“All right,” he said roughly, with a firm grip on the Glock. “Let’s go.”
The hotel was a lodge, par for the course in a national forest, and the room was really a suite—rustic but elegant. Luke kept the Glock trained on the redhead as he looked around: a big bed, lots of polished wood, burl tables, a cozy conversation area of couch and armchairs in front of a fireplace that was already blazing, and big gleaming windows that afforded a breathtaking view of the moon on the cove.
Very nice. If he’d been kidnapped, at least he couldn’t complain about the accommodations. And only one bed...what a shame. They’d have to share.
Oh, no, you don’t, he ordered himself. Where did that even come from? Focus. You need to figure out what’s going on here.
He looked first to the phone on the bed table. As he limped toward it he got a look at the clock above the fireplace: it said 12:16. That couldn’t be right, though; he’d gotten the call at his flat just after eleven, and it was obviously many hours later.
He picked up the phone...but it didn’t seem to be working, either.
Maybe best not to talk to anyone until I figure more out.
He lowered himself to the bed and willed himself not to bleed out. The redhead was watching him anxiously.
“We’re going to start with you,” he said, “and what you have to do with all of this.” He was beginning to think there was something odd about her. For one thing, she must have been the one who had given him back his gun. Why?
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Aurora.”
Pretty. “Aurora what?”
She hesitated. “Aurora.”
Right. Well, they’d get back to that. “Okay, Aurora, what are we doing here? Why did you bring me here?”
“Those people were trying to kill you,” she said.
“So you put me in my car and drove me to the Sequoias? How did you even get me out of there?”
She wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying at all, it seemed; instead, she was staring at his legs. Or his crotch. Which may have been flattering under different circumstances, but not at the moment.
“I need to take a look at those wounds,” she said.
And somehow she was at his side, gently helping him stand and leading him into the bathroom.
She pushed him gently back against the sink and put her hands on the bottom of his T-shirt to lift it over his head and her fingers touched the flat, hard plane of his stomach. Despite his condition, Luke felt a surge of desire that knocked his breath out of him. She froze and stood with her hands on his skin and he could feel her shaking. In the light she was stunningly beautiful—that creamy skin and sky-blue eyes and a mouth as full and kissable as any man could ever want. And she was completely...soft was the only word he could think of. There was nothing hard or cynical or worldly or guileful about her; she was as fresh and sweet as a rose.
She was looking into his face, and there were spots of color flaming in her cheeks; she was clearly and beautifully as turned on as he was.
Finally she said breathlessly, “I have to...make sure you’re all right.” And she pulled his shirt off.
His sudden nakedness made the heat between them even more intense.
Who is this woman? Luke thought...and then he caught sight of his biceps in the mirror.
There was a large and expert gauze bandage taped to his arm. Blood had oozed through the gauze, but nothing anywhere near lethal.
What the...?
She was suddenly focused on the wound, too, and gently loosened the gauze to look. He was stunned to see that the ripped flesh had been neatly sewn together, with tiny, precise stitches, as expertly as a combat medic would have done.
“You did that?” he said, unnerved.
“I’m good with thread,” she said modestly.
“That’s great, but the bullet’s going to have to come out,” he said, dreading the thought.
“Oh, it’s out,” she assured him, and proceeded to douse the wound with hydrogen peroxide. Which shut him up, but only for a minute.
When he’d stopped cursing, he stared at her through stinging eyes. “You took out the bullet.”
She dipped her head, concentrating on daubing the edges of the wound. “I stopped along the way and fixed you up a little.”
“A little,” he repeated. “You took a bullet out of me?”
“Well, I had to,” she said, as if she did it every day.
Now she glanced down at his thigh. The second bullet had ripped his jeans, and he could see there was more bandage work under the blood-soaked denim.
“Can you...?” she started, and blushed crimson.
He knew what she was asking, but wasn’t about to just go along. “Can I what?” he asked, his voice suddenly rough.
“You need to take off...” She couldn’t even finish.
“Why don’t you?” he said, holding her eyes.
She bit those full lips...and then put her hands on his waistband and unbuttoned the button. He could feel himself thick and hard just under her fingers as she unzipped his jeans, and she was holding her breath... He could smell her, that incredible honey scent.
Her hands skimmed his muscular thighs as she eased his pants down, and he was looking at the pale curve of her throat, just inches away. He was breathing raggedly... In two seconds he was going to be having her against the wall.
Get hold of yourself, he ordered himself. You don’t even know who she is.
With a supreme effort he quelled his raging hormones and felt his hard-on start to subside.
She swallowed and concentrated on the bandage, again gently loosening the gauze to inspect the wound and pouring more peroxide carefully into the trough between the perfectly stitched sutures.
She knows what she’s doing, that’s for sure.
But now that he was thinking with his brain again instead of...other parts of his anatomy, nothing was adding up.
“How did you get me into the car to begin with?” he demanded. Come to think of it, he didn’t think that was even possible without one or even two other people—surely she hadn’t lifted him herself. So someone must have helped her, and that meant there were forces at work he didn’t know about. Luke Mars didn’t like having people know things he didn’t.
“I...” She looked to the left—clear evidence she was about to make up a story. Luke had had all the training: she looked up and to the left, meaning she was accessing her right, creative brain when she spoke. Witnesses who were telling the truth looked to the right, using their left brain to access memory.
“You’re not going to tell me you carried me,” he said curtly.
“No...”
“Not all by yourself, anyway.”
“I