Run to Me (10 page)

How he was going to convince Shea of that was another matter.

Donald stalked into the arena. His people had done a good job of clearing the small exhibition area. What had once been a training area for horses would become a training venue for soldiers. His people stood on the outskirts, behind a short bricked-in area. He noted expressions of fear and confusion. Those emotions stoked his excitement and ratcheted up his enjoyment. He’d never staged such a large event before. Many of them had no idea what he had planned, but they knew something major was about to take place. This was an excellent introduction to Donald’s high expectations.

The few privy to his plans knew what was coming and looked on with anticipation. Some of them would enjoy this almost as much as he did.

For everyone, it was a lesson: If orders aren’t obeyed, punishment is quick, brutal, and often lethal.

The guilty men stood in a circle in the middle of the arena. Their hands tied behind them, their feet bound together, they collectively shook. Some of them wept, others cursed, while a few stared stoically at him. They all knew what was coming. They had failed him. His punishment was just.

Heading to the chair prepared on a hastily made dais, Donald seated himself and addressed his audience: “Today is all about obedience and following rules. My home was invaded. My property stolen. Those who allowed this to happen and those who failed to find her must be punished.”

Not a sound, breath, or voice could be heard. Everyone waited in rapt silence. As he looked around at their fearful and respectful faces, power surged through him, followed quickly by a hot flush of pleasure. He waited for several seconds, allowing the excitement to build. Then, when the anticipation was almost at a crescendo, he waved his hand and commanded, “Bring him.”

Heavy footsteps stomped closer and closer. Those who had seen the creature’s work before, and knew what was about to happen, lowered their eyes. The newer recruits stared in awe as he entered the arena.

Donald’s eyes slid up and down the animal standing in the middle of the arena, awaiting his orders. Dressed in only a loincloth Donald had had specially made for him, the creature stood before him. Six feet, five inches of pure, brute strength. His 240-pound prized trophy. The creature’s dark hair gleamed blue-black beneath the hot Mexican sun, and his golden skin glistened with healthy male sweat. Flawless and beautiful. Strong and lethal. The perfect killing machine.

The condemned men gave a collective gasp, and then the weeping, begging, and screaming began anew … this time louder and more anguished. Satisfaction and sheer exhilaration brought Donald to his feet. Pointing at the bound men, Donald shouted his order: “Kill them!”

His face an empty mask of blind obedience, the creature marched forward. Wrapping his hands around the first man’s neck, he snapped it as if it were a twig and dropped the body to the ground. As each man waited his turn to die, their screams grew more desperate, their pleas for mercy more anguished. Their faces grew darker, masks of sheer terror at the horror that awaited them.

At last, ten dead men lay on the ground. The silent crowd watched as the creature turned to his master and bowed. His goal had been accomplished … his master was pleased.

Donald smiled.

Her mouth sandpaper dry, she blinked sleep away and tried to focus. Where was she? Her eyes roamed over the large room. Creamy pastel walls and colorful paintings did their best but couldn’t disguise the stark impersonality of a hospital room. She shifted, tried to move, and couldn’t. Her heart picked up a frantic rhythm as she realized that her arms and legs were restrained.

Sun streamed in from a window beside the bed. She lifted her head and peered out. Only a few yards away, elegant white swans glided over a pond sparkling like diamonds. Surrounded by swaying weeping willows and moss-covered trees, the picturesque sight gave her an unexpected feeling of serenity.

“Good morning, Miss Monroe. Here’s your breakfast.”

She jerked her head toward the door and squinted as artificial light flooded the room. A cheerful-looking middle-aged woman headed toward her with a tray.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in—”

A tall stranger stepped into the room, behind the woman. “I’ll take care of this, Melanie. Thanks.”

The woman turned and smiled brightly at the stranger. “Oh … of course, Mr. McCall. I just brought Miss Monroe’s breakfast.”

Anger and suspicion swamping her, her eyes narrowed at the stranger. “Who are you?”

The man flashed a smile at the older woman as she handed him the tray of food. Then, turning toward her, his face softened and became oddly sad. “How are you, Shea?”

