Chapter Two
T he man who’d whisked Rebecca De Monte away from her Mexican captors, who’d said his name was Nino, Nero, Reno, she wasn’t quite sure, kept their motorized getaway vehicle rolling at breakneck speeds for what seemed like hours. They passed ramshackle homes and soon were on bleak and uninhabited country roads.
Within minutes, she was cold, and within half an hour, chilled to the bone. Wearing only a cotton blouse and the slacks and loafers in which she’d been kidnapped, and with the night air blowing past her at sixty degrees, it was no wonder she was freezing.
Her teeth chattering, Becca had little choice but to wrap her arms around the man, not only to stay aboard during his swerving, speeding driving, but also to steal his body heat.
The only thing warm on her entire body was a burning sensation on her lower calf, and it was on fire.
Furthermore, she really had no idea whether she’d traded in her Mexican abductors for someone even worse. Was she possibly in more danger? Who was this guy?
He wore only a white T-shirt, with a zippered oilskin bag hung across his shoulder to his opposite side. No coat at all.
She imagined her father, who must be sick with worry, sending in an Army brigade to free her. She imagined heavy-duty firepower wielded with overwhelming force. Cannons and rockets and dozens of soldiers.
Not a lone man.
Had he even been sent by her father? Or was he operating on his own in some far more nefarious plot?
If so, she’d better begin figuring out an escape plan.
At last he slowed. She could tell he’d avoided any thoroughfares or well-traveled streets, and had chosen back roads, sometimes bumpy and winding, and they seemed to be climbing in altitude. Higher and higher they went, uphill, upward, always upward. In the darkness, they saw no other vehicles or people.
He seemed to know where he was going, and they appeared to be heading to a higher elevation, going even farther uphill. The air took on a new biting chill.
Finally, he left any semblance of a road and wended his way between the tall trees of a forest. He bumped them up a wet creek bed so that water splashed her slacks, making her, impossibly, even colder. He avoided boulders and even bigger trees, drove deeper into the wilderness until at last, oh God, thank you, thank you, Lord , he stopped and cut the engine.
“Get off,” he said.
Wanting off the scooter more than anything in the world, yet so stiff from the cold she could barely move, Becca tried to swing her leg over the bike and instead fell to the ground in a frozen heap. Miserable, she lay in the fetal position. Her entire body wracked with shudders.
So far, her escape plan wasn’t working out real well.
The man leaned the scooter into the shadowed lee of a wild oak tree, lifted a gas can hidden in the brush, and refilled the tank. Then, he pulled a tarp from a branch. He threw it over the Vespa and took what looked like netting and completely covered the vehicle with that, too.
“Follow me,” he said, and strode off into the forest heavy with towering oaks.
By the time the jerk managed to figure out she was unable to go after him, she’d gotten up on one elbow. It took all her strength to do even that, and she grimaced in pain. She glanced down, but in the moonless dark couldn’t see anything. Her leg really hurt.
The man came back to her and put his hand under her elbow to draw her upright. He pulled her to her knees before she collapsed back on her bad leg.
“Ow,” she said. “Oh, oh, ow.”
“What’s your problem?” He glanced around the forest. “We’ve got to get inside.”
“My l-l-leg hurts.” Her teeth clattered like falling dominoes.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, bent down, and easily swung her into his arms. He carried her beneath close-growing trees before coming to a small shack. With one booted foot he kicked open the door and shut it behind them, still using his foot.
Becca’s alarm skyrocketed. It appeared more and more like she’d made a terrible decision—to go with him instead of staying with her Mexican captors.
Was this guy going to rape her? Kill her? Leave her for dead in this remote place?
A battery-operated lamp set on a table cast a weak glow. The shack couldn’t have been bigger than a ten-by-ten foot square. Pushed up against the wall sat a quilt-covered bed. A large cooler and a canvas bag were set in the corner.
He placed her on the bed, not roughly, but not gently, either. Taking his bag off his shoulder, he dropped it near the door. “Let’s see the leg,” he ordered.
“Do you have a co—a co—” she stammered, unable to force her lips around the proper words. The cabin was only marginally warmer than the outside air.
“What?” he said impatiently.
She licked her dry mouth. “A coat? I’m fr-freezing.”
As though she were a nuisance he’d rather do without, he stood over her frowning. Picking up the canvas bag, he rummaged around until he found a few garments. Pulling her into a sitting position, he yanked a thick fleece sweatshirt over her head.
“Hey!” she protested, disliking being manhandled.
As though she hadn’t reacted at all, he jammed a knit cap onto her hair. Grabbing a blanket, he wrapped it around her shoulders and propped her into a sitting position against the wall. “Better?”
Still shivering, Becca briefly closed her eyes. At least he hadn’t killed her yet. And he wasn’t bent on rape ... yet. “I’ll l-let you know in a minute.”
He went to collect the lamp and held it over her lower extremities. “Take off your shoes and pants.”
