Mackenzie's Pleasure (8 page)

She gazed at his darkened face, then gave one of her sturdy nods, the one that said she

was ready to go on. Now he could see her calculating the difficulty of maneuvering through the

window with the blanket tied around her waist, and he saw the exact moment when she made

her decision. Her shoulders squared and her chin came up as she untied the blanket and draped

it around her like a long scarf, winding it around her neck and tossing the ends over her

shoulders to dangle rakishly down her back.

"I think I'd better climb on your shoulders," she said. "I'll have more leverage that

way."

He knelt on the floor and held his hands up for her to catch and brace herself. She went

around behind him and daintily placed her right foot on his right shoulder, then lifted herself into

a half crouch. As soon as her left foot had settled into place and her hands were securely in

his, he rose steadily until he was standing erect. Her weight was negligible compared to what

he handled during training. He moved closer to the wall, and she released his right hand to brace

her hand against the sill. "Here I go," she whispered, and boosted herself through the

window.

She went through it headfirst. It was the fastest way, but not the easiest, because she had

no way of breaking her fall on the other side. He looked up and saw the gleam of pale, bare legs

and the naked curves of her buttocks; then she vanished from sight, and there was a thump as she

hit the ground.

Quickly Zane boosted himself up again. "Are you all right?" he whispered harshly.

There was silence for a moment, then a shaky, whispered answer. "I think so."

"Take the rifle." He handed the weapon to her, then dropped to the floor while he

removed his web gear. That, too, went through the window. Then he followed, feet first,

twisting his shoulders at an angle to fit through the narrow opening and landing in a crouch.

Obediently, she had moved to the side and was sitting against the wall with the blanket once more

clutched around her and his rifle cradled in her arms.

Dawn was coming fast, the remnants of darkness no more than a deep twilight.

"Hurry," he said as he shrugged into the web vest and took the rifle from her. He slid it into

position, then drew the pistol again. The heavy butt felt reassuring and infinitely familiar in his

palm. With the weapon in his right hand and her hand clasped in his left, he pulled her into the

nearest alley.

Benghazi was a modern city, fairly Westernized, and Libya's chief port. They were near

the docks, and the smell of the sea was strong in his nostrils. Like the vast majority of

waterfronts, it was one of the rougher areas of the city. From what he'd been able to tell, no

authorities had shown up to investigate the gunfire, even supposing it had been reported.

The Libyan government wasn't friendly—there were no diplomatic relations between the

United States and Libya—but that didn't mean the government would necessarily turn a

blind eye to the kidnapping of an ambassador's daughter. Of course, it was just as likely that

it would, which was why diplomatic channels hadn't been considered. The best option had

seemed to go in and get Miss Lovejoy out as quickly as possible.

There were plenty of ramshackle, abandoned buildings in the waterfront area. The rest

of the team had withdrawn to one, drawing any pursuers away from Zane and Miss Lovejoy,

while they holed up in another. They would rendezvous at oh-one-hundred hours the next

morning.

Spooky had chosen the sites, so Zane trusted their relative safety. Now he and Miss

Lovejoy wended their way through a rat's nest of alleyways. She made a stifled sound of

disgust once, and he knew she'd stepped on something objectionable, but other than that she

soldiered on in silence.

It took only a few minutes to reach the designated safe area. The building looked more

down than up, but Spooky had investigated and reported an intact inner room. One outer

wall was crumbled to little more than rubble. Zane straddled it, then caught Miss Lovejoy

around the waist and effortlessly lifted her over the heap, twisting his torso to set her on the

other side. Then he joined her, leading her under half-fallen timbers and around spiderwebs

that he wanted left undisturbed. The fact that he could see those webs meant they had to get

under cover, fast.

The door to the interior room hung haphazardly on one hinge, and the wood was

rotting away at the top. He pulled her inside the protective walls. "Stay here while I take

care of our tracks," he whispered, then dropped to a crouch and moved to where they had

crossed the remnants of the outer wall. He worked backward from there, scattering dirt to

hide the signs of their passage. There were dark, wet places on the broken pieces of stone

that were all that remained of the floor. He frowned, knowing what those dark patches meant.

Damn it, why hadn't she said something? Had she left a trail of blood straight to their

hiding place?

Carefully he obliterated the marks. It wasn't completely her fault; he should have

given more thought to her bare feet. The truth was, his mind had been more on her bare butt

and the other details of her body that he'd already seen. He was far too aware of her

sexually; the proof of it was heavy in his loins. After what she had been through that was the last

thing she needed, so he would ignore his desire, but that didn't make it go away.

When he had worked his way to the room, he silently lifted the door and reset it in the

frame, bracing it so it wouldn't sag again. Only then did he turn to face her. "Why didn't

you tell me you'd cut your foot? When did it happen?" His voice was low and very even.

She was still standing where he'd left her, her face colorless in the half light coming

through the open shutters of the window, her eyes so huge with fatigue and strain that she

looked like a forlorn, bedraggled little owl. A puzzled frown knit her brows as she looked

at her feet. "Oh," she said in dazed discovery as she examined the dark stains on her left

foot. "I didn't realize it was cut. It must have happened when I stepped in that... whatever...

in the alley. I remember that it hurt, but I thought there was just a sharp rock under the...

stuff."

At least it hadn't happened any sooner than that. Their position should still be safe. He

keyed the radio, giving the prearranged one click that told the team he was in the safe area and

receiving two clicks in return, meaning his men were secure in their position, too. They would

check in with each other at set intervals, but for the most part they would spend the day resting.

