Gail Barrett - Seduced by His Target

And she still didn’t know how.

Trying not to panic, she knelt in the hard-packed dirt beside Henry in a hut the terrorists had commandeered. He lay on a sleeping pallet made of straw, an alpaca wool blanket pulled up to his neck, his face almost as gray as the whiskers covering his chin. The wooden door was ajar, the rustles of nocturnal creatures and chirp of crickets filling the night. The thatched roof formed a peak overhead.

“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble,” he murmured. “I’m a total pain in the ass.”

She studied him in the lantern’s glow. Dark circles underscored his eyes. The pale light wavered, casting shadows over his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a pain.”

“You could escape without me. I’m slowing you down.”

“No, you’re not. Now stop worrying about it.”

His tired blue eyes met hers. “I’m serious, Nadine. Take one of the horses and ride for help. It’s the only chance we have.”

Her heart skipped. Had he overheard the terrorists’ plan to kill him? But no, they’d been speaking in Jaziirastani. He couldn’t have understood. Thank God.

Because the last thing he needed was a worry like that. She refused to even tell him why the men had kidnapped them. He needed all his strength to get well.

“Would you leave without me?” she countered. When he grimaced, she gave him a pointed look. “Exactly. And I’m not leaving without you, either. We’re in this thing together. Now just concentrate on resting and getting stronger. I’ll think about it tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make our plans.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. A faint smile reached his eyes, edging out the pain. “You’re a good friend, Nadine.”

Hardly. She’d gotten him into this disaster. He’d been kidnapped because of her. And now his fate was in her hands.

The wooden door creaked, and she turned her head. An old woman came through the door, lugging a pot of food. Barely five feet tall, she wore a thick wool cardigan sweater, several layers of skirts, and the usual tire tread sandals on her swollen feet. Her face was weathered and brown, her hip-length braids threaded with gray, her age somewhere between forty and ninety, impossible to discern.

Nadine rose, towering over the tiny woman, and helped her set the pot on the wooden crate serving as a table beside the bed. “Gracias,” Nadine told her. The woman smiled, revealing gaps in her stained teeth, and murmured something in return. The farmers spoke a variant of Quechua, not Spanish, making communication hard.

Not that they needed words. The terrorists’ guns had made their meaning clear.

But Nadine still wished she could thank her properly. The terrorists had forced the villagers from their beds and demanded food. And while she was glad for Henry’s sake, their strong-arm tactics made her cringe.

“You’d better get some rest,” Henry urged her. “I’ll be okay here.”

“You sure?”

“I’m just glad to get off that damned horse. When we get out of these mountains, I’m never riding again.”

If he got out of these mountains. He might not survive unless she came up with an escape plan fast.

But he was right. A hot meal and a good night’s sleep would help him more than anything she could do right now. She eyed the steaming stew, the mouthwatering scent of chicken reminding her that she hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

“All right,” she said. “But promise me you’ll drink more tea.”

“I will. I’ll even chew those disgusting leaves if you insist.”

“I do.” She crossed the dirt floor to the door, then summoned a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t worry, Henry. I promise I’ll get us out of this mess.” She refused to fail this man.

She ducked through the low doorway and stepped outside. Then she paused and peered into the darkness, surprised her ever-present guard wasn’t hovering nearby. But the men had pegged her correctly. They knew she wouldn’t leave without Henry. And in his weakened condition, he couldn’t go far.

But there had to be a way to escape. Still thinking that over, she started down the moonlit path between the huts. Calling the settlement a village was an exaggeration. It consisted of half a dozen mud huts perched on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by coca plants. She passed a chicken coop and shed, heard the grunt of a rooting pig. But there was no sign of a road, no other way out that she could see, only this narrow dirt trail through the terraced fields.

She glanced at the low-growing trees silvered with moonlight and sighed. She didn’t blame these farmers for cultivating coca. They lived in houses without windows or lights, with no running water, no schools for their children or health care, just barely scraping by. The profit in coca lay further up the chain with the drug cartels. These poor people were just trying to eke out a living, growing a product that met an insatiable foreign demand.

A minute later she reached the edge of the hamlet. She spotted the horses grazing beside the path, the three captors talking in a moonlit field, and turned around. Not wanting to draw their attention—or worse, reveal that she was plotting an escape route—she followed the scent of wood smoke to the cooking fire instead.

The farmers fell silent as she approached. Too ravenous to care about their disapproval, she beelined to the soup pot, salivating at the tempting scent. A woman filled a large pottery bowl with rice, then dumped a ladleful of stew over top and handed it to her. Nadine shot her a smile of thanks, wove through the sullen men to a log and sat.

The stew was amazing—thick and hot, a delicious blend of potatoes, chicken and peppers, and bursting with seasonings. She’d devoured half the bowl before she could force herself to slow down.

But then Rasheed appeared in the line. He headed her way a moment later, carrying his own big bowl of stew. She tensed as he sat beside her, his nearness scattering her pulse. And suddenly she was far too conscious of his hard thigh resting close to hers, the glint of firelight in his jet-black hair, the warmth emanating from his big frame.

Disgusted at her reaction, she scowled. What was it with this man? So what if he was attractive? So what if he’d saved her from Amir? He wasn’t her ally. She’d overheard what he’d said to the other men, how they planned to dispose of Henry when they reached the town. And while he’d suggested resting overnight, he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He only wanted to expedite their trip so he could hand her over to her father—the man who wanted her dead.

And the disappointment she’d felt when she’d heard his words was beyond absurd. She couldn’t build this man up into some kind of savior just because he’d rescued her. He was still violent. He’d nearly engaged in a knife fight with Amir. If he really cared, if he had any real compassion inside him, he’d let them go.

He turned his head, and his dark gaze stalled on hers. And for an instant she imagined she saw it again, that glimmer of sympathy in his dark eyes.

Which only proved she was losing her mind.

“How’s your face?” he asked.

“It hurts. What do you think?”

His gaze roamed over her jaw, his scrutiny somehow sensual, and her heart fumbled several beats. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, right.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

He angled his head to meet her eyes. “I am sorry. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Sure. That’s why you kidnapped me.”

His strong jaw flexed. “I’ve got a job to do. It’s not something I can talk about. But I don’t wish you any harm.”

“Then let us go.”

“I can’t.” Regret tinged his voice—and damned if he didn’t sound sincere.