Jill Sorenson - Tempted by His Target

“It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

He rose from the bed, wincing, and picked up his pack. She moved aside as he passed by, noting that the top of his head barely cleared the doorway. At well over six feet tall, he’d have to duck down to shower.

Stomach growling, she sat down to eat. The snack cakes didn’t taste very good, but the chips were okay. She devoured both, crunching noisily.

Her Beverly Hills manners were long gone, too.

When Brandon came out of the bathroom, wearing only trousers, she almost choked on the last mouthful of soda. She’d seen his bare chest at the beach. But now they were in a tiny room with a single bed, and his masculine presence seemed magnified. The smell of clean male skin permeated the space, assaulting her senses.

He blotted his eyebrow, which was still seeping, with a small towel.

Flushing, she set the empty can aside and rose to retrieve her first aid kit. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the edge of the mattress. He complied, taking the towel away from his brow as she stepped forward to treat him. She stood between his splayed thighs, her hands trembling as she cleaned the area around the cut with an alcohol square. It probably didn’t need stitches; head wounds just bled a lot. “This might scar.”

“Who were those guys?”

“Thugs,” she said vaguely, dabbing a bit of antibiotic ointment on the cut. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“‘Nam.”

She ignored the sarcastic answer, realizing that he was annoyed with her evasiveness. It took all of her concentration to prepare a butterfly bandage without fumbling. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time. Her breasts were inches from his face. His gaze rose to meet hers, conveying a reluctant sexual interest and faint distrust.

The feeling was mutual.

“Hold still,” she said, pressing the edges of the cut together and securing it with the bandage. He sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth in discomfort. Then she was done, and the wound was closed up tight, almost as if she’d stitched it.

“Those guys are with La Familia,” she said, sitting down next to him.

He didn’t ask what that meant. The most powerful drug cartel in Mexico was infamous. “Why are they after me?”

She hesitated to give him a straight answer. Being as honest as possible was the least she could do, after dragging him into this mess, but she had to look out for herself first. “They’re not after you.”

His brows lifted. “They want you?”

“They want something I have.”

“What?”

Isabel couldn’t tell him, so she reached for the antibiotic ointment again. Using a light touch, she applied the medicine to his bruised lower lip. After so many months of deprivation, the action seemed unbearably sensual. Her nipples tightened, poking against the soft fabric of her tank top in an all-too-obvious bid for attention.

Flustered, she jerked her hand away from his mouth. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he’d thought of something amusing. Instead of sharing the joke, he made a fist, revealing swollen knuckles and a rash of small cuts. She put ointment on his knuckles and bandaged them lightly, trying to ignore the heat between them. “You don’t do manual labor,” she commented. His hands were strong, with ropy veins, but his palms weren’t heavily callused.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No, but my job is physically demanding. And I teach self-defense classes on the weekends.”

Self-defense classes. That explained his grappling prowess and swift reactions. “What’s your day job?”

“I work for a risk management company. We test sports equipment, safety gear, anything that’s designed to reduce injuries. By the way, you really should wear a helmet if you’re going to surf alone at a crusher reef.”

His belated advice made her feel numb. She’d probably never see that reef again. “I’m sorry for running away in the alley earlier,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I feel bad about leaving you with … the body.”

“He wasn’t dead.”

She perked up. “Really?”

“They took him away in an ambulance, so he must have been alive. The police wouldn’t say how he was. In any case, I appreciate you coming back. I don’t think those guys had a friendly conversation in mind.”

“No,” she agreed, warmed by his gratitude. She began putting away her first aid supplies, self-conscious.

“Wait,” he said, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. He squeezed a small amount onto his thumb and brushed it over her cheek, soothing the scrape.

Isabel’s skin tingled with sensation. She was heartened by the reminder that Carranza’s man had struck her first, and glad she’d been able to help Brandon fend off his attackers. She was also terrified by her response to him. Over the past two years, she’d relied only on herself. Staying away from people had kept her safe.

He made her ache for all the things she’d been missing.

His hand lingered on her jaw, framing it the way a man did before he stole a kiss. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and pulse throb. The temptation to part her lips and tilt her head back was almost irresistible.

Somehow, she found the strength to pull away. When he dropped his hand, she shoved her first aid supplies into the case and rose to her feet.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Get some sleep.” No easy task, with him in the bed.

“Tomorrow, I mean.”

She shrugged, stashing the kit in her messenger bag. Her best recourse was probably to stay in Oaxaca, lying low.

“Come to Guatemala with me.”

Her gaze flew back to his, startled. “You’re going there?”

“I was considering it, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. I saw an ad for a surfing tour.”

Her mind raced with possibilities. It wasn’t a bad idea. Brandon was strong, he cared about her safety and he could handle himself in a fight. With his height and looks, he wouldn’t be inconspicuous, but traveling couples were much more common than single women. He also had money, or access to money. Wealthy Americans were welcome everywhere in Mexico. They might be able to cross the border together.

This was her chance to escape. Should she take it?

“Those men won’t give up,” she warned. “Staying with me will be dangerous.”

He didn’t seem worried. “I assess risk for a living.”

She pegged him as a controlled adrenaline junkie—and knew she could do worse. “You have a head injury.”

He fingered the bandage by his left eye, deliberating. “We don’t need to decide now. Let’s sleep on it.”

Making a tacit agreement to revisit the topic in the morning, Isabel killed the lights, settling in beside him. He didn’t try to touch her again, which only increased her frustration. She was lying next to a hot gentleman, her body humming with desire. Sex was out of the question, of course, no matter how badly she wanted it. He was nursing a possible concussion, and she had to stay focused on survival.

They couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.

Tomorrow night, if she decided to accompany him to Guatemala, she’d try to secure a room with two beds.

After a few minutes, his breaths came deep and even, signaling that he was asleep. Isabel relaxed slightly, her thoughts drifting. She felt safe with Brandon. Not comfortable, exactly. Their physical chemistry kept her nerves on edge, but she didn’t think he’d harm her.

She also wondered why he’d offer his assistance, beyond chivalry. A man like him could have his pick of women. Those two European girls had given him the go-signal. Why would he trouble himself with a knife-wielding fugitive instead? Some guys had a thing for surfer girls; others enjoyed the chase. Many extreme sports enthusiasts were addicted to risk. Maybe Brandon was a thrill-seeker and an “exotic” female was icing on his cake.