Special Forces: The Spy. Cindy Dees
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of possession of me? To show whom?”
“Your husband, of course.”
“Are you asking for a ransom? Blackmail? What’s the play here?” she demanded.
An interesting, and decidedly military, turn of phrase. He responded, “The play is you’re going to sit in that chair with your hands tied behind your back. You’re going to look properly terrified, and I’m going to take a picture of you to send to him so he’ll do what we want him to.”
“Which is what?” she snapped.
God, he’d love to know that very thing. But he also wasn’t about to admit to her that he didn’t have the slightest idea what any of this was about. He propped the newspaper against her chest, being careful not to touch anything personal while he did so. When he was satisfied that the headline was prominently visible, he stepped back from her.
“Say cheese,” he muttered as he pointed the camera at her.
“Are we doing just stills, or do I get a video, too?” she asked.
“So you can blink out an SOS or something clever like that?” he asked dryly. “Trust me. Your husband will know you’re in trouble without you having to tell him.”
“Jerk,” she muttered.
“You have no idea,” he muttered back.
“Do tell.”
“Look scared, Persephone.”
The end result was her scowling at the camera, looking more defiant than frightened. But her features were clear and readily recognizable.
Which was, of course, a gigantic problem for him. As soon as Mr. Black saw the photos and declared them not to be of his wife, and that information was relayed back to Mahmoud, this woman would be dead. How long did Zane have until all that happened? A day? Two, maybe?
Urgency to get this woman out of here and run far, far away from these bastards pounded through his gut. The only thing keeping him here with her was the fact that he still had no idea why she’d been kidnapped. That, and so far, the men upstairs had shown no inclination to harm her. If he kept his cool for just a bit longer, hopefully whatever Mahmoud had planned for this woman would be revealed.
He briskly led her back over to her pole and cuffed her to it once more. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said wryly.
“Are you kidding?” she retorted. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Why would I leave this cozy little dungeon?”
One corner of his mouth turned up in sardonic humor. She was a sharp one, all right. “Don’t try that sarcasm on any of the others. They’ll kill you for showing them such disrespect.”
“But not you?” she asked quietly.
“I’m the one with the sense of humor. Just don’t push your luck.”
She subsided, silenced by the admonition. Dammit. He much preferred her sassy and mouthing off to him over this silent, apprehensive version of her. If only he could tell her who he really was, what his mission was here.
“Look,” he muttered under his breath, “I don’t know what the boss has planned for you. I’m going to do my best to protect you from harm. But I need you to hang in there for a little while longer.”
Her brow twitched into a perplexed frown. “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy giving you a wad of cotton balls. Keep them in your pocket for now, but if it looks like we’re coming back down here en masse to rough you up, slip them in your mouth between your molars and cheeks. They’ll protect the inside of your mouth, cushion any blows and help keep us from knocking any of your teeth out.”
Her frown deepened sharply as he tucked several cotton balls into the front pocket of her jeans. The pocket was snug and warm against her body, and he jerked his fingers out quickly. Must not allow himself to feel anything for this woman. No attraction. No interest. No affection.
He scooped up the fluffiest of the blankets and breathed, “Lift your shirt.”
“I beg your pardon?” she squawked.
“Keep your voice down,” he admonished sharply. Using the knife out of his ankle sheath—a big fighting blade he kept razor sharp—he sliced the edge of the fleece and then tore off a strip of the soft, thick cloth as quietly as he could.
He reached for her, and she flinched away from him. He couldn’t blame her for the reflex, but it cut at his soul and made his heart bleed a little. Reaching up under her shirt, he wrapped the length of fleece around her torso. His palms smoothed across her body, and it was slim and warm...and surprisingly muscular. This woman was in hella good shape. Thank God. She might just survive the worst of whatever Mahmoud and company threw at her.
He tucked the top edge of the blanket under the sides and back of her bra, then tugged the shirt down over the padding. He stepped back to examine his work.
“You can take another strip,” he muttered half to himself. “You’re leaner through the middle than I realized.” He tore off another strip of the blanket and wrapped it over the first one.
“Sorry about this,” he warned her, before tucking the second piece beneath the underwires of her bra. The backs of his knuckles momentarily rubbed against soft, resilient flesh, and his entire body tensed at the feminine feel of her.
Nope, nope, nope. Not going there.
Quickly, he tucked the blanket around the sides and back of her bra, too. “If Mahmoud gets any crazy ideas, that’ll absorb the worst of the impact from his fists. It’ll still hurt like hell, mind you, but maybe you won’t bruise so badly or break any ribs.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” she mumbled as he tugged her shirt into place once more and stood back to observe his handiwork.
She looked a little thicker than before, but he didn’t think the other men had been paying all that close attention to her, based on how they’d treated her so far. She’d been a target to them. An object to be seized and stolen. Not an actual human being.
“Do you by any chance know how to take a punch?” he asked in a low voice.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
This time it was his brow that twitched into a frown. How on earth did she know how to get punched? That wasn’t the sort of thing many people had practical experience with. Not even graduates of West Point. He prayed she’d tried boxing at some point in her past, and not any less savory possible sources of the knowledge.
“Try not to dislodge that padding. I may not get a chance to fix it before you need it.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled. She looked up at him without warning, and their gazes locked. It was all right there in her eyes. Naked fear, confusion, questions.
She whispered, almost as if she wasn’t even aware of saying the words aloud, “Am I going to die?”
“Not if I can help it,” he answered, before he could stop to think about the words. An urge to wrap her in his arms, to surround her in safety and comfort, nearly overcame him. His arms even started to lift toward her.
No! He mustn’t give himself away to her! Both their lives depended on him, and he had to keep his cover intact until they got out of here. He looked at her in silent apology, willing her to understand. To trust him a little bit longer.
She frowned faintly as if she sensed his unspoken message but was confused by it. “Why would you help me?” she whispered.
He stared at her, frustrated at his inability to answer her truthfully. God knew, she deserved a straight answer. “I can’t tell you. But I promise you this—I will do everything in my power to get you out of this alive and unharmed.”
She weighed his words, his sincerity—heck, him—for a long time. Then