Mackenzie's Pleasure (10 page)

caress went through her like lightning. She shivered as it seared a path along nerve endings

throughout her body and instinctively turned her face into the warm hollow created by the

curve of his shoulder.

The arm around her had loosened immediately when she shivered, but at her action she

felt him hesitate a fraction of a second, then gather her snugly against him once more.

The voices were closer, and added to them were some thuds and the sound of crumbling

rock. She listened to the rapid, rolling syllables of Arabic, straining to concentrate on the

voices. Were they the same voices she had heard through yesterday's long nightmare? It was

difficult to tell.

She didn't understand the language; hers had been a finishing-school education, suited

to an ambassador's daughter. She spoke French and Italian fluently, Spanish a little less so. After

her father's posting in Athens she had made it a point to study Greek, too, and had learned

enough that she could carry on a simple conversation, though she understood more than she

spoke.

Fiercely she wished she had insisted on lessons in Arabic, too. She had hated every

moment she'd spent in the kidnappers' hands, but not speaking the language had made her

feel even more helpless, more isolated.

She would rather die than let them get their hands on her again.

She must have tensed, because Zane gave her a light squeeze of reassurance. Swiftly she

glanced at his face. He wasn't looking at her; instead he was concentrating on the fragile, halfrotted door that protected the entrance to their sanctuary, and on the voices beyond. His

expression was utterly calm and distant. Abruptly she realized that he
did
understand Arabic,

and whatever was being said by the people picking through the ruins of the building, he

wasn't alarmed by it. He was alert, because their hiding place could be compromised at any

moment, but evidently he felt confident of being able to handle that problem.

With reason, no doubt. From what she'd seen, she thought he was capable of handling

just about any situation. She would trust him with her life—and had.

The voices went on for a long time, sometimes coming so close to their hiding place

that Zane palmed that big pistol and held it aimed unwaveringly at the door. Barrie stared at

that hand, so lean and powerful and capable. There wasn't the slightest tremor visible; it was

almost unreal, almost inhuman, for any man to be that calm and have such perfect control over

his body.

They sat silently in the warm, shadowy little room, their breathing for the most part

their only movements. Barrie noticed that the blanket no longer covered her legs, but the shirt,

thank God, kept her reasonably decent. It was too hot to lie under the blanket, anyway.

Time crept by at a sloth's pace. The warmth and silence were hypnotic, lulling her into a

half dream state of both awareness and distance. She was ferociously hungry, but unaffected

by it, as if she was merely aware of someone else's hunger. After a while her muscles began to

ache from being in one position for so long, but that didn't matter, either. Thirst, though, was

different. In the increasing heat, her need for water began to gnaw at her. The kidnappers had

given her some water a couple of times, but she'd had nothing to drink in hours—since she

had learned they expected her to relieve herself in their presence, in fact. She had chosen to

do without water rather than provide them with such amusement again.

Sweat streaked down Zane's face and dampened his shirt. She was perfectly content to

remain where she was, nestled against his side. The arm around her made her feel safer than if

their hiding place had been constructed of steel, rather than crumbling stone and plaster, and

rotting wood.

She had never been exposed to a man like him before. Her only contact with the military

had been with the senior officers who attended functions at the embassy, colonels and

generals, admirals, the upper brass; there were also the Marine guards at the embassy, with

their perfect uniforms and perfect manners. Though she supposed the Marine guards had to

be exemplary soldiers or they wouldn't have been chosen as embassy guards, still, they were

nothing like the man who held her so protectively. They were soldiers; he was a warrior.

He was as different from them as the lethal, ten-inch black blade strapped to his thigh was

from a pocketknife. He was a finely honed weapon.

For all that, he wasn't immortal, and they weren't safe. Their hiding place could be

discovered. He could be killed; she could be recaptured. The hard reality of that was

something she couldn't ignore as she could hunger and cramped muscles.

After a long, long time, the voices went away. Zane released her and walked noiselessly to

the door to look out. She had never before seen anyone move with such silent grace, like a big

jungle cat on velvet paws instead of a battle-hardened warrior in boots.

She didn't move until he turned around, the faint relaxation of his expression telling her

the danger was past. "What were they doing?" she asked, taking care to keep her voice low.

"Scavenging building materials, picking up blocks, any pieces of wood that hadn't rotted.

If they'd had a sledgehammer, they probably would have dismantled these walls. They

carted the stuff off in a wheelbarrow. If they need more, they'll probably be back."

"What will we do?"

"The same thing we did this time—hunker down and keep quiet."

"But if they come in here—"

"I'll handle it." He cut her worry short before she could completely voice it, but he did it

with a tone of reassurance. "I brought some food and water. Interested?"

Barrie scrambled to her knees, eagerness in every line of her body. "Water! I'm so

thirsty!" Then she halted, her recent experience fresh in her mind. "But if I drink anything,

where will I go to... you know."

He regarded her with faint bemusement, and she blushed a little as she realized that

wasn't a problem he normally encountered. When he and his men were on a mission, they

would relieve themselves wherever and whenever they needed.

"I'll find a place for you to go," he finally said. "Don't let that stop you from drinking the

water you need. I also found some clothes for you, but as hot as it's getting in here, you'll

probably want to wait until night before you put them on."

