Vengeful Bounty (19 page)

“Okay, no hospital. Um—m—my house? I—is that okay? We'll be safe there!”

I nodded and looked down. The ground shifted, swirled.

“Mina, will you talk to me?” he asked, cradling my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes again.

I winced from the pain, and he pulled back, his hands faintly quivering as he looked at the blood now smeared on his palms.

“Please tell me what happened,” he whispered, tears wavering on his voice.

I shook my head, biting my lower lip. I couldn't tell him. Not now. Roberto could be right around the corner, ready to come out and shoot both of us. We couldn't waste any time.

“Somewhere safe,” I said.

I reached up a trembling hand and touched the hard line of his jaw, unable to quench my tears. He covered my hand with both of his. All remaining strength seeped out of my limbs.

“Please,” I breathed, “somewhere safe…”

21

I fell into a dreamlike state—a hazy half consciousness orchestrated by the kindness of Jackson Kincade.

His urgent voice on the phone to DeMarcus echoed mutedly in my ears as I curled up in the backseat of his car. Jackson told him to come over, to stand guard outside of his house. He didn't give an explanation and apparently didn't need to, their bond of trust having grown deep over the years.

I was vaguely aware of going through security gates then being pulled into Jackson's arms as he carried me inside. My eyes shut, I didn't see the elaborate doors of his house just yet, nor did I behold the curving staircase he used to carefully yet urgently take me up to the second floor.

My head bobbing, I felt a plush bathroom rug underneath me, and I leaned back against cool wall tile. The sweet sound of rushing water filled my ears, the air perfumed with its mist. Slowly, I felt the sopping wet clothes I'd stolen from Stefan being peeled away ever so gently, and I was lowered into a steaming bath.

For a moment I was jolted into total awareness, and I formed my shaking hands into cups to bring the water to my desperately thirsty lips. Jackson cautioned me about going easy, and I gripped the sides of the tub, allowing the small but potent amount of water I'd swallowed to bring healing bliss to my parched body.

The cuts on my skin stung in the heat of the water, but I didn't mind them. Slipping back into that blissful limbo of half sleep, I let Jackson wipe them clean, moving me like a tender puppeteer. Handling me as one might a delicate China doll, he massaged rose scented shampoo in my hair and poured cups of water over it to rinse it off. A couple stray tears fell down my cheeks—maybe from exhaustion, maybe from gratitude, maybe from something else. I don't know.

He lifted me out, taking care to dry me fully then place me in a fluffy white robe. He joined me on the floor when my legs could not hold and smoothed soothing balm over my bleeding scrapes. I opened my hazy eyes to watch him place three cottony white band-aids on my arms.

Our eyes met, and he froze.

The penetrating intensity of his stare was too much for me to comprehend, and I shut the world out again, preferring the heavenly darkness of closed lids.

The next thing I knew, I was lying in a bed—like clouds, so soft and covered with pillows. The weight of exhaustion held me in place, but when I felt him move to leave my side, I reached out a hand.

I grabbed his wrist and slowly pulled it to me. First tense, his hand then softened, and I brought it to my face. I felt the back of it stroke my cheek, first by my guiding movement, but when I dropped my hold, he continued the caress on his own.

It was that touch more than anything—more than my initial rescue or the bath or the first aid—it was that touch that told me I was indeed safe; I was with someone I could trust. Peace fully enveloped me into its wings.

And during that moment, I finally fell asleep.

* * *

The aroma of cinnamon rolls caused my stomach to ache and growl like it had never before. I turned onto my side. On a foldable tray next to the bed sat a plate of the pastries, iced with creamy white toping. There were also a few strips of crisply cooked bacon, next to those an enticing pile of scrambled eggs topped with cheese. Next to the plate were two mugs on round portable warmers: in one, steaming black coffee with little containers of cream and sugar, and in the other, some spicy hot tea. A third drink sat on a portable cooler: milk. It seemed I had my choice. I felt confident that I could take care of all three.

I sat up in the bed and reached over for one of the cinnamon rolls. The first bite melted in my mouth. I made myself take my time so as not to get ill. While I engorged myself on the little feast, I let my eyes trace the room.

It was a large guest suite, romantic in its rosy hues. The bed on which I lay was draped in crimson blankets and silken pink pillows. From where I sat, I could see the large entryway into the bathroom, where I'd bathed the night before. The porcelain tub looked big enough to accommodate four people, the walk-in shower next to it tiled in gold and white.

A massive set of windows let sunlight in through sheer white curtains, the valances laced with silk green creeper vines. Chewing on the perfectly cooked bacon, my eyes fell to a decorative pillow on the bed. On it was placed a single red rose. I lifted it, closed my eyes, and inhaled the beautiful aroma.

A grand Persian rug rested across the center of the floor. Against a rose accented wall sat a pale gold loveseat with crimson throw pillows. A large painting brought style to the largest white wall. I squinted to discover the artist, unknown to me, had depicted a glorious sunrise by comprising it of tinier flame-colored flower paintings. Blown glass structures of all colors of the rainbow lined a grand antique chestnut armoire and dresser. I caught a glimpse of my revived face in the wooden vanity, my clean hair spilling over my shoulders in wavy rivulets.