She leaned back against her pillows with a tired sigh. “And I suppose I should know you, too?”

He placed the tray on the swing table beside the bed. Frowning at the restraints on her arms and legs, he untied them. “We don’t really need these … do we?”

Though profound relief shot through her, she kept a wary gaze on the stranger as she pressed the button to raise the bed. Just because he’d untied her didn’t mean she could trust him. Until she knew more … knew something, she could trust no one. Sitting up, she gave a tentative stretch of her muscles. Why did she ache everywhere?

“Feel better?”

She lifted a shoulder in a silent message that she would give him no leeway.

“Would you like to freshen up before breakfast?”

Surprised but still suspicious, she nodded. She had no idea how strong or weak she would be, but she was willing to take the risk to actually be able to stand, on her own, without being restrained in any way. Twisting her body, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and put her feet on the floor. The cool tile felt wonderful against the soles of her bare feet. She looked down at her attire. At some point, someone had undressed her, exchanging the pants and shirt for a long, blue cotton nightgown.

She gripped the bed rail for balance as she stood. The man stayed beside her but didn’t offer to help. Strangely grateful for his allowing her this small independence, she headed toward the small bathroom. Her feet slid across the floor like a zombie’s. By the time she’d made it across the room, breathless, her legs wobbling like overcooked noodles, she felt triumphant, as if she’d achieved a major victory.

With the door closed behind her, she turned and swallowed a gasp, startled at the person staring back at her in the mirror. A stranger’s face. Deathly pale skin, dull green eyes, wild auburn hair. She knew this face, yet she didn’t. A wave of dizziness washed over her as vague, blurred scenes and images swept through her mind. People she should know? Things that had happened?

Not only did she not know her name, she could barely remember events from a few days ago. Every time she reached for her memories, they flitted away from her, leaving vague images of darkness and horror. Yesterday a man who claimed to be a doctor had told her it was the drug she’d been given. Could she believe him?

Fingers grasping the sink for support, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of it all. Was all of this possible? Could she really be Shea Monroe?

A knock on the door shook her from her panicked thoughts.

“Shea, you okay?”

“Yes … I’ll be out in a minute.” She relieved herself and hurriedly drank a glass of water. Making use of the toiletries on the counter in front of her, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. An odd sense of accomplishment swept through her at the completion of these mundane and normal tasks.

Feeling somewhat refreshed and more capable, she pulled the door open and shuffled out. The man who’d been kind to her stood beside the window, across the room. Ethan, the man who’d been alternately kind and gruff, sat in a chair beside the bed.

“Good morning, Shea,” Ethan said.

That deep, graveled voice now sounded so familiar. Was it from her past or because she’d heard him so much over the last few days? If Ethan was truly evil, why was he constantly taking care of her instead of harming her? Was she beginning to accept what he’d told her?

“Shea, you okay?”

She gave a rapid shake of her head, hoping to clear it from the incessant shroud of fogginess. “Why does everyone keep saying ‘Shea’?”

“Because you need to learn your name.” Ethan sounded angry for some reason.

The other man shot a surprised glance at Ethan and then nodded toward the breakfast tray. “We’ll talk while you eat.”

She bit her lip, uncertainty warring with the need to fill the gnawing emptiness in her belly. Yesterday, the food had been fine, but what about today? “I don’t know …”

“Your food is not drugged, dammit,” Ethan growled.

The stranger frowned at Ethan. “You get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, or what?”

“I’m just tired of her questioning everything we do. It’s time she learned to trust.”

Her spine stiffened. “I don’t think your attitude inspires trust, Mr. Bishop.” The voice, crisp and alert, surprised her, even though it came from her mouth.

Ethan’s laugh was rusty and gruff, as if it hadn’t been used in a while. For some reason, the sound caused all sorts of tingles and leaps inside her body.
How odd.

“Now, that sounds like the Shea Monroe I used to know.” Ethan nodded toward her tray. “Eat your breakfast.”

