Breaking Daylight Page 2

  Then hard. Her nipples pebbled at his touch and he tried to quell the lust that rose up. He didn’t linger, but searched under her bra, beneath her arms.

  Still she looked at him with those dark eyes.

  Then he slid his hands down inside the front of her pants, kicking her feet apart.

  The flesh of her belly jumped under his palm, but other than that she didn’t move when he reached down the front of her panties, over those neat dark curls that he could see in his memory. He probed her heat briefly, businesslike, ignoring the tightening in his groin, then removed his touch to pat down her thighs.

  “Take off your boots.”

  “May I sit?” A thread of fury underlay her voice.

  “Be my guest.”

  She dropped to the ground, untied one boot and shoved it at him. He inspected it, marveling at the large size, then dropped it to the ground beside her and took her other boot.

  “What exactly did you think I’d be hiding?” she asked as she retied her boots and got to her feet.

  Her voice was too loud, so he hushed her, leaned close to answer. “I’ve seen women stick some nasty things in some nasty places to kill soldiers.”

  “You think I’m coming to attack you?” She glared, and her words whipped out. “I’m coming to you for help.”

  He eased back, the scent of her overwhelming the scent of the jungle and his own stink. “We’re to believe you because you tell us? You’re not exactly trustworthy.”

  “Why not?”

  He inclined his head toward the compound. “The company you keep.” He motioned her to walk ahead of him back to camp. What the hell was she doing out here in the first place? He squelched his curiosity. He was the muscle, not the detective. He’d let Vasquez take care of it. The more distance he kept from Isabella Canales, the better.

  But he could still smell her on his hands.

  This was a bad idea. Isabella’s skin hadn’t stopped crawling since the silent soldier had stopped touching her. She was a prisoner, a suspect. She hadn’t foreseen this, the disdain, the suspicion. The near-hatred.

  The man the soldiers took her to introduced himself as Vasquez and looked down at her like he had found some prize. Her whole body tightened so much she thought her muscles would snap.

  “Where is Saldana?” Vasquez asked, his voice smooth.

  Isabella didn’t fall for the attempt at charm. “You think he’d tell me?”

  Vasquez lifted an eyebrow. “You’re his lover, aren’t you?”

  She felt herself flush. The young Hispanic soldier who had gone through her pack studied her, and the others didn’t hide their smirks. Only the silent one, the one who had searched her, had no expression. But he watched her.

  “He left when he heard you were coming.”

  “Where did he hear it?”

  She swallowed her fear. If they hated her this much now, how would they feel about her if they knew an American had been tortured and killed in the compound and she had been the reason? “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She recognized the tone. Santiago used it often enough to intimidate her. “Why would I lie to you? I need your help.”

  Vasquez drew back a little. “You need our help?”

  She didn’t look away, though she wanted to. God, she hated how he was looking down his nose at her. “I want to go home.”

  “Saldana wouldn’t take you?”

  She had to turn her head then. “I served him better here. And I didn’t have money to leave on my own. You’re my only chance.”

  “You’re saying you’re his prisoner.” The silent soldier spoke at last, and all the contempt she’d gotten from Vasquez was nothing compared to the tone of his deep voice.

  “I haven’t been allowed to leave the compound in four years.”

  “In my experience, hostages don’t get silk robes and vibrators.”

  She kept her head turned away. Of course he’d assume she was lying, but she was still humiliated by the search. “Those things were for his pleasure, not mine.”

  “Not from what I saw tonight.”

  She whipped around on him then, needing to release the tension that threatened to shatter her. “You have no right to accuse me. You don’t know what I’ve endured.”

  “I know drug dealers. I know what whores endure.” He pushed away from the tree at last, looking down at her with hate in his dark eyes. A contempt even Santiago didn’t show.

  “Shepard, that’s enough.” Vasquez’s voice was calm but firm, and the soldier stepped back.

  Shepard. That was the name of the man who’d touched her so roughly. He straightened at the order but didn’t look away. So she didn’t either.

  “If you won’t tell us where Saldana has gone, we use you as bait,” Vasquez said, drawing her attention.

  That forced a laugh from her. “You overestimate my value. If I was so valuable, do you think he would have left me here?”

  Vasquez moved closer. “I don’t believe I do. I know Saldana—I know he doesn’t tolerate having something he owns being taken from him.”

  So, in four years, she had made no gains. She was nothing more than a pawn. Her safety, her happiness was important to no one, and the only person who loved her was thousands of miles away.

  She had to get to him.

  These men, the three agents and four soldiers, planned on using her. She would use them in return. She just couldn’t let them know.

  Surrounded by DEA agents in a Humvee, heading back home, and still Isabella didn’t feel safe. Would she ever feel safe again? She would spend the rest of her life waiting for Santiago to catch up to her. What Vasquez had said about him was right. He didn’t like things taken from him, and she was his property. If she didn’t get back to the States before he found out she was missing, he knew just how to hurt her most. She hadn’t thought that part through.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only one she had.

  At least the silent soldier, Shepard, was in the other vehicle. She was operating on the last reserves of the courage that had brought her out of the compound, and didn’t need his constant judgment.