Relieved, Zane turned his mind to other matters.

"Sit down and let me see your foot," he ordered. The last thing he needed was for her

to be hobbled, though from what he'd seen of her so far, she wouldn't breathe a word of

complaint, merely limp along as fast as she could.

There was nothing to sit on except the broken stones of the floor, so that was where she

sat, carefully keeping the blanket wrapped around her waist. Her feet were filthy, caked with

the same mess that caked his boots. Blood oozed sullenly from a cut on the instep of her left

foot.

Zane shucked off his black hood and headset, took off his web vest and removed his

gloves; then he unpacked his survival gear, which included a small and very basic first-aid kit. He

sat cross-legged in front of her and lifted her foot to rest on his thigh. After tearing open a

small packet containing a premoistened antiseptic pad, he thoroughly cleaned the cut and the

area around it, pretending not to notice her involuntary flinches of pain, which she quickly tried

to control.

The cut was deep enough that it probably needed a couple of stitches. He took out

another antiseptic pad and pressed it hard over the wound until the bleeding stopped. "How long

has it been since your last tetanus vaccination?" he asked.

Barrie thought that she had never heard anything as calm as his voice. She could see

him clearly now; it was probably a good thing she hadn't been able to do so before, because

her nerves likely couldn't have stood the pressure. She cleared her throat and managed to say,

"I don't remember. Years," but her mind wasn't on what she was saying.

His thick black hair was matted with sweat, and his face was streaked with black and

green paint. The black T-shirt he wore was grimy with mingled dust and sweat, not that the

shirt she had on was in much better shape. The material strained over shoulders that looked a

yard wide, clung to a broad chest and flat stomach, stretched over powerful biceps. His arms

were corded with long, steely muscles, his wrists almost twice as thick as hers; his long-fingered

hands were well-shaped, callused, harder than any human hands should be—and immensely

gentle as he cleansed the wound on her foot.

His head was bent over the task. She saw the dense black eyelashes, the bold sweep of

his eyebrows, the thin and arrogantly high bridge of bis nose, the chiseled plane of his

cheekbones. She saw his mouth, so clear-cut and stern, as if he seldom smiled. Beard

stubble darkened his jaw beneath the camouflage paint. Then his gaze flicked up to her for a

moment, cool and assessing, as if he was gauging her reaction to the sting of the antiseptic, and

she was stunned by the clear, pale beauty of his blue gray eyes. He had silently and efficiently

killed that guard, then stepped over the body as if it didn't exist. A wicked, ten-inch black blade

rode in a scabbard strapped to his thigh, and he handled both pistol and rifle with an ease that

bespoke a familiarity that went far beyond the normal. He was the most savage, dangerous,

lethal thing, man or beast, that she had ever seen—and she felt utterly safe with him.

He had given her the shirt off his back, treating her with a courtesy and tenderness that

had eased her shock, calmed her fears. He had seen her naked; she had been able to ignore that

while they were still trapped in the same building with her kidnappers, but now they were relatively safe, and alone, and she was burningly aware of both his intense masculinity and of her

nakedness beneath his shirt. Her skin felt unusually sensitive, as if it was too hot and tight,

and the rasp of the fabric against her nipples was almost painfully acute.

Her foot looked small and fragile in his big hands. He frowned in concentration as he

applied an antibiotic ointment to the cut, then fashioned a butterfly bandage to close the wound.

He worked with a swift, sure dexterity, and it was only a moment before the bandaging was

complete. Gently he lifted her foot off his leg. "There. You should be able to walk with no

problem, but as soon as we get you to the ship, get the doc to put in a couple of stitches and give

you an injection for tetanus."

"Yes, sir," she said softly.

He looked up with a swift, faint smile. "I'm Navy. That's, 'Aye, aye, sir.'"

The smile nearly took her breath. If he ever truly smiled, she thought, she might have

heart failure. To hide her reaction, she held out her hand to him. "Barrie Lovejoy. I'm pleased

to make your acquaintance."

He folded his fingers around hers and solemnly shook hands. "Lieutenant-Commander

Zane Mackenzie, United States Navy SEALs."

A SEAL. Her heart jumped in her chest. That explained it, then. SEALs were known

as the most dangerous men alive, men so skilled in the arts of warfare that they were in a class by

themselves. He didn't just look lethal; he
was
lethal.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"My pleasure, ma'am."

Hot color flooded her face as she looked at her blanket-covered lap. "Please, call me

Barrie. After all, your shirt is the only thing I..." Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. "I

mean, formality at this point is—"

"I understand," he said gently, breaking into her stumbling explanation. "I don't want

you to be embarrassed, so the circumstances are strictly between us, if you prefer. But I advise you

to tell the ship's surgeon, or your own doctor, for the sake of your health."

Barrie blinked at him in confusion, wondering what on earth her health had to do with the

fact that he'd seen her naked. Then comprehension dawned; if she hadn't been so tired, she

would have realized immediately what conclusion he had drawn from the situation.

"They didn't rape me," she whispered. Her face flushed even hotter. "They—they

touched me, they hurt me and did some... other things, but they didn't actually rape me. They

were saving that for today. Some important guy in their organization was supposed to arrive,

and I suppose they were planning a sort of p-party."

Zane's expression remained calm and grave, and she knew he didn't believe her. Why

should he? He'd found her tied up and naked, and she'd already been in the kidnappers'

hands for most of a day. Chivalry wasn't part of their code; they had refrained from rape only

on orders from their leader, because he wanted to be there to enjoy her himself before the others had

their turn on her.