Hot Ice (3 page)

She opened the car door, slid behind the wheel, and buckled up for safety as she pulled out of the dark lot. For more immediate gratification, she thought of the thief's big black eyes, that smooth, dusky skin, and decided she'd leave the girl's face for last.

Chapter Three

"Hear me now, do you, sweetheart?" A man said softly in the darkness.

Well, yeah
. He'd just knocked down the wall and his shoes crunched in the grit on the floor as he walked toward her. Hard to miss. Taylor stayed where she was, the chains loosely covering her body, wondering if he could see she'd managed to free herself already? Nah. Too dark.

She twisted her body in the direction of his voice. Rancid air wafted through what she presumed was a hole in the wall. Stink had never smelled so good. "The cavalry, I presume?" she whispered.

"Something like that." His deep voice was rich and gravelly, his tone dry, and vaguely British.

She had no clue who he could be. Had the woman who'd approached her this morning sent him? It was the only logical explanation. She didn't know anyone in San Cristóbal. Or rather, she didn't know anyone who should know she was in jail. She didn't need or want a partner, and she'd repeat what she'd told Theresa Smallwood this morning, as soon as he got her the hell out of here.

He crouched down beside her before she realized he was that close.
Wow. Impressive
. He moved like a cat. A big, strong, powerful cat.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, hands moving over the chains. "Where's the start of this thing?"

"I'll live. They didn't have me quite as secure as they thought." Taylor shrugged the chains off her shoulders and staggered to her feet. He grabbed her upper arm as she swayed. The pounding in her head made her teeth ache, and she was grateful for the steadiness of the large hand holding her upright.

The cell was as dark as the black hole of Calcutta, but even though she couldn't see him, she could feel the heat of his large body beside her. She had an irrational urge to let her head drop to his chest. Only for a moment. The novelty of someone rescuing her shouldn't be wasted. Instead of succumbing, Taylor locked her knees. Air fanned across her face. He had, she guessed, waved a hand in front of her nose.

"Can you see me?" he whispered.

Lord he smelled good, she thought absently. For an instant her pulse accelerated with a purely female response. Then her survival instincts kicked back in. "Of course not," she whispered back. "It's pitch—" she tilted her head. "Can
you
see me?"

"Yeah. Even without the nvg's."

Night vision glass. Excellent. He was a regular Boy Scout. She stuck out her hand. "Let me try the glasses." He dropped the nvg's into her palm.

"It's possible your jailers won't have heard the wall of Jericho tumbling," he whispered sarcastically as Taylor fumbled to bring the glasses to her eyes. He reached out and turned them right side up in her hands without pausing. "It's possible they won't turn around and come right back and check on you again. It's also possible that someone won't come back into the alley to take a leak. All of that's possible. Like to stick around and tempt fate?"

She blinked a couple of times to clear her vision. Blinked again. No amount of blinking helped. She heard him through the thick buzz in her ears, vaguely computed what he was saying as her mouth went dry. She curled her fingers around the hard plastic of the nvg's, squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them.

And sucked in a horrified breath.

Black. Unrelieved black.

She couldn't
see
.

God help her. She. Could. Not. See.

They'd hit her, several times, and
hard
, the last time she'd managed to get away. Hit her with something heavy. The butt of a gun most likely. She'd lost consciousness for a few seconds and had a blinding headache as a memento. Taylor fingered the knob on the back of her head. Was the damage permanent? God. She couldn't go there. The ramifications terrified her.

"Well?" Despite the cacophony of noise from nearby, Taylor heard his soft words clearly.

She licked dry lips. "H-Houston, I think we have a problem. I can't see—anything."

There was a slight pause before he said quietly, "At all?"

"At all."

"Bloody hell."

She almost jumped out of her skin when she felt his hand on the back of her head.

"Your head bounced when you landed." He gently combed his fingers through her hair until he came to the tender spot she'd found a second ago. She winced when he brushed the area with a surprisingly gentle touch. "There's a nasty bump back here. Bleeding too."

There was no point mentioning that her jailers had rewarded her for each escape attempt by using her as a punching bag before they'd thrown her back in the cell. Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks in Reno, Nevada, she'd had plenty of experience with bullies' fists.

She'd had bruises before. They healed. It was her sight she was worried about.

He dropped his hand. "This complicates things."

Taylor almost snorted. "For me too, pal." It hurt to scowl. "Sorry to inconveni—"

He stuck a solid shoulder to her midriff and hoisted her over his shoulder in a smooth move. Taylor grabbed the back of his shirt for balance.

"Oh, God, please don't hang me upside down. I might puke." Which proved how badly her head hurt. Upside down was one of her specialties.

"Don't," he told her unsympathetically as he strode across the room.

She used both hands to clamp his impressively tight buns, to stabilize herself as he strode across the cell. Seconds later she felt and smelled—other air. It could hardly be termed fresh. It stank of unwashed bodies, fried food, and garbage. In this case, the smell of freedom.

