didn’t know whether to laugh out loud—or go ballistic.

“Last night you were afraid I was going to abandon you here, and now you think I’m—what?—kidnapping you or some shit?”

She said nothing, but her chin rose a notch.

“Please tell me—if I don’t plan on taking you home, what
do
I plan to do with you?” He closed the space between them in slow strides, then caught her chin between his finger and thumb and let his gaze travel over her. “Maybe I want to sell you and turn a profit off your sweet body and pretty face. Or maybe I’m just greedy and planning to keep you for myself.”

Watch yourself, McBride. She’s been through hell.

He let go of her, stepped back, turned away, fighting to regain control of his temper. “When did you get the impression I was kidnapping you? Was it when I saved you from dehydration? Was it when I carried you out of the bathtub? Or was it last night when I slept beside you and you were half-naked and I didn’t so much as touch you?”

“All I know is that I could be safely home tonight.” There was a slight quaver in her voice as if she were fighting tears. “But you won’t let me call any of the people who could help me get there. And then I wake up to find all kinds of pretty clothes—far more than I could possibly wear in the few hours it would take to reach the border. It seems to me that you plan on keeping me around.”

When she put it like that, he couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d needed to buy her practical clothing—a pair of boots, BDUs, heavy socks, a few T-shirts. Pretty skirts and a silk nightgown were
not
going to help her escape the Zetas.

This is what happens when you let your dick do the shopping.
He saw the doubt in her eyes, and once again he wished he could tell her the truth about himself, but that wasn’t an option until they were safely across the border—for her sake as well as his own. No, he couldn’t tell her what he was.

But maybe . . .

Maybe he could tell her what he was
not
.

“I bought the clothes because I was trying to make up for some of what you’ve been through and I thought you’d look pretty in them.” And he was paying the price for that now, wasn’t he? She
did
look pretty. Next time he was stuck with a naked woman in a hotel room, he’d buy her old lady clothes—polyester pants with elastic waistbands and long-sleeved shirts with big flowers on them. “As for the rest—I’d love to explain it, but I can’t. But I
can
tell you that I’m not whatever you think I am.”

His stomach growled.

“Can we talk about this over breakfast?”

 

NATALIE TOOK A sip of coffee, studying Zach over the top of her porcelain cup as he devoured what was left of his breakfast. Most of the time when she interviewed someone, she had a good sense of whether that person was telling her the truth. Today, however, her intuition seemed to be taking a vacation.

Maybe the stakes were too high this time. Maybe she was too caught up in her own emotions and too close to the situation to focus clearly. Or maybe Zach was just harder to read than most people.

If only he would put on a shirt!

It wasn’t right for any man to be so dangerous and so sexy at the same time. Her adrenal gland and her ovaries were locked in a shouting match now, the former insisting she needed to run away fast, the latter wishing he’d kiss her again.

And that’s why you need to think with your brain.

She set her cup down. “How did you get shot? I’ve seen the scar.”

“A man aimed an AK-47 at my back and fired.” He shoveled the last bite of hash browns into his mouth and chewed.

Okay, so he wasn’t going to answer that one.

“What’s your last name?”

He set down his fork and napkin. “Smith. No, Jones. No, wait—it’s Black. I like that better. Zach Black. It rhymes.”

He wasn’t going to answer that one either.

“If you didn’t steal the cocaine, Zach
Black
, why didn’t you just tell me that right away? Why let me believe you’re some kind of criminal if you’re not?”

“I was afraid you’d start asking a lot of questions, like you always do, and we both had more important things to deal with.” His plate clean, he reached for his coffee, then leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his pants riding low enough on his hips to expose a trail of dark hair that disappeared behind his zipper. “Besides, it’s not like you were going to say, ‘Please leave me with the Zetas.’ ”

He took a sip.

“Why did the Zetas think you’d stolen the drugs if you didn’t?”

He seemed to think about this, as if deciding whether or not to answer. “The person I believe stole the shipment drugged me, then handed me over to them and told them I’d stolen it, making me the scapegoat for her actions.”

A woman? “She
drugged
you?”

He nodded. “She called, asked me to meet her at a bar in Juárez, and the next thing I knew, I was a guest in Hotel Zeta.”

Hotel Zeta?

More like hell on earth.

Natalie couldn’t fathom how he could make light about his captivity after what he’d been through. “Didn’t she care what they would do to you?”

“I guess she cared more about money.” He took another sip.

“That’s terrible.”

Proof of how much he’d suffered was still visible on his body—from the dark purple bruise on his rib cage to the faint pink electrical burns on his chest and belly to the gauze bandages on his raw, blistered wrists. If what he’d said was true, this person had turned him over to the Zetas, knowing full well he would be tortured and killed.

How could any woman be so heartless?

The next question that popped out of Natalie’s mouth was not the one she’d been about to ask. “Was she your lover?”

How incredibly rude! That’s none of your business!

Zach didn’t answer right away, his lips curving in a smile. “Now, why, oh why would you ask me that, Ms. Benoit?”

“No reason.” She felt herself blush. “Just curious.”

“Ah, I see.” He set his coffee cup down on the tray, the amused expression on his face telling her that he
did
see—right through her. “No, she wasn’t my lover—though not for lack of trying on her part.”

So Zach didn’t sleep with every woman who threw herself at him. That was good to hear. “Are you married?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Natalie couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Divorced?”

“No!”

“Gay?”

He came face-to-face with her in one smooth motion, so close that she could see flecks of gold in the gray of his irises, the spicy-clean scent of his skin filling her lungs. “Oh, angel, I think you know the answer to that one, but if you need proof . . .”

A big hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her skull, angling her face upward. Pulse tripping, she found herself looking into his eyes, wondering if he was really going to do it, if he was really going to kiss her.

And then he
did
kiss her.

Slowly.

He brushed his lips over hers, the mere whisper of a touch sending shudders through her, making her breath catch. Then he slipped his other arm around her and drew her against his bare chest, the hard feel of his body making her go weak. But still he didn’t kiss her full on, teasing her mouth with his, nipping her lips, tracing their outline with his tongue, until her lips tingled and ached and she was trembling.