Trust Me. Caroline CrossЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Trust Me
Caroline Cross
This is a book about second chances.
I owe mine to two terrific editors, Julie Barrett and
Melissa Jeglinski. Thanks for giving me the chance to
write this book and for always making me look better.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
One
The shriek of the bolt being drawn in the cell block door shattered the sultry afternoon silence.
Lilah jerked her head up. For a second, she remained frozen. Then she scrambled upright, scooted to the far edge of the thin mat that served as her bed and pressed herself back against the rough concrete wall. She braced herself as the door at the end of the corridor crashed open.
Against a dim spill of light, a pair of jail guards staggered into sight. A man hung limply between them. His head lolled. His feet trailed in the dust. As the guards dragged him forward, Lilah stared at tanned, muscular arms, the hard biceps stretching the sleeves of a faded olive T-shirt. At inky hair that gleamed even in the murky illumination. At the trickle of blood beading at the edge of a determined mouth.
With a long-suffering grunt, the jailers hoisted their burden a little higher. The prisoner’s head tilted sideways, allowing her a quick view of a straight blade of a nose and the strong clean line of a cheekbone.
All of which abruptly seemed familiar.
Her heart leapt even as her mind reeled. No. It can’t be. What would the love of her reckless youth, the masculine yardstick against whom she’d once measured all others, the man who at times still invaded her sleep and hijacked her dreams—what would he be doing here, in the farthest reaches of the Caribbean, in remote San Timoteo, at one of El Presidente’s private jails?
Her mind must’ve snapped. It was the only explanation that made sense, Lilah decided. She’d tried to be brave, to hold on and be strong, but finally she’d lost it. What’s worse, she was hallucinating.
And yet….
The guards dumped the newcomer onto the adjoining cell’s concrete floor. One of them lingered long enough to give their newest captive a vicious kick to the ribs, then exited, slamming first the cell door and then the corridor door behind him.
Every nerve in Lilah’s body screamed for action. Yet the harsh lessons of the past month had reinforced her innate sense of caution. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she forced herself to stay where she was, to wait for the sounds of the bolt slamming home and her captors’ footsteps receding. Then, unable to remain still another instant, she launched herself off the bed and across the cell.
She reached the unyielding metal bars, her gaze locked on her fellow prisoner’s face as she slid to her knees. Her pulse thrummed wildly in her ears as she studied the straight eyebrows, the strong chin and the killer cheekbones.
This close, there could be no doubt. The years may have added width to his shoulders, heft to his muscles, a few character lines to his handsome face, but it was him.
Dominic Devlin Steele.
Stunned, she tried to think. What on earth could he be doing here? Was it sheer coincidence? An incredible twist of fate?
That hardly seemed probable. Yet the only other explanation was that he was here deliberately, and the only person likely to orchestrate that would be her grandmother. Try as she might, Lilah couldn’t imagine a world where Abigail Anson Clarke Cantrell Trayburne Sommers’s path would cross Dominic Steele’s.
Much less why he’d agree to put himself in harm’s way for her.
Then she realized none of it mattered. After a month of fear, loneliness and growing desperation, it was simply wonderful to see a familiar face. Even his.
Especially his.
She reached through the bars. “Dominic? It’s me. Lilah. Lilah Cantrell.” Fingers trembling, she touched her hand to his cheek.
On some marginal level, she registered that his skin was reassuringly warm. That the faint prickle of his beard against her palm tickled. And that nearly a decade had done nothing to dim the hot little thrill of pleasure that touching him brought her.
But mostly her focus was all on the fact that he was far, far too still. “I can’t believe it’s really you. That you’re here, of all places. The thing is, you need to wake up. Wake up and talk to me. Or at least stop being so still. Please?”
He didn’t stir. Biting her bottom lip, she tried to decide what to do now, only to have panic flood her when she realized she didn’t have a clue. Her fright gave birth to a lump in her throat and the next thing she knew, she had to press her lips together to muffle a sudden sob.
Her weakness shamed her. So what if seeing someone—anything—familiar emphasized how demoralizing the past month’s incarceration had been? So what if she’d begun to lose hope that she’d ever see home again? Or that, as hard as she’d tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, she’d started to wonder whether she’d even be missed?
She was a Cantrell. Ever since she could remember she’d been warned against the dangers of self-indulgence, the perils of losing control.
More to the point, you aren’t the one lying bruised and unconscious on a dirty floor. She should be focused on how to aid Dominic, not kneeling and wringing her hands like a vapid heroine in a B movie. She could just imagine what Gran would say. “For heaven’s sake, child!” the familiar, autocratic voice declared impatiently in her head. “Quit your sniveling and at least try to live up to your family name!”
Like a dash of cold water, imagining her grandmother’s disdain steadied her. Swallowing hard, Lilah took a deep breath to force back the tidal wave of emotion that had so nearly swamped her. To her relief, the tightness in her throat eased and her hands quit shaking. Heartened, she wasted no time turning her attention back to Dominic.
First things first, she decided. She’d do her best to see if she could pinpoint where he was injured; then she’d worry about what to do about it.
She set about examining him. Careful to keep her touch as light as a kiss of sunlight, she skimmed her fingertips over those areas of his head and face that she could reach through the bars, checking for knots or blood or anything else that seemed out of place. Next came his neck and throat. Then she cautiously probed the side of him nearest to her, checking each rib, the long valley of his spine, the solid curves of arm and shoulder.
Nothing. Except for the heart-stopping discovery that he was all taut skin and steely muscle, exactly the way she remembered, she remained as clueless as she’d been minutes earlier about his possible injuries.
She fought the return of despair. “Come on, Nicky,” she whispered, her old pet name for him inadvertently slipping off her tongue as she rubbed the skin-warmed cotton of his shirt beneath her fingertips. “Quit playing around. I need you. I really, really need you. Wake up. Please please please wake up—”
“Jeez,