His shoulder must have been made of solid steel. Her bruised stomach and ribs protested vehemently as he jogged. She had the mother of all headaches, her ribs felt like they were gouging her aching lungs, and nausea threatened to erupt into projectile vomiting any second. Taylor didn't utter a single word of complaint as he headed away from the loud music and sound of bottles breaking. Away from that cell.

She assured herself that the blindness was temporary. She just wished she knew how long temporary
was
. She'd also like to know
who
he was, and
why
he'd gone to all the trouble of rescuing her. But she could figure that out later. Right now she was simply grateful for his unexpected appearance.

His footsteps were surprisingly silent as he ran for what felt like an hour. Just when she was positive she was going to lose all of Maria Morales's delicious canapés, he swung her to the ground, then held her upright with a firm hand on the back of her neck. His fingers felt hot and hard on her clammy skin. A reminder of his strength and a heads-up that he could snap her neck like a twig. Out of the fire and into the frying pan?

The small fluttering wings of panic she'd been working hard to suppress for the past couple of hours unfurled a little more to beat an urgent tattoo in her stomach.

He wasn't breathing hard, and she was reluctantly impressed. He was big, strong, and physically fit.

But she was no lightweight. Five-foot-eight in her stocking feet, she might look deceptively fragile, but she was a solid 140 pounds. She worked out to keep her muscles tight and toned. In her business, every advantage counted.

Even though Taylor couldn't see anything, she closed her eyes to better concentrate. Trying to pinpoint where they were. She hadn't a clue. No traffic noise. No people talking. She could still hear the music from the club in the distance, muffled by buildings. There was no air movement, so they could be in another minuscule alley. Not being able to see him, or where they were, made her twitchy. She was used to relying completely on herself, and having to depend on a stranger for her safety and well-being made her extremely nervous. She tamped down the anxiety. It was counterproductive.

For the moment, he apparently gave a damn about her welfare. If and when that changed, she'd make sure she was ready.

A car door snicked open.

"In." He placed his palm on top of her head and shoved her inside. She'd barely dragged both feet into the car when the door was slammed shut. "Huntington St. John," he said as he climbed in behind the wheel and started the car.

"Annie Sullivan," Taylor said smoothly. "Thanks for the rescue."

He snorted. "Annie Sullivan? You're quick, aren't you?"

"Not quick enough to get away from the San Cristóbal police, apparently. Is it too soon to ask why you demolished a jail to get me out? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Simply curious."

"You have something I want."

The tires crunched over gravel, and she had to lean into a sharp turn as he pulled the vehicle onto a paved road. "Really? And what would that be?"

"The contents of the safe you robbed earlier this evening."

Ah. So the woman
hadn't
taken no for an answer after all. "What safe?" she asked mildly, fumbling for a seat belt as the car sped through the single-lane streets of the city. There was no seat belt. Taylor waited to be catapulted through the windshield at any moment. The upside was, she wouldn't actually
see
Death coming for her. God had some sense of humor.

"Morales."

An unfamiliar ache squeezed her chest, and there didn't seem to be enough air in the car, which made her breathing erratic. She rubbed her fingers on the dull pain at her temple and tried to even out her breathing. "Never heard of him."

"See where we are?" he asked conversationally. It was a taunt if ever she'd heard one.

"No," Taylor told him coolly. "I don't."

"What did you do with the contents of the safe?" he repeated. No inflection, but she suspected he was annoyed. Too bad.

She could play the poor blind girl card—God only knew it was true. That might buy her time. Or flat out lie and keep insisting she had no idea what he was talking about. Or she could do what she did best. Shade the truth enough to weasel out of this as fast as possible.

"Okay," she said slowly, as if he'd dragged the truth out of her. "So I pulled off the Morales job. Unfortunately, the cops confiscated my take when they arrested me."

"Bullshit. They arrested you at your hotel."

"As I said—"

"There was nothing on you. Nothing in your room."

Of course not. Did this guy think she'd fallen off the turnip truck? She'd mailed the stuff on her way back to the hotel. "That's because the
police
have it." Taylor leaned her head against the headrest and closed her useless eyes. "Whether you believe me or not, those are the facts. Sue me. And since I don't have what you want, go ahead and drop me off at my hotel. I'll thank you nicely for the heroic rescue and say bye-bye."

"Don't get too ahead of yourself, sweetheart, you're not in any position to piss me off. I could always drop you off right here on a street corner," he told her with far too much relish for comfort. "Watch you stumble around for my own amusement."

If he wanted something badly enough to break her out of jail he wouldn't toss her out of the car onto the dangerous San Cristóbal streets, by herself, at night. Not until he had what he wanted. And that assumption wasn't based on the sexy, rough timbre of his voice or the heady fragrance of his soap. Both of which filled the car and her senses. "A hero and a charmer. My lucky day." She faked a yawn. "I'll consider myself kidnapped. Wake me when we get to wherever we're going, will you?"