  The ground shook and the men in the front seat swore. There was a rattling, and the man beside her grabbed the back of her head and shoved her down behind the seat onto his lap. She tensed instinctively. This had been a risk, but here? Now?

  “Don’t fight me.”

  What did he mean? Did he think she would do what he wanted here?

  “They’re shooting at—” He grunted, but as soon as she heard the word shooting, she was down. The rattling sound was louder, almost constant, sometimes in harmony. God, how many were shooting at them?

  The vehicle lurched forward, the front end dropping at an angle, flinging Isabella against the back of the front seat and pushing the other man on top of her.

  The shouting in the front seat had stopped, and the man on her made no effort to get off of her, his dead weight pushing her to the floor, bending her waist at a painful angle, something wet soaking into the back of her shirt.

  Dead weight. Wet and warm, a coppery scent of…

  Oh, God.

  She gagged, then forced the thought away and gathered her strength to push out from underneath him. He must weigh over two hundred pounds. She couldn’t get enough leverage with her legs to lift him off her, so she had to squirm toward the door sliding out from underneath him.

  She reached for the door and the metal handle was hot. She snatched her hand back. God, the car was on fire. She was going to die here, burn alive. Would she never get home, never see—?

  “Come on.”

  She turned to the other door, saw a hand reaching in and followed the arm to the dark eyes of Shepard.

  “Come on,” he said, sharper this time.

  “I can’t. He’s—” The weight of the man still pinned her to the seat. But the other door was beneath her. “Can you open this door?”

  “No.”

 
The heat was unbearable through her pants, and Shepard withdrew his arm, probably figuring she wasn’t worth saving. She didn’t want to burn to death. She shoved harder against the dead man on her back, and suddenly the weight was gone, she was free, and Shepard was stretching toward her again.

  She reached for him, and the truck lurched forward, putting another foot between her hand and his. It felt like she was standing on the door she’d been trying to escape from. Another lurch, another few inches. She screamed his name and saw him throw himself forward, his fingertips brushing hers.

  “You have…to climb…on him,” he grunted, every word an effort.

  Oh God. Climb on a dead man to lever herself out. Could she do it?

  “Now. The truck’s about to go.”

  Go where? She wanted to ask, but the strained expression on his face told her now wasn’t the time for questions. She put one booted foot on the man lying against the door, then the other, sinking into the soft tissue. Heaven forgive her.

  He grasped her wrists firmly, and when she looked up into his eyes, she saw the first hint of approval.

  But when he started to lift her—she could see the strain in his face, his arms—she remembered. She couldn’t leave her pack behind, not after what she’d risked to get out. She pulled one hand free and twisted to look for it, found it wedged between the dead man and the floorboard.

  She pulled her other arm free and bent to tug it loose.

  Above her, Shepard swore a string. “What are you doing? Do you want to die? The truck is going over.”

  She tugged it by the straps and the truck lurched, along with her heart. Another tug and it was free. She looped it over her arm and turned back to see Shepard still waiting, reaching, and she lifted her arms to him.

  He pulled both wrists, making her arms ache as the slender bones held the weight of her body. He slid one hand down to her elbow, then the other to her shoulder as her feet scrabbled for purchase first on the seat, finding a place on the back of the front seat, pushing her way toward him. The truck shifted. Over the sound of her pounding heart, she heard the groan of metal, the rattle of more gunfire, which had grown louder now, closer.

  Finally Shepard had her, his arms hooked under both shoulders, her face pressed to his sweaty, stubbled throat as he lifted, as the truck fell away in a screech of metal and she tumbled onto Shepard’s chest.

  She couldn’t even catch her breath because he was yanking her to her feet and shoving her—his hand on her ass and back, keeping her bent over as she moved—shoving her toward the sound of the gunfire, the intermittent muzzle flashes. She hesitated, turned to protest, and he tackled her, sending her face first down a muddy incline with a mouthful of vegetation. He skidded beside her on his back, gun cradled to his chest. When she turned to give him a dirty look, she saw that the shooting was coming from the other soldiers, providing cover.

  So Shepard could save her butt.

  She opened her mouth to say thank you and spit out some leaves.

  Shepard turned to her, his eyes hard with a layer of desperation sheening them. “Put your arms around me.”

  “What?” She fought to focus, still shaking.

  “We’ve got to go down there.” He pointed.

  She turned. In the moonlight, she could see that a few feet away, the ground dropped off. A cliff.

  Shepard was pulling her toward it. She dug her heels in and clutched her pack to her with both arms.

  “Are you crazy?” she shouted over the continuing sound of gunfire, both from their enemies and from the other soldiers.

  He glared, jaw set, lips tight. “If you don’t we are going to die. I don’t think you can make it down on your own. Put your arms around me.”

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t even look down.

  Shepard stuck his face in hers. “Would you rather go back with him?”

  That riveted her. She slipped the knapsack against her chest and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He pulled her against him, harder than she expected, knocking her breath out.

  “Don’t let go,” he said, his muscles bunching so she could feel the tension running through his body as he stepped back, and the world dropped out from beneath her.