She felt a strange compulsion to refuse, so that he would lose his temper. Why? She never challenged others. She performed her duties, did what she was told to do. The master always … A hot flush of dizziness swamped her as her legs buckled.

Ethan was there before she could fall. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re fine.”

The gruff tone had disappeared and the gentle, concerned man had returned. He carried her to the bed and sat her down.

“Better?”

She swallowed past the fear. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know … I …” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “I just had a strange sensation that I …” She reached for the memory and couldn’t find it. “I don’t know.”

Ethan uncovered the plate of food, revealing scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit juice, and coffee. “Eat and we’ll talk.”

Knowing she had no choice but to at least trust him in this, she took tiny bites and felt better with each swallow.

The man beside Ethan spoke. “We’ve not been properly introduced… . I’m Noah McCall.”

“The head of LCR.” She remembered Ethan telling her this.

When Noah McCall smiled, she blinked again, this time in shock. How had she not noticed how incredibly handsome this man was?

“Do you remember anything else?”

She shrugged. “I only remembered that because Ethan told me.”

“Can you tell me what you remember about Donald Rosemount?”

“The man Ethan said drugged me?”

“Yes.”

“My mind is blurred. The name seems oddly familiar but I don’t know why. I see vague, blurred images… . I’m not sure what they are, when they were … if they even exist.”

“What do you remember about the past six months? Where have you been? Why did you go off on your own like that? How did you find Donald Rosemount?” Noah McCall delivered the questions with the subtly and speed of an AK-47.

Her eyes darted from Noah McCall to Ethan. Both men’s expressions were cool as they examined, assessed. Her mind searched, grasping for information … anything. This was the first time she’d been questioned. She’d felt no pressure to give information before this. Now she could see that they both expected something from her, and she could give … nothing. Her heart pounded in tandem with her head. Pain exploded. The food she’d swallowed headed back up her throat. “I … I don’t …”

Ethan stood and touched her shoulder. “That’s enough, Noah.”

The dark brown eyes that had looked so cool and remote seconds ago turned warm and compassionate once more. “I’m sorry, Shea. I needed to see for myself.”

Understanding that she’d been under some kind of test, she shrank away from both men.

“Don’t start that again,” Ethan snapped. “We are not going to hurt you.”

Cold chills shuddered through her as she realized something astounding. She had begun to trust Ethan. Noah McCall’s questions had made her want to go to Ethan, to ask for his help and protection.

Ethan shoved away the table holding the tray of food and sat beside her on the bed. “Stop looking like that.”

“I was beginning to trust you.”

“You
can
trust me … you can trust both of us. Noah only wanted to—”

“Shea, this is my wife, Samara,” McCall said.

A petite young woman stood beside Noah McCall. Dark-haired, very pretty, and obviously pregnant, Samara McCall smiled at her—the first smile she’d seen that didn’t seem to have a hidden agenda behind it.

“Ethan, you and Noah need to go. I think you’ve scared Shea enough for one day.” Though her voice was soft, Samara McCall’s tone indicated her seriousness.

Ethan shook his head. “I didn’t—”

Samara stared pointedly at both men. “She doesn’t need any more pressure right now, from either of you.”

“Fine.” Ethan took the hand he’d been holding and pressed it to his mouth. “You’re safe now. Remember that, if nothing else.”

A ragged sigh of relief blew through her lips as the two men left the room.

Her expression gently understanding, Samara McCall sat in the chair close to the bed. “They mean well, but they can get a bit intense, don’t you think?”

Confusion added another layer of pain to the constant dull pounding in her head. She was a trained warrior. Dangerous to anyone who got in the way of her master’s orders. Why had they left this small, unarmed, pregnant woman alone with her? Did they not realize what she was capable of?

“Shea, what’s wrong? You look as though you’re full of questions.”

“Why would they leave you alone in here with me? I could kill you in an instant.”

The compassionate look on Samara McCall’s face was a surprise and increased that odd, vulnerable feeling inside her. Why was this woman being so kind? Samara’s words, however, were even more astonishing. “Because Shea Monroe is not a killer. They know that and, soon, you will, too.”