Rebecca York: Carrie's Protector

All she could do was divide her attention between their surroundings and Wyatt, watching the sinister red patch on his sleeve grow bigger as he drove.

He saw her watching him. “It’s not an artery.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’d already be dead if it were.”

She made a snorting sound.

He kept driving, clenching his teeth every time he made a turn and checking the rearview mirror frequently to make sure they weren’t being followed. When signs of civilization began appearing, he slowed his speed. Finally they approached a strip mall, and he pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore, finding a spot near the door. “I’m going to stay here. Can you go in and get a few things?”

“Of course.”

“I need gauze pads, antiseptic, adhesive tape, and if they have men’s shirts, get me something I can wear that’s not bloodstained.”

She nodded and climbed out, looking around to make sure nobody was paying any attention.

Inside, she grabbed a shopping cart and took a moment to orient herself, then headed for the first-aid section. She found the required items and added a bottle of painkillers, a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels. Then she went to the clothing department. It wasn’t large, but she did find a long-sleeved, button-down-the-front sports shirt that looked as if it would fit Wyatt.

At the cash register, she started to reach for her credit card, then remembered a credit transaction could be traced. Instead, she paid in cash and hurried back to the car. Wyatt was sitting with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. They snapped open, and his hand went to the gun when she opened the passenger door. When he realized it was her, he relaxed.

He’d gotten them to the shopping center, but now his skin was gray and covered with perspiration. He was in shock.

“You’re not in any shape to drive,” she said.

She expected an argument, but he got out of the car and walked unsteadily to her side. She switched places with him, then drove around the back of the shopping center.

He stared around in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Having a look at your arm.”

The strip mall backed up onto a wooded area, and she drove to the side of the blacktop, parking under some lowhanging maple trees.

“Let me get my shirt off.”

He heaved himself up and climbed out, where he stood studying the area. When he established that they were alone, he started unbuttoning his shirt. She could see that moving his arm was hurting him.

Joining him, she said, “Let me.”

Standing in front of him, she began working the buttons, exposing his broad chest, which was covered with a dark mat of hair and what looked like an old scar.

“What happened to you?” she asked as she gently touched the scar.

“I was in a war zone,” he clipped out, telling her by his tone that he wanted her to drop the subject.

Pressing her lips together, she tried not to focus on his buff physique as she helped him take his good arm out of his sleeve, then gathered up the fabric so that she could ease the other sleeve down his arm. The blood had already stuck the fabric to his skin, and he made a small sound as she peeled the shirt away. There was a trash can nearby. Balling up the shirt, she started toward it.

He stopped her with a firm command. “No. I don’t want any evidence left around here.”

“Oh, right.”

He walked back to the passenger seat and sat down heavily, giving her access to the arm. Gingerly, she examined the wound. It looked as if the bullet had torn a path across his skin, leaving a deep canyon in his flesh.

He turned his head and inspected the track. “It’s not bad. Which is good, because spending time in an emergency room could be dangerous.”

“Why?”

“That’s a logical place to look for me.”

“How would they know you were hurt?”

“I left some blood on the ground.”

She made a low sound. She had been so wound up with getting away that she hadn’t even noticed.

After opening the paper towels, she pulled a couple off, wadded them up and wet them with the water, then gingerly wiped at the dried blood on his arm, being careful not to start the wound bleeding again.

She’d barely spoken to the man in the week she’d been with him. In the space of a few hours, she’d gotten to know him a lot better. Now she felt the intimacy of this encounter. He was half-naked, and she was tending to him with handson closeness. She might have tried to speed through the first aid. Instead, the situation made her want to linger. Too bad they were parked in the back of a shopping center, a location that wasn’t exactly private.

“How did my father happen to hire you?” she asked.

“He was looking for someone to guard you, and he got a recommendation from one of my former bosses at the CIA. I guess he liked what he heard.”

“You quit the Agency?”

“I got into a situation in Greece.”

“What kind of situation?”

“I got my partner killed,” he snapped.

“It probably was as much his fault as yours.”

“Her.”

“Oh.”

“I should have known better than to get involved with her.” The way he said it told her this was another subject he didn’t want to talk about. She wouldn’t press him. Not now when he was injured, although she couldn’t help wondering what had happened.

She opened the bottle of antiseptic. “This may sting.”

He answered with a tight nod.

She poured the clear liquid onto his arm, hearing him wince as it pooled in the wound.

When she was satisfied that she’d cleaned it well, she taped on the gauze pads.

Next came the shirt, which she pulled out of the bag and unbuttoned. Reversing the process, she helped him get his arms through the sleeves, which turned out to be about an inch too short, so she left the cuffs unbuttoned.

Before she finished, a blast from a car horn startled her, making her lose her balance and fall forward, pressing her breasts against Wyatt’s face. Quickly she pushed herself away. Turning, she saw a white Jeep with an orange dome light on top. A middle-aged man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning out the driver’s window, staring at them with narrowed eyes.

“This side of the lot is for store owners and employees only. You can’t come back here and make out,” he said in a stern voice.

When she started to object that they’d been doing no such thing, Wyatt put a hand on her arm.

“Sorry, Officer,” he said.

“Button up your shirt and move along.”

“Yes, sir,” Wyatt answered.

She’d never expected to hear him cave in the face of authority, and she knew he probably hated doing it, but she also knew he was avoiding any kind of confrontation, avoiding having the guy come over and see the bloodied shirt or the gun in the car. While Wyatt and the guard had exchanged pleasantries, she’d bundled the supplies back into the drugstore bag and thrown them in the backseat. Now she hurried around to the driver’s door. The security guy stayed where he was while she pulled away, then followed her to the parking lot entrance. She waited for the light to change and pulled out, heading down the road in the opposite direction from where they’d come.

Wyatt had leaned back in his seat but now he sat up suddenly and cursed.

Carrie’s gaze shot to him in alarm. “What?”

“We have to get rid of that gun.”

“Like throw it in the bushes?”

“No. Like put it in the trunk.”

He craned his neck to look at a road sign. “Turn off on a side road and look for a place where there aren’t any houses.”

She followed directions, and they both got out. She blocked the view from the road while he stowed the weapon out of sight.