Hard Limits(5)

"Unsalvageable. I had to cut your shirt off. Your pants are ruined too. Why? Were you very attached to your Armani?"

"Not particularly, no. We drug lords buy Armani suits by the dozen."

"Figures," she muttered.

He studied the girl in front of him: long bare legs braced apart, military boots unlaced, and the spikes on that wide choke collar glittering under the morning light. Her uncombed hair was free over her shoulders, and her face was devoid of makeup, yet she stood straight and proud, her posture radiating attitude, her hands on her hips.

She had some balls, and those weren't coming from the outfit. He'd been right in his first assessment of her all those months back at Rosita's. A victim, she wasn't.

"Get some rest," she said. "I'll go fetch us something to eat."


DOING HER DAMNEDEST to make her legs stop trembling, Paige turned around and left the guest cottage. Jesus Christ on toast, she'd needed all her strength to keep her voice steady and her demeanor relaxed. After all, it wasn't every day that she went head-to-head with the big honcho of a drug cartel. She kept reminding herself that Nick-or Nico, as Jack had called him-had spared Jack's and Elle's lives. She knew the guy was dangerous, could feel it in her bones, but a killer he wasn't. Or so she thought. Hoped. Prayed, really.

She closed the front door, pushed at it three times to make sure it was closed, and leaned on it, afraid her ass was going to have a close encounter with the floor.

I can take you down. Yeah, right. Talk about bluffing. The only way she could take him down would be if she got help from divine providence and the guy was struck by lightning. Thank God she hadn't had to live up to her words. All the self-defense classes in the world couldn't have helped her.

Deep in her reverie, she sneaked into the main house and silently moved to the kitchen.

Man, she'd been a wreck these past hours. Trying to make sure the guy didn't die on her. Torn between calling for help and respecting his wishes. Her hands deep in blood, fingers trembling like crazy as she stitched him. Badly, she might add. Lucky for her, he'd been unconscious; otherwise, he'd probably have shot her. He still might when he found a mirror and saw the zigzag over his brow.

And then waiting endlessly for him to wake up. Ensuring he was still breathing and hadn't kicked the bucket on that flowery sofa. Desperate for him to open his eyes and terrified of it at the same time.

He was pretty badly off, but she didn't have a shadow of a doubt that he could get up and snuff her with his pinkies if need be. Mind over matter and all that stuff single-minded soldiers-hitmen, whatever-professed. 

The fridge was rather empty of fresh produce, but she wasn't big on veggies or things that needed cooking, and preparing a meal from scratch was out of the question. She grabbed cold cuts, some cheese. She had better luck with the pantry, which was full to the brim. After ransacking it, she remembered the guesthouse had a microwave, so she opened the freezer. Jackpot. Frozen dinners, a tray of canapés, and a large pizza. That would do nicely. It was almost lunchtime, anyway.

Back at the guesthouse and before crossing the threshold, she took a deep breath, trying to calm down and gather her strength. She had a dangerous criminal on the couch, tattooed up to his ears. Ugly tattoos at that. Blurry and rough. Mismatched. Without a pattern or theme, except for that East-European gangsta style. Totally fugly. Not the guy, though. The guy was gorgeous. As in breathtaking. In all his naked, bulging-muscled, injured glory.

She opened the door. He'd repositioned himself so he faced the entrance. His eyes were closed, and he didn't acknowledge her, but she knew he'd seen her. Heck, he'd probably smelled her before she stepped inside. If not, that gun would have been shoved in her face in two seconds flat.

Of the four painkillers she'd left on the table, two were missing. Good. She would have crushed a couple and sprinkled the powder over his food otherwise. How he had been able to stand the pain until then, she had no clue.

With him resting peacefully, Paige went about the business of preparing some lunch. Not that she was that hungry, but she needed something to do or she was going to turn into a fiery ball of anxiety.

She defrosted a tray of canapés, microwaved a couple of dinners, and placed the cold cuts and cheese with some crackers on a big plate. Then she brought it all to the sofa table.

He seemed to be sleeping, so she curled up in the armchair near the sofa and grabbed her cell phone. She was on level 9999 of her favorite game. Had been stuck there for two weeks, but damned if she wasn't going to pass it. She wasn't fourth on the leaderboard for nothing. Besides, there was a bottle of bubbly in the fridge waiting for her to reach level ten thousand.

She ran out of lives, and he was still sleeping, so she reconfigured the clock on her phone and continued playing. As time ticked by and he wasn't moving, she began worrying.