Everything left in Becca that wasn’t already cold rocketed straight to frigid. Her eyes snapped open. “Wh-what?”
“Your pants are wet. Take ’em off.”
As cold as she was, removing her slacks in this tiny room with a big, strange man didn’t seem like a good idea. She shook her head. “Not gonna happen.”
He shrugged. “Your choice.” Sitting beside her on the bed, he eased up her pants leg.
A dark slash oozing blood covered her entire calf. Becca gasped.
He studied it, then swore softly. “They winged you. Huh. Wonder why they took such a chance.” His eyes, which she could now see were a vivid blue, caught hers. They were as cold and hard as chipped glass. “Understandable they’d want to kill me, but you’re worth at least a million. That was a stupid risk.”
She blinked at him, feeling stupid herself. “I-I’ve been shot ?” The chill had slowed her thinking process to the consistency of mud. She had a hard time placing one thought after another.
“Why’d they do it, Becca?” He stared at her, accusation darkening his brow.
“Why’d they d-do what?” She huddled into her sweatshirt and blanket.
“Take chances with their valuable captive. Why’d they shoot at you? Well? Tell me. Now .”
“Look, Nemo, I d-don’t know what—”
“What’d you call me?”
“It isn’t Nemo? What is it?”
“I’m Rio.”
She blinked at him. “L-like the Brazilian city?”
“Just like that.”
Exotic . The fleeting thought trailed through her mind on a wisp. But he didn’t look Brazilian or South American. With his height and bulk and coloring, he appeared closer to a Norse god. Like Odin, father of Thor. All he was missing was a long golden beard, chest plate, and fearsome iron hammer.
Goodness. Her would-be savior was hot.
With effort, she focused her mind. “Okay, Rio, look, I-I don’t know anything. I don’t know why those men took me unless it was for—”
“Ransom.” He bit out the word.
“Right.” She felt her chin trembling. It was the only logical conclusion. “How much are they demanding?”
“They haven’t made any demands yet.” He got up to rummage again in his bag.
Her eyes widened. “But it’s b-been at least a couple of days!”
“The cartel snatched you almost four days ago.”
Her mind reeled. That long? She’d thought only perhaps forty-eight hours had passed. The past days and nights had run together. It felt like forever since the violent assault on the ambassador’s Matamoros mansion, where a dozen men wearing drab green had overwhelmed the small security force and burst inside. Shouting and waving guns, they’d forcibly taken her, only her, into their waiting transport truck. Left behind were the ambassador and Maria, his daughter. Screaming and crying, Maria had been tied up, together with her father.
The men had kept on the go, traveling around the clock. They hadn’t hurt Becca, but neither had they pampered her. She’d been fed twice a day, yet she’d been so frightened she could barely eat. They’d given her a pallet and blankets in the locked back of the truck on which to sleep. As if she could. Beyond that, they refused to answer her questions, even though she entreated them for answers in near-perfect Spanish. The ordeal sapped her strength, exhausted her.
She simply didn’t know what was happening beyond guessing that they planned to exchange her for money. Her father was quite wealthy. Ergo, steal his daughter away while she was in another country and hold her for cash. It made sense. Holding her for days without any sort of communication did not. She wanted to ask if Rio was going to make a demand of his own. She had to fight him, to somehow get away, get free.
Rio pulled a small package from his bag. “I’ve got a first aid kit, but it’s basic. A bullet creased your leg. No stiches, but it needs cleaning.” He met her gaze steadily. “Your pants and shoes and socks are soaking. You’ll never warm up until they come off.”
He stood, holding the first aid pack, and waited for her answer. She got the idea that he didn’t really care which way she decided. He merely offered her a choice and let her decide.
Despite her strong misgivings, she knew he was right. Her slacks hung on her limbs in a sodden, muddy mess. If she removed them, she could slide beneath the heavy quilt and hopefully continue to get warm. She didn’t want to do it. Everything in her screamed no ! Yet, she knew she’d be better off.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. Peeling off her wet shoes and socks, she said, “Turn your back.” Her hand went to her waistband.
He didn’t turn, just gave her his dispassionate perusal. “Listen here, Buttercup, you’re on my turf. I’ll give the orders, not you. I don’t turn my back on anyone.”
It was a Mexican standoff, Becca thought wildly. Her mind a jumbled mess, she knew her nerves were stretched to ragged ribbons. After being an unwilling captive, shot at, and actually struck in the leg, she was now expected to disrobe in front of this man she didn’t know.
Both from cold and from fright, her fingers shook uncontrollably. Some part of her whispered that if this Rio character wanted to rape her, given his size and bulk and their isolation from the rest of the world, she’d never be able to stop him, slacks or no. Her screams would go unheard, her cries for help unanswered.
She was still very cold. Cloaking her legs beneath the mountain of quilts beneath her sounded better and better. This guy seemed like a real asshole. However, frozen as she was, she wasn’t going anywhere right then. The logical thing would be to first get warm.
