Jane Porter - Lazaro's Revenge

His English was flawless and yet his tone cut razor-sharp. He’d been schooled in the States, she thought blankly, numb from head to toe. “Are you going to…hurt me?”

She heard the wobble in her voice, the break between words that revealed her fear and exhaustion. He heard it, too, and his firm mouth compressed, flatter, harder. “I don’t hurt women.”

“But you do kidnap them?” she choked, on the verge of hysteria, her imagination beginning to run away with her. She’d been up twenty-four hours without sleep and she was losing control.

“Only if I’m asked to,” he answered as the helicopter dipped. He glanced out the window and nodded with satisfaction. “We’re landing. Hold on.”

The helicopter touched down. While the pilot worked the controls, her abductor flung the door open and stepped out. “Come,” he said, extending a hand to her.

Zoe recoiled from his touch. “No.”

She couldn’t see his face in the darkness but felt his impatience. “It’s not a choice, Señorita Collingsworth. ¡Vamanos!”

Slowly, trembling with fear, she climbed from the helicopter. Her legs were numb and stiff, as if cardboard legs instead of tissue and bone.

The night felt warm, far warmer than she’d expected, and yet she convulsively pressed her thin traveling coat closer to her frame.

Lights shone ahead. Heart pounding, she gazed at the illuminated house and outbuildings. But beyond the immediate circle of light there was only darkness. A world of darkness. Where was she? What did he intend to do?

He moved behind her, reached into the helicopter and lifted out her suitcase and another small traveling bag. His, she thought with a shudder.

Bags out, he shut the helicopter door and immediately the helicopter lifted, rising straight from the ground into the dark starry night.

The whirring blades blew her hair into her eyes and Zoe stumbled backward, trying to escape the noise and rush of air, tripping over the suitcases behind her. She fell backward. Hands reached out to break her fall.

She felt the hard pressure of his body, felt his hands tighten on her as he placed her on her feet.

Immediately, she pulled away, and yet that split second of contact was more than she could bear. In that split second she’d felt his strength and heat penetrate her coat, penetrate her skin, penetrate all the way into her bones. He was hard and unyielding. Just that brief contact left her burned.

Bruised.

God help me, she silently prayed, get me home safe.

Hand shaking, she pushed a fistful of hair from her eyes. Her hair clip had fallen out, and the helicopter blades had blown the long heavy mass free. She felt blown to bits.

Physically. Emotionally.

“This way,” he said roughly, touching her elbow.

This second touch was worse than the first. Zoe jerked, muscles snapping, spring-loaded. The sudden stiffening of her body hurt.

Every time he touched her she shuddered. Every time he touched her she burned.

The noise of the helicopter began to fade. The warm night air wrapped around her. “What happens now?” she asked, drawing herself tall, bringing herself to her full five-ten height. It didn’t do much good. He was still far taller, larger. He had to be well over six foot three, maybe six-four. He was built strong, too, thickly muscled like an American football star, but in his black coat, black shirt, black trousers he could have been from the Mafia.

“We go inside. We’ll have dinner. You’ll go to your room for the night.”

He made it sound almost civilized. Which should have reassured her, but she wasn’t reassured, not by a long shot. She’d heard that some of the most violent men were also the most sophisticated. He could be toying with her before—

Stop it!

You have to stop thinking like this. You can’t let your imagination do this to you. You’ll just drive yourself crazy.

There were too many unknowns, too many terrifying possibilities. She had to stay calm, had to keep a cool head, as her father used to say. Her father had been a master of cool heads.

She swallowed the lump of panic filling her throat. “Okay. Dinner sounds good.” She’d take this step by step, moment by moment. She’d get through this. One way or another.

He picked up her suitcase and his bag and headed toward the house, leaving her to follow. But she couldn’t follow, not immediately. How could she just go in there, how could she walk into that house on her own accord?

Zoe stood where he’d left her, turned to face the cement pad, felt the night air surround her. The land was flat and open, with only a cluster of trees in the distance. Nothing loomed on the horizon. No mountains. No lights from a town. Just flat, empty space.

The pampas, she whispered to herself, remembering the postcards Daisy had sent her.

The Galván estancia was on the pampas, too. Perhaps she was close to Daisy, closer than either of them knew.

She turned back to face the house with the glow of yellow light. What to do now?

He was waiting for her at the door. She started toward him then stopped. She could feel his impatience and it frightened her. What would happen once she entered the house?

He waited another moment before shrugging and disappearing from view. After a long moment Zoe forced herself to continue.

Climbing the front steps, she arrived at the front door. The dark wood door remained open. The man reappeared.

He’d removed his coat and unbuttoned his dark shirt. A muscle in his jaw jumped as her eyes met his. His eyes were lighter than she’d thought, his eyebrows straight and very black, but it was his nose that dominated his face. His nose was bent, beaked in two places. There was a small scar at the bridge, and another scar at the edge of his square chin. His face looked as though it’d been smashed silly a half dozen times.

A street boxer. A thug.

Zoe’s throat constricted. She swallowed hard, terror making her limbs feel like thin splinters of glass.

“You’re coming in then?” he said.

Her throat worked and she dug her fists against her ribs to stop her shaking. It nearly killed her to force sound through her throat. “You don’t care if I stay outside?”

“You can do whatever you want now that you’re here.”

“I can?”

“There’s no phone line here, no outside communication at all. No visitors, no roads, no disturbances, no interruptions. You’re safe.”

Hot tears pricked her eyes and she ground her teeth together. “I’m safe?”

He reached out to touch the side of her neck, just below her jawbone, his fingers trailing across the soft skin left exposed by her turtleneck. “Perfectly safe.”

She quivered and jerked at the hot painful touch. “Is there no one else here?”

“Just an elderly servant, but she doesn’t speak English and won’t bother you.”

He lifted his finger from her neck and she felt as though he’d split her in two. The touch had been light and yet he’d lit a bomb inside her skin, heat exploding in her middle, fire racing through her veins. It was the most shocking touch and she wanted to cry out loud, overwhelmed by the intensity of her response.

“Come inside. You’re tired.”

“I’m afraid.”

His dark head tilted. “Of?”

His deep voice was pitched so low that it throbbed within her, a soft but distinct vibration that left her humming. She hated him, feared him, and yet he was strangely charismatic, too. Of everything that could happen, she wanted to answer, but she didn’t say it. Wouldn’t say it.

He must have read her thoughts because he smiled faintly. “Think of it as an adventure.” Then he moved aside, stepping back to allow her to pass.

An adventure? He must be mad.

Yet his peculiar dark-light eyes held hers, and he waited, neither speaking nor rushing her. He was going to let her choose. He was going to put the next move on her.