He indicated the black bundle beside his gear, and she realized it was a robe. She thought

of the modesty it would provide, and gratitude flooded her; at least she wouldn't have to face

his men wearing nothing more than his shirt. But he was right; in the heat of day, and in the

privacy of this small room, she would prefer wearing his shirt. They both knew she was bare

beneath it; he'd already seen her stark naked, and demonstrated his decency by giving her

the shirt and ignoring her nakedness, so there was no point now in swathing herself in an

ankle-length robe.

He produced a big jug and unstoppered it. "It'll taste funny," he warned as he passed

the jug to her. "Purification tablets."

It did taste funny—warm, with a chemical flavor. But it was wonderful. She drank a few

swallows, not wanting to make her stomach cramp after being empty for so long. While she was

drinking, he unwrapped the bits of food he'd procured—a loaf of hard bread, a hunk of cheese

and several oranges, plums and dates. It looked like a feast.

He straightened the blanket for her to sit on, then took out his knife and cut small portions

of both the loaf and cheese and gave them to her. She started to protest that she was hungry

enough to eat much more than that, but realized that what he had would have to last them all

day, and perhaps longer than that. She wasn't about to complain about the amount of food she

did
have.

She had never been particularly fond of cheese, and she suspected that if she hadn't been so

hungry she wouldn't have been fond of this cheese, either, but at the moment it was

delicious. She nibbled at both bread and cheese, finding satisfaction in the simple act of

chewing. As it happened, she had overestimated her appetite. The small portion he had given her

was more than enough.

He ate more heartily, and polished off one of the oranges. He insisted that she eat a couple

of the juicy slices and drink a bit more water. Feeling replete, Barrie yawned and refused the offer of

another orange slice.

"No, thanks, I'm full."

"Would you like to freshen up now?"

Her head whipped around, sending her red hair flying. Amusement twinkled in his pale eyes

at her eager, pleading expression. "There's enough water?"

"Enough to dampen a bandana."

She didn't have a bandana, of course, but he did. Carefully he poured just enough

water from the jug to wet the square cloth, then politely turned his back and busied himself

with his gear.

Slowly Barrie smoothed the wet cloth over her face, sighing in pleasure at the freshness of

the sensation. She hadn't realized how grimy she felt until now, when she was able to rectify the

situation. She found a sore place on her cheek, where one of the men had hit her, and other tender

bruises on her arms. Glancing at Zane's broad back, she quickly unbuttoned the shirt just enough

that she could slide the handkerchief inside and rub it over her torso and under her arms. After she

fastened the garment, her dusty legs got the same attention. The dampness was wonderfully

cooling, almost voluptuous in the sensual delight it gave her.

"I'm finished," she said, and returned the dark bandana to him when he turned around. "It

felt wonderful. Thank you."

Then her heart leaped in her chest, because he evidently felt the same need to cool off

as she had, but unlike her, he didn't keep his shirt on. He peeled the snug black T-shirt off over

his head and dropped it on the blanket, then sat on his heels while he moistened the bandana and

began scrubbing it over his face.

Oh, my.
Helplessly she stared at the rippling muscles of his chest and stomach, the way they

flexed and relaxed with the flow of his movements. The dim light caught the deep bronze of his

skin, gleamed on the smooth, powerful curve of his shoulder. Her fascinated gaze

wandered over the slant of his shoulder blades, the diamond of black hair that stretched

from nipple to nipple on his chest. He twisted around to reach for something, and she found his

back equally fascinating, with the deep furrow of his spine bisecting two muscular planes.

There was an inch-long scar on his left cheekbone. She hadn't noticed it before because

his face had been so dirty, but now she could plainly see the silvery line of it. It wasn't a

disfiguring scar at all, just a straight little slash, as precise as a surgeon's cut. The scar along his

rib cage was different, easily eight or nine inches in length, jagged, the scar tissue thick and

ridged. Then there were the two round, puckered scars, one just above his waist, the other just

below his right shoulder blade. Bullet wounds. She'd never seen one before, but she

recognized them for what they were. There was another slash running along his right bicep, and

God only knew how many other scars there were on the rest of his body. The warrior hadn't led

a charmed life; his body bore the signs of battle.

He squatted half-naked, unconcernedly rubbing the damp handkerchief across his

sweaty chest, lifting his arms to wash under them, exposing the smooth undersides and

intriguing patches of hair. He was so fundamentally, elementally male, and so purely a

warrior, that her breath strangled in her lungs as she watched him.

The rush of warmth through her body told her that she was more female than she'd

ever imagined.

A little dazed, she sat back, resting against the wall. Absently she made certain the shirt

tail preserved her modesty, but thoughts were tumbling through her mind, dizzyingly fast yet

very clear.

They weren't out of danger yet.

During the past twenty-four horrific hours, she hadn't spent a lot of time wondering

about the motive behind her kidnapping. She'd had too much to deal with as it was, the

sheer terror, the confusion, the pain of the blows they'd given her.

She'd been blindfolded much of the time, and disoriented. She'd been humiliated,

stripped naked and roughly fondled, taunted with the prospect of rape, and yet they had

stopped short of rape—for a reason. Sheer psychological torture had undoubtedly played a

role, but most of all they'd had orders to save her for the man who was to arrive today.

Who was he? He was the one behind her kidnapping; he had to be. But why?

Ransom? When she thought about it now, coolly and clearly, she didn't think so. Yes, her

father was rich. Many a diplomat came from a moneyed background; it wasn't unusual. But if

money had been the motive, there were others who were richer, though perhaps she had been

chosen specifically because it was well known that her father would beggar himself to keep her

safe. Perhaps.

But why would they have taken her out of the country? Wouldn't they have wanted to keep