“Stop thinking about it. It’s dead, and trust me, they don’t travel in herds. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.”
She knew it, and it was the most unsettling thing she could think of. He was safety, he was home, he was everything she needed. “Okay,” she said in a small voice.
Before she realized what he was doing, he’d scooped her up again and was carrying her through the darkened halls of the place. She closed her eyes, knowing she’d imagine snakes in the shadows everywhere she looked, not opening them until he set her down next to a large old-fashioned bathtub. He turned on the tap and began to fill it, then turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can find you something you can use for a towel, and I’ll bring you your clean clothes. Just get in the tub, and I promise not to look.”
He’d already seen everything, touched everything, but she didn’t say a word. She waited till he was gone, leaving the door open a crack, and she surveyed the shadows. Nothing moved, and there was no furniture for a creature to hide behind. She reached for her T-shirt, and saw the blood on her hands, sprayed across the front of her shirt, and she froze. She was still standing there when Ryder returned, an old lantern in his hand as well as her satchel. “I found this in the kitchen—either it belongs to the rebels or they were used to the power going out. Either way there’s enough light . . .” He stopped, looking at her. “You need to take off your clothes,” he said patiently, moving to turn off the tap.
Once more she
tried to reach for her bloody shirt, but her hands dropped helplessly. “I can just get in, clothes and all . . .”
“And end up washing in snake blood?” he said heartlessly. “I don’t think so.” He came up to her, and before she realized what he was doing he’d pulled the T-shirt over her head. She didn’t even protest, not when he unfastened her pants and pushed them down her legs along with her underwear, not when he unfastened the white bra that was now stained with red. She shuddered.
But there was nothing sexual in his touch—he was efficient and businesslike, and when she was finally naked he scooped her up and set her down in the lukewarm water. “I know it feels warm but it’s colder than your body temperature, and if you stay in there too long you’ll start shivering. Do you need me to wash you?”
“N . . . no,” she said, cursing her slight stammer. “I’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll come get you. I’m just on the other side of the door, making us something for dinner. There are a lot of canned foods—I can manage to whip us up something.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly.
“Of course you will.”
Ryder left the door ajar. He could see her from the corner of his eye anytime he wanted to, a mixed blessing. She was looking a little shell-shocked, and while his own reaction to things like snakes was prosaic, he wasn’t fool enough to underestimate the effect of true phobias. And even a snake lover might have problems with a dead anaconda falling on their head and covering them with blood.
But he could hear the sound of water splashing, smell the scent of the lavender soap he’d found her, and he knew she was managing, maybe better than he was.
It had taken ten years off his life when he’d walked into her room and seen that anaconda reaching toward her. The thing had to be at least a foot in diameter and God knew how long, and if he’d been a couple of minutes later, it could have twined around her neck, shutting off her screams and her breath and killing her.
He didn’t want to think about that. Parker was one of the most alive people he knew, full of piss and vinegar, at least when he wasn’t hurting her. To think that her vibrant life could have been snuffed out in seconds . . . unsettled him. He was used to death and its unexpected swiftness. He just hadn’t really thought about it for Parker. Letting her come with him had always been a risk, but he’d assumed that risk was from the rebel soldiers and the devious Soledad. He’d forgotten about the indigenous wildlife.
He glanced back into the bathing room. She was moving slowly, rubbing the soap along her shoulders, and he wondered if he should offer to wash her slender back. No, that would be a very bad idea. He’d already played with fire when he’d stripped off her clothes, and it had taken his iron will not to pay attention to her lithe body, her perfect breasts, her long legs, and the soft curls between them. Last night had been a onetime occurrence. He’d brought the condoms because life had a habit of throwing you curves, but the more he thought about it the more determined he was to leave her strictly alone, and the reason was both simple and deeply troubling.
He liked her too much. He liked her smart-ass reaction to him, he liked her bravery. The woman had been shot, had her house blown up, had been hit on the head—and she just kept going with no sign of weakening. Even the trauma of the pain he’d given her hadn’t lasted long. He’d been forced to hurt other women before, not as badly as he’d hurt Parker, and they’d looked on him with such horror he’d known his best bet was never to go near them again. Parker had bounced back with surprising speed, her fear leaving her, responding to his touch with anger, and then with something else.
She’d been the one to kiss him. She’d started it last night, a fact he knew shamed her. He could have explained to her that it was only normal—the two of them were trapped together in a dangerous situation, and it heightened adrenaline and hormones.
There was also an intimacy between the giver and receiver of pain, whether it was for a little healthy kink or the need to find out information. It left them both vulnerable, much as he hated to admit it. He now felt more responsible for her, almost protective.
Fortunately she’d come to her senses, and she wasn’t about to kiss him again. God knew he wasn’t going to put moves on her—he’d already traumatized her enough. No, he’d let her be. He didn’t have room in his life for anyone, and Parker was the kind of person a man made room for. If he’d had any sense he would have insisted she stay home, but he’d been stupidly easy to convince. Granted, she could identify the cell phone without its distinctive case, but it wouldn’t have taken much for him to figure it out once he caught up with Soledad.
He should have left her behind. But someone had tried to kill her in New Orleans, twice, and he was no closer to figuring out who it was, or why. Leaving her in Remy’s care wouldn’t have set his mind at ease. Remy was one hell of an operative, but Ryder didn’t trust anyone as much as he trusted himself.
So he’d brought her into a different kind of danger, forcing him to realize she was too big a distraction whether she was with him or thousands of miles away.
What was it about her? He couldn’t afford to let her get to him—it would be disaster for both of them. He was going to stick to her like glue from now on—this was far too dangerous a place for her. He was going to feed her and sleep beside her like a brother and keep her safe until he could get her back to the States and get her out of his life. The plan was simple.
The question was, could he follow it?
He was right, Jenny thought. The lukewarm water was chilling after a while, but at least she felt clean, rinsing off with fresh water from the tap. There was no towel, but she dried herself on her clean clothes and pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and a baggy T-shirt. The bra had been the only one they’d provided, and it was stained with . . . snake blood. She shuddered in remembered horror. She’d either have the fortitude to wash it tomorrow or she’d just do without. Her modest 34B wasn’t going to be that much of a problem beneath the loose shirts they’d provided her, and Ryder was going to be too busy to notice.
She pushed open the bathroom door. He was standing over the stove, and amazing smells were coming from the cast-iron frying pan. “Well, aren’t you domestic,” she said in a wry voice, attempting to reclaim her sangfroid. It came out a little shaky, but close enough, and he simply raised an eyebrow.
“Red beans and rice, Calliverian style,” he said. He took the frying pan and set it down on the scarred wooden table. “No plates, though I found a couple of spoons. We’re going to have to eat it from the pan.”
“That’s a little unsanitary, don’t you think?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
He gave her a slow grin. “I think we’ve shared enough germs already that this isn’t going to make a difference.” He frowned. “How’s your head?”