My belly full, my body rested, I swung my feet off the side of the bed. Bandages covered the soles, and I tested pressure on them as I stood. They hurt, as expected, but not nearly as badly as I feared they might. There were traces of fatigue still left in my limbs; no doubt it would take me several nights' sleep to fully recover from that horrid ordeal in the hospital, but to stand felt so divine after being chained to a bed for days.

Days.

What day was it?

I walked to the window, daring a peek out.

The backyard was gorgeously landscaped with several shady trees and a cobblestone walkway that led to a marble fountain, and a bit further, a gazebo. A sturdy, gray stone wall around the perimeter brought me comfort, as did the security cameras that watched from the top of the barrier.

It was then that I noticed the cotton nightshirt I wore. It was made for a woman. Hmm. Perhaps Jackson had frequent night guests. Then the realization of being naked in front of him hit me full force.

Though I was alone in the room, I felt my cheeks flush. I'd been completely out of it, totally vulnerable. He'd stripped me bare and bathed me. So much for mystery between us. At least for him.

I wouldn't have let just anyone do that, near-death or not. I'd put my trust in him last night, and that thought scared me perhaps more than facing Roberto again.

Still. He'd cared for me with a level of intimacy not touched by casual friends. We'd crossed a line, I knew, as the heat drifted from my cheeks, and we couldn't go back. I was eternally grateful to him, but the nervousness now in my breast warned me that I would have to tread lightly and ease back into the way things were or else…

Or else what?
I thought.

Before I could think further, I heard music trickling into my ears.

He'd left the bedroom door slightly ajar, a mere crack. But the sound of a live piano was unmistakable. Ignoring the pinpricks of pain as my feet pressed against the carpet, I followed the music.

A couple of rooms down, a door was wide open. Jackson sat on a baby grand piano bench, playing a song I'd never heard. Its melody was haunting, but slightly familiar—perhaps with traces of Debussy's melody weaving in and out.

Jackson's music room was black and white like a Chess set, with hints of modern cerulean blue Comfort Foam furniture dotting the space. Acoustic and electric guitars sat on stands; pyramid shaped amplifiers and speakers lined the walls; a flashy drum set waited in the corner to be used.

I silently padded my way over to a large color photo in a shiny black frame on the wall. It was a vibrantly smiling Jackson with his hair in that lovely structured mess, and he was surrounded by undernourished but smiling children wearing clothes a couple decades out of style. A little golden plaque at the bottom said “Zambia, Africa, thanks Jackson Kincade for his generous contribution to its children. 2052.” Upon closer look, three of the children held up a giant check for—whoa—$50,000.

“Those kids were great,” Jackson said.

I jumped and spun around.

“Sorry,” he said, grabbing the edge of the piano bench between his legs as he sat. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's okay,” I said, turning back to the picture. Something in my heart swelled looking at all those youthful eyes filled with hope, and Jackson right in the center of it. “I didn't know you were a philanthropist.”

He turned his head slightly to the side and smiled gently. “There may be a few things you didn't know about me.”

Standing, he joined me by the photo, and I turned to face him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, concern in his brilliant blue eyes. “You seem better.”

I nodded. “Much better.”

“I hope the breakfast was okay. You looked—well, you kinda scared me last night.”

“Oh,” I laughed nervously and cleared my throat. “Really I'm feeling
much
better. The food was excellent. That room's beautiful, by the way.”

“Yeah, my mother prefers to stay there when she comes to visit. She helped me decorate. She loves her baths.”

“Ah.”

He saw you naked,
my mind raged.

Turning back to the picture so he wouldn't see the color rise to my cheeks, I said, “I can't thank you enough for—for what you did for me last night. You can't imagine what I've been through in the last few days—oh!” Alarmed, I made eye contact. “What day
is
it?”

“Sunday,” he said, furrowing his brows. He softened his voice. “Mina, will you tell me what happened now?”

Sunday. The room spun. I'd been in Roberto's grubby hands for several days, as I thought, and now it was Sunday. My flight to Oklahoma was gone without a refund. Dan could've even been caught by now. All my plans would have to be reworked.

Yes, they'd definitely have to be reworked because I had a new Number 25. My thoughts raced, and I pressed my lips together, trying not to let the rage toward Roberto and company totally overtake me and send me into a fit.

“Jackson,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.

“That's my name,” he said, waiting.

It was important that he didn't worry. I had to ease his fears because there was a lot to do, and I needed to get going. The last thing I needed was an overly concerned friend who might make me stay in bed and heal up. No time for that.

“I can't stay very long,” I said, “so I'll give you the short version, and we'll have to plan a time to meet up when I can fill you in on the whole crazy story.”

It was true. I really couldn't afford to stay long. Roberto had mentioned that he would be selling his “Flowers” on Wednesday in New Orleans. That gave me the rest of the day today, tomorrow, and Tuesday to recuperate, gather as much information and backup as I could, and take him down. It wasn't a lot of time, but it was enough. I had to get going now, however.

“Okay, take my hospitality and run, I understand,