Hot Ice (5 page)

"Yeah." She put a hand to her forehead. "I would like to lie down, though."

"One flight of stairs between you and a bed. This way." Gil had them on the first floor. "Twenty-two stairs and we're there." Hunt paused as she took a shuddering breath. "Want me to carry you again?"

A muscle jumped in her cheek as she gritted her teeth. "Pass."

Hunt set her hand on the metal rail on the left and walked on her other side still holding her hand. She was fading fast. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the wood floors as they emerged onto a landing. Peeling brown paint and the smell of cheap cigarettes were the high points in the decor. This was a safe house, not a luxe hotel. No one would confuse the two.

He unlocked a door halfway down the corridor and nudged her into the dark room. "It's clean." Hunt found the light switch. "Gil can send someone over to the cantina if you're hungry."

"I'm not. Describe the room for me, please."

"Fifteen by twenty. Bed straight ahead about six of your paces, bathroom to the left about ten. Two chairs at three o'clock."

He scanned her face, seeing that she was orienting herself. "Let's get you washed up so I can check the damage. I'm not so sure waiting until later for a doctor to examine you is such a smart idea. They worked you over pretty good."

"Believe me, I know," she said ironically. "I was there. Point me to the bathroom. I need a shower more than anything right now."

Christ, she was cool. If he wasn't looking right at her, he would never have known how nervous she was from her tone of voice. Hunt led her across the room and shoved open the door to the small bathroom. "Need help?"

She shot him a sightless glance that needed no interpretation. "Just show me the taps and a towel."

Hunt leaned over and turned on the water, then pulled the plunger to activate the showerhead. Water beat down in the clean but stained porcelain tub. "The room is only six feet wide. Get out of the tub, and the towel rack is right in front of you at twelve o'clock. Yell if you need me."

She swayed on her feet. "I won't."

The sweet smell of steam started filling the small room. "Right."

"I don't suppose there's a lock on this side of the door?"

" 'Fraid not."

She didn't move. "Close it on your way out."

The bathroom was intentionally windowless. She wasn't going anywhere. There was a nifty, completely hidden escape door in the wall behind the towel rack. But she didn't need that information.

"I'll be right outside." He'd be right here watching. As if he'd leave her alone even for a quick shower. He waited a beat, walked across the tiled floor, sidestepped into the shallow alcove in the wall beside the towel rack, then nudged the door with his foot, sealing them both inside. He needed to know how good an actress she was.

The second the door snicked shut, her shoulders slumped. "Shit. Shit. Shit," she whispered under her breath. "This is bad. Really,
really
bad."

She stumbled around the small room, brailling her way from tub to toilet to towel rack.

Hunt stayed absolutely still, barely breathing, allowing her to pass him by millimeters. He wasn't a voyeur. He simply had to be certain that she wouldn't die on his watch. At least not now, not while he needed information.

The contents of the safe were too important—hell,
critical
. She was the key. He wasn't letting her out of his sight for a millisecond until he had that disk in his hand
and
checked the data to verify it was what they expected.

Considering his body's unwelcome response to hers, he'd prefer waiting for her in the other room. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall as she started undressing. Her breasts were small and firm beneath a black sports bra, her skin blotchy with dirt and bruises. He scanned her slender body, noting the slew of old, faded scars; side, both knees, left shoulder. He was particularly interested in her more recent injuries. Nothing appeared broken and she wasn't bleeding.

She wasn't faking the blindness, however.

She toed off what looked more like black ballet slippers than sneakers, then dragged down the skintight black jeans apparently
not
painted on her long, slender legs, taking her panties with them.

Hunt's mouth went dry at the sight of those long, long,
long
legs, narrow waist, and tight ass. She winced as she shuffled her way to the tub, removing the confining bra on the way.

She turned, presenting him with the long elegant line of her back. He observed the brown streaks on her skin. Not only dirt and bruises, but the dusky Mediterranean complexion, which extended no farther down than her neck.

From her breasts down, Miss "Annie Sullivan," aka Serena Carstair, aka sixteen plus other, equally false names, was as white as the driven snow.

She banged a knee on the edge of the tub and swore soundlessly, then bit her lip as she spent several seconds trying to regain her bearings before stepping into the enclosure. Sliding her feet cautiously on the slick floor of the tub, she splayed her hand on the wall and backed under the spray, then, eyes closed, tipped her head back. The water immediately turned black as dye sluiced out of her hair.

Interesting.

What
else
was his brave little cat burglar hiding?

