Secret Defender. Debbi RawlinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
around the shabby condition of the property. Half the first step up to the porch had rotted away, and a couple of floorboards were missing near the faded orange lawn chair sitting by the door.
“Sorry the accommodations don’t suit you.” He held out his hand to help her out. “But you’ll be comfortable enough inside.”
His mocking tone made her straighten, and she scooted across the seat to get out…without his help. Except her skirt slid up her thigh, giving him quite an eyeful.
He wasn’t shy about taking it, either. His gaze wrapped around her legs before she was able to tug the hem back down. When he realized that she didn’t want his help, he stepped aside and folded his arms across his chest.
Muscle corded and stretched up his exposed forearms to where he’d turned back his shirtsleeves. Right below his elbow, a long scar marred his tanned skin. It was straight and precise, as if it were made by a knife, but jagged enough that no doctor would have made the incision.
At the thought, she fought back a shudder. Her circle of friends did not include anyone like him. He was a physical man. She could see that just by the way he stood there, his arms folded across his broad chest, his legs parted as he rested confidently on the heels of his tan cowboy boots. Problems were likely solved with his hands and not intellectually. She’d do well to remember that.
No designer label tagged his faded jeans, either. They were worn, soft looking, until they fitted him like a kid glove. Worn enough that she could see how the muscle bulged above his knee and traveled up his thigh. Her gaze snagged on his fly, and she quickly looked away, keeping her eyes averted as she set her feet on the ground.
She made sure her footing was solid before she stood. Only then did she look up at him. He was staring at her chest. She had modest-sized breasts at best; nothing a man generally gave a second look at. She glanced down to see what had grabbed his attention.
The front of her blouse was soaked, the now transparent silk clinging to her pink lace bra. In the center of each breast, her nipples were dark and budding—and clearly visible.
She gasped and turned to the side. But not before she caught the annoyed look in his eyes.
“If you want to stand here all night, I could cuff you to the car door.”
His voice was gruff, impatient, and she moved toward the cabin without looking at him. She hesitated when she got to the rotting first step.
Behind her, she heard the trunk open. Paper rustled, and then something thudded to the ground. She glanced over her shoulder. He was taking a bag out of the trunk. Without giving the impulse a second thought, she kicked off her heels and dashed toward a thicket of trees.
She’d made it just a few yards when he grabbed her around the waist and they both hit the ground. His body pressed hers into the hard earth. She clawed the grass, struggling to get out from under him. Dirt packed under her nails, and her knees stung where gravel scraped her skin.
“Stupid, Sydney, very stupid.” He got up and yanked her upright. He pulled her so close she had to tilt her head back. “How far did you think you’d get?”
She forced her eyes to meet the fire in his and hoped he didn’t smell her fear. “You didn’t really expect me to roll over and play dead, did you?”
“Look.” He fisted her blouse and brought her closer. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stared down at her, and she flinched when he raised his other hand. He flicked some grass off her cheek. “Unless I have to.”
“That’s supposed to be reassuring?”
“Just cooperate, dammit.” He let her go so abruptly she stumbled backward, her cuffed hands useless to help maintain her balance. He made no move to catch her. “Get inside.”
Her shoulder hit a tree trunk hard, but at least she stayed on her feet. She bit back the remark that nearly glided off her tongue. It was a snooty thought that surprised her. But he seemed just so damned earthy. Primal. He was out of her experience, and she hated feeling at such a loss.
Instead, she edged toward the porch, stooping to pick up her black Ferragamo pumps and discreetly spitting out the dirt in her mouth. The rotting steps were tricky, but she gingerly maneuvered them without ending up on her fanny. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it with her toe. It creaked open farther and she peeked inside before crossing the threshold.
The room was small. Nothing separated the kitchen area from the old army-green couch or the unmade double bed. There was one door that she assumed led to a bathroom. As she got farther inside, she was surprised by the cleanliness of everything from the ancient wood floor to the single kitchen countertop. No dust or grime was visible, and in fact, the portable refrigerator was smudge-free and shiny. Odd.
Sydney was a bigger mess. Mud coated her blouse and skin, thanks to the water she’d spilled. A few gobs were in her hair—her newly shampooed and styled hair. Darn it.
When she heard Luke step up on the porch, she moved quickly to give him a wide berth. She saw then that the door did lead to a bathroom. An absurdly tiny one, but at least it had a tub and a door.
“I have some things here for you.”
His voice startled her, even though she knew he was inside. The place was just so damn small, and he was so big. She glanced at the bed again. Only one. A double. She hoped he wasn’t…
“Are you listening?”
She slid him a glance and nodded.
He held a medium-sized black leather bag. As if reading her thoughts, his gaze went briefly to the bed, then back to her. “There are a few shirts and shorts in here and some toiletries. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“How considerate.”
At her sarcasm, his left brow went up. “I’ll get us something to eat in about an hour.”
“You leaving?”
For the first time, his mouth curved slightly, and his gaze lowered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here all night.”
Sydney swallowed. “There’s only one bed.”
He glanced at it in mock surprise. “So there is.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“Right next to you, darlin’.” His smile broadened as he tossed the bag on the bed. “We’re having sandwiches tonight.” He eyed her with misgiving. “Unless you know how to cook.”
She gritted her teeth. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You saw it.”
“Can you unlock the handcuffs?”
“Nope.”
“But we’re stuck in the middle of God knows where.” She sounded breathless, afraid. She hated that.
“If you need help, just holler.”
Like hell. She turned away and unzipped the black bag. She took the first shirt on top. It was denim. Not one of his, but brand new, a size small—something he might have bought for her. Next, she pulled out a hairbrush and toothbrush, and wondered if all kidnappers went through this much trouble.
She kept the things away from her wet, muddy blouse, and without looking at him, headed inside the bathroom. The back of the toilet was the only available surface, so she draped the shirt on the doorknob and set the brushes near the sink faucet. When she tried to swing the door shut, something blocked it from closing.
Poking her head around, she saw the toe of Luke’s boot pressed to the bottom of the door. Her gaze slowly traveled up the worn denim covering his leg, to the white shirt he’d partially unbuttoned, to the exposed wedge of smooth muscled chest, to the strong, square, stubbled jaw.
She finally met his eyes just as he said, “Leave it open.”
Chapter Three