  Chapter Two

  Isabella didn’t even have the breath to scream so she tucked her face into his neck, slick and muscular and straining as he held both of them in midair. She was terrified to even look to see how he was holding them. The earth bumped against her back, hard, knocking her breath loose, and with it, a small scream.

  “Oh God,” she had breath enough to whimper when they dropped in what felt like a freefall.

  “Look, I need my other arm to hold us up. You have to hold on to me.”

  His voice was tight with strain. She felt the vibration of his voice in his throat, could feel his gasps of air in-between the words.

  Nausea choked her as they dangled over God-knew-what, and she made a small sound.

  “Goddess,” he snapped.

  The word pulsed through him, beneath the effort of holding up both their weights. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Wrap your legs around me for a better anchor.”

  That was easier said than done with gravity pulling at her feet, and her movement had them swinging. Shepard grunted with the effort to hold them up, and they slid down several feet. He hissed in pain. Had he ripped up his hand?

  “Here.” He managed to turn them so that he was between her and the cliff. “Climb the mountain.”

  It took her a minute to figure out he meant her to walk up the side of the cliff with her legs on either side of his body and wrap her legs around him.

  Her stolen boots skidded on the loose soil, and one of her steps slipped, sending them both swaying backwards, in midair, jerking a curse from his lips.

  Then she was plastered against him, still not looking.

  “I’m letting go now,” he said.

  She barely had time to tighten her arms around him before he released her. Her ability to cling to him was the only thing keeping her from death.

  Her stomach churned. She was pretty sure Shepard wouldn’t appreciate her vomiting down his shirt.

  He turned so her back was to the mountain again, his feet on either side of her hips, his arms on either side of her shoulders, walking them down. She felt each labored breath, felt the sweat that soaked his collar, smelled his fear.

  That did not make her feel better.

  “Is there—can I help?”

  He let out a puff of breath between his teeth. “No.”

  “Are the others—?”

  “They’re coming.”

  The strain in his voice terrified her. “Shepard—”

  “Shut up. Goddess, if you don’t mind.”

  If Alex thought she could do it, he’d get her to turn around, grab on to the vines he was using to climb down the cliff side. But she was already trembling like a leaf and about to choke him, she was holding on so tightly. Her breath came fast and terrified against his throat.

  “I see a ledge,” he said. “Down and to my left.”

  “Okay.”

  If he had gloves on, he would slide the distance, but his left palm was already raw from the uncontrolled slides earlier. So he continued climbing down, ignoring the strain in his shoulders.

  He reached with his left foot and pulled them sideways. He needed to release the vine he was on, then find another to get them closer to the ledge. Which meant he had to let go with one hand.

  Sucking in a breath, he tightened his grip with his good right hand before reaching out with his left.

  He missed and the motion sent them swinging, bouncing off the cliff and dropping another two yards before he was able to brake them by dragging his feet against the wall.

  When his breathing evened out, he heard panicked little whimpers against his throat.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, and he scanned to find they were almost even with the ledge. Almost in reach.

  He took a s
tep, and then another until he felt the strain on the vine he was holding. Bracing both feet against the mountain, he reached again and grabbed. Wrapping his grip around the new vine, he tested its strength before pulling their combined weight over to it.

  He managed two more transfers before his boot touched the ledge, and he used the momentum to pull them both onto it. With his last energy he turned onto his back, cushioning her as she fell on top of him.

  She didn’t let go, didn’t lift her head from his neck. He rolled so her back was to the cliff, so she was secure, so she wouldn’t get hit by any bullets should Saldana’s men follow.

  When his arms stopped shaking from the strain, he dislodged her death grip on his neck. She unwrapped her legs from his hips, but didn’t open her eyes, and clutched her pack to her chest, like she had to hold on to something.

  “I bet you’re no fun on roller coasters,” he muttered, sitting up and resting his forearms on his knees. The ledge they’d landed on was about the size of a twin bed, and God knew how far from the forest floor. He looked at his hands, ripped up from the rough vines he’d descended. The moonlight dimmed and he glanced up to see clouds rolling in over the stars. It wasn’t called a rainforest for nothing.

  They were screwed.

  “Roller coasters have metal bars to hold you in. And tracks. And maintenance workers who check it every day. It’s not the same as dangling off a cliff because people are shooting at you.”

  “What?” He edged back against the cliff beside her and pulled his pack in front of him. He wasn’t wild about heights, either, truth be told. He just knew what he had to do and he did it.

  “Roller coasters.”

  She did open her eyes then and looked at him. More specifically, his bloody palms.

  “Good Lord, Shepard. What did you do?”

  He wouldn’t dignify that with an answer, instead opened his pack for his antibiotic cream and gauze. Infection in the jungle was bad news.

  “Let me do it,” she said, once the first aid stuff was in his lap. “It’ll give me something to think about besides how we’re going to get down from here.”

  She took his left hand, closer to her, reached in his pack for his water, and splashed a bit on his palm before dabbing it dry with the hem of her shirt. He could feel the heat of her body when she lifted the shirt. Just inches away would be smooth skin. Soft hands pampered his. He could imagine them on his chest, on his stomach, on his—