Chapter Five

The only sounds Taylor heard were the water pounding on the porcelain tub and her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. She didn't have time to freak out. Although her rapid breathing and even faster pulse warned that it might be imminent. She guessed she only had a few minutes of privacy to pull herself together and think this through before he started pounding on the door asking questions.

She pushed back the rush of panic that had been building since he'd liberated her, and felt along the wall for a soap dish. The "thousands of man-hours" worried her. It could be an exaggeration of course. But he didn't sound like an exaggerating kind of guy.

Her chest hurt. She drew in a ragged, shuddering breath, which didn't help. Where the hell was the soap? Her feet slid out from under her, and her heart leapt into her throat as she made a panicked grab for the slick wall. She caught herself, but her heart continued to race as frustration built.

The vise around her chest tightened painfully as hot water sluiced her head and face. Soap. Where was the damn soap? How hard could it be? The tub wasn't that damn big.

She took pride in knowing she was capable of extricating herself from tricky situations unscathed. She'd never met a lock she couldn't pick or a tight spot she couldn't wiggle out of. Be that actual or verbal. But she'd hit her first wall. And it scared the bejesus out of her how helpless she was right now.

Think it through. Concentrate, and think it through.

Over the years, she'd been in dozens of situations where she walked a fine line between success and capture. And she'd been
exhilarated, never
frightened.

This was different.

This was the first time she'd been caught. Imprisoned.

The fear had started as a dark nutter in her tummy when they'd tossed her into the jail cell. The nutter had beat a little harder each time she escaped and they'd caught her, bringing her back to that small room.

She liked to believe that she would have made it, even without help, on the sixth shot. Because Lord only knew, she wouldn't have stopped
trying
. The second they'd tossed her onto the floor and slammed the door shut that last time, she'd automatically started undoing the chains and locks the jailers had wrapped around her. And as she worked, she'd already started formulating a plan of action for her sixth and
successful
escape.

Now, the flutter became the frantic flapping of giant wings, and the fear built, twisting and turning in her stomach. She
had
to get the hell out of there. She wasn't back home in America where civil liberties and the threat of litigation would have guaranteed her physical safety while in custody. Nope, there was no review board. No human rights advocates.

Arrested meant you were at the mercy and whim of what passed for authority. There was no one in this country to say her jailers couldn't beat the crap out of her, chain her, then forget about her. And there was no extradition from San Cristóbal. She could've stayed in the cell for the rest of her natural life.

But what she'd felt in that jail was
nothing
compared to the moment she'd realized she couldn't see. Blind, there was no way to defend herself. No way to carry out even the simplest of escape plans, no possible way to survive—

Stop
. She had to pull herself together.
Now
. The awful reality was that she might
never
see again. And if that were the case, she'd learn to live with it. Millions of other people did.

Oh God
. She hated how fast her heart pounded, and the harsh sound of her own erratic breath. The vise around her chest tightened alarmingly. Was she about to have a heart attack?

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," she assured herself out loud. Her voice sounded weak and scared to her own ears, which freaked her out even more.

Get a grip
, she told herself with rising alarm as each breath became harder to drag into her lungs.
It isn't a heart attack. I'm as healthy as a horse. Find the damn soap, wash, dry, get out of the bathroom
. She'd be humiliated if what's-his-name had to come in here and drag her naked corpse out of the bathtub.

Shaky and getting dizzier by the second, she finally found the freaking soap and started to wash, but it was impossible to drag air into her lungs and she had to stop and hold on to the wall as her head spun. Scaring herself, she pressed a hand to her heaving chest.

Out of the blackness, hard hands gripped her arms above the elbow and gave her a little shake. "Take a breath for God's sake! You're having a panic attack."

It took her a second to replace a harsh breath with a strangled scream of surprise. She slipped and slid on the slick wet porcelain and grabbed at the only stable thing around—
him
—to keep from falling on her butt. "N-
Never
p-p-panic. Heart attack." Her fingers gripped his shirtfront like a lifeline.

"Ever had a heart attack before?"

"N-No."

"Then you're not having one now." He pressed a large hand to her midriff. "Take a breath."

"C-Can't."

"Inhale.
Now
."

She sucked in a shaky breath.

"Hold it. Two. Three. Slowly breathe out with my count. One… two… Slowly…
slowly
, damn it. Again. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale." He kept that up for several long, agonizing, embarrassing minutes until her breathing was more or less normal.

"Better?"

The water pounding her back was getting cool, but her skin was flushed all over. She felt a lot of conflicting emotions, but right now embarrassment was primary. How long had he been watching her? "S-Son of a bitch. What are y-you
doing
in h-here?"

"Preventing you from passing out and killing yourself, apparently."