With great reluctance, she unbuttoned her waistband and slid down the zipper. Easing the pants off her hips and over her legs, she kicked them to the foot of the bed, and then hurried to lift the bedcovers. At least her modesty was still protected by her cotton panties.
“Not yet.” Rio stayed her movements with a hand on her bare thigh.
Becca stiffened.
He sat again on the edge of the bed and laid out his supplies: a thick stack of gauze, a tube of antiseptic, and a roll of white tape.
With his fingers curled over the skin of her thigh, Becca could hardly breathe. Shrieking alarms screamed throughout her system, shouted at her to leap up, to run, to get away. A new chill chased up her spine and the fight or flight response burst to life. “Move your hand,” she demanded. “Don’t touch me.”
“Easy, now,” Rio said in low, rumbling tones.
His fingers did not creep up her thigh, as she feared, nor did it caress her skin. His touch seemed ... somehow ... rather clinical.
He lifted his hand to open the gauze package. Carefully, he placed a clean towel beneath her calf, opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and held it over the wound. “This’ll sting,” was all the warning she got.
The pain flashed into a new, sudden burning. Becca jumped.
Quickly, he dabbed away blood and fluid, spread antiseptic cream over the graze, covered the area with new gauze, and taped it into place. Taking up his canvas bag, he withdrew thick woolen socks and impersonally pulled them onto her feet. “You can get under the covers now,” he said, capping the alcohol bottle.
Lifting her bottom, she slid her legs beneath the covers. Under the sheets, it was cool, but she knew it should warm within moments. Already she was feeling better. Exhausted, terrified, but better. She didn’t know if she should thank him or castigate him.
Getting up, he moved to the corner and came back with a thermos. “It won’t be hot anymore, but it’ll do.”
Hesitating, she accepted the offering and raised the thermos to her mouth. Warm black coffee slid down her throat and she groaned in pleasure. All her adult life she’d been a coffee lover. A coffee fiend. An addict. The blacker, the hotter, the better.
In the past harrowing days she’d had exactly none. Now, to have this manna from heaven seemed like pure bliss. She made no pretense at manners: she gulped.
Again he watched without emotion.
“Hungry?” he asked. A muffin materialized in his hands. A blueberry muffin: her favorite.
Even as she reached for the treat, suddenly ravenous, she wondered at the coincidence of how he’d magically produced her favorite snack, coffee and a blueberry muffin. Weird.
While he took her wet slacks and slung them over a rafter to dry, Becca drank her coffee. With care, he set her shoes side by side onto the floor and laid out her wet socks beside them. She took a large bite of the muffin, chewed it gratefully, and swallowed. As she watched him, he re-rolled the remainder of the gauze and put everything back in its original package. Again he went to the corner, to a large cooler, and when he opened it, he took out a water bottle.
He wore only a white t-shirt, brown cargo pants, and boots. Except for a hunk which refused to stay back and instead fell over his forehead, his full head of blond hair grew longish and heavy to his nape. As he worked, the muscles of his arms tightened and eased smoothly beneath his skin, and she wondered at his past. His chest was broad, his belly flat. Had he been some sort of body builder? Maybe he was ex-law enforcement. Maybe he’d been a Marine.
Perhaps her first guess was correct and a new villain had taken her from her original captors to muscle in on the money. A mercenary.
At last, warmth begun to creep through her veins. Her shaking subsided. She wanted to demand the truth. Instead, she decided to start with a safe question. “Weren’t you cold?” she asked him. “Out there on the scooter?”
Unrolling a sleeping bag, he unzipped it until it was completely open. He shrugged. “Naw. I tend to run hot.” Shaking out the sleeping bag, he folded it in half and half again, forming a large square. This he settled onto the end of the bed, and sat down.
“Are you going to sleep in that?” Feeling her eyelids begin to droop, Becca didn’t want to lose consciousness. She needed to remain vigilant. She needed her wits about her.
However, she’d barely slept in four days, and then only in quick snatches. The pull of slumber dragged at her. She figured the ordeal had finally gotten to her. After this interminable week, her body needed rest.
“Sleep in the bag?” As though in surprise, he pointed at the bag at the foot of the bed. “No. I’m sleeping with you.”
Unsettled, Becca glanced over the bed. It was no larger than double, not near enough room for her to share with a stranger. She put her foot down. “No,” she told him in a determined tone. “You are not. I will sleep here, alone. Is that understood?” She gave him her most fearsome glare.
If she hadn’t been observing him so closely, she might have missed his sudden change in manner. He literally froze. His gaze shot to the wooden rafters. His entire body stilled.
“ Shit!” he muttered, and suddenly sprang into action.
Leaping to his feet, he caught up the sleeping bag and snapped it open. Jumping onto the bed beside her, he spread the bag over them both, over their entire bodies and their heads. “Quiet,” he commanded. “Do not move.”
Startled into compliance, it was only instants later when she heard it: the sound of helicopter rotors beating overhead.