He leaned over, brushed his lips over hers. Desire shot into him. He squelched it, cupping his hand along her cheek.
“It’s okay, honey. I’ll take care of you,” he whispered.
He pulled the chair as close to the bed as possible and sat down, keeping her hand in his.
Though he watched her sleep, his mind raced as he formulated plans for the next phase of his operation.
* * * *
Time seemed to shift haphazardly, passing in a blink or in a slow painful haze as Laurie drifted back and forth over the fuzzy line of consciousness. Only barely aware of movement and infrequent blurry glimpses of Damien, she struggled to focus her mind. Was he taking her somewhere? He had promised to take her home. Every concentrated effort dropped her into oblivion. She longed for her daughter, for her home. Dark of night was a soothing blur against her eyes. The dim light of dawn greeted her with a rapid, steady thumping that reminded her of helicopters.
Something warm had been wrapped around her. Her head rested on something firm, warm, and round. She forced her eyes open, her brain wrapped in fog. Drugs, she remembered, in the hospital. Fingers glided through her hair, gently and slowly.
“Shhh. It’s okay. Rest.” Damien’s low voice came out of the darkness, soothing and comforting.
His hand left her hair. He pulled a blanket over her shoulder and rested his hand there.
She lay on her side, her head pillowed on his thigh, wrapped in the heat of him and the blanket.
Satisfied he was taking her home, in a helicopter no less, she closed her eyes and let oblivion claim her again.
A sharp stabbing pain in her skull finally snapped her into full awareness. She winced and groaned, cringing at her own whimpers. Bright sunlight streamed through a window, forcing her eyes into painful squints. Long, thin shadows crossed the window in vertical lines. Bars?
Sunlight blasted her eyes until she blinked rapidly against sudden tears. A jackhammer pounded above her temple and she lifted a weak, trembling hand to her head. The bandage was still there.
She struggled to ignore the bursts of agony in her joints and muscles as she sat up. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she ceased her efforts. Pain receded to a dull throbbing ache. Her eyes closed against the sun, but she had seen enough. This place, whatever it was, was not home or Damien’s cabin. It certainly was not a hospital.
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
62
She lay atop a thin mattress, in a sparsely furnished room. She shifted painfully onto her side, cautiously opened her eyes to mere slits. A small table and chair stood in the middle of the floor. A black footlocker that had seen better days sat near the cot like a bedside table. Across the room a closed door with a window sealed her inside.
“Where the hell am I now?” she demanded groggily. The question jarred her ears as much as the new surroundings jarred her senses.
A shadow moved in the small window just before the door opened. Damien stepped over the threshold. Thank God, she thought on a sudden surge of relief as her gaze swept over him.
Then she froze. He wore an old dull brown uniform, needed a shave, and carried an unfamiliar rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked like her mental image of a terrorist, right down to the cold-blooded glint in his eyes.
Shocked completely speechless, Laurie gawked at him. Her jaw dropped. Disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes, she closed her eyes for a second then slowly lifted her lashes. He faced her, a stern but dispassionate warning in his dark eyes.
“W—what?” she stammered, nearly choking on panic. Damien was a terrorist? She didn’t want to believe it but he was there, looking dangerous and unpredictable.
He shook his head, his tense expression forbidding further questions. She cringed from his intense glare.
“The General wants to see you,” he intoned formally, every word clipped and succinct.
Cold fury choked her as the implication sank into her bewildered brain. Damien had brought her here. Now the strange flicker in his eyes made sense. He had lied to her! She cast him a glance of withering fury as he opened the door wider and stepped aside. His expression remained blank but his eyes were bitter. She shifted her focus from him to the open door.
Another man, obviously the General, strode into the room. He stood as tall as Damien but carried more muscle, giving him a bulkier appearance that belied the smooth grace with which he approached her. He had the look of a man who had led a hard life but he exuded charm and charisma that persuaded rather than forced. One appreciative brown eye flicked over her in a quick but highly observant glance. A circular black patch covered his other eye.
Laurie flushed from head to toe and pulled the thin sheet higher. Squirming as though insects crawled over her, she glared balefully at the terrorist. With jet-black hair, mustache, and beard, and dark skin, he appeared distinctly Latin American. He wore the air of command naturally, expecting his orders to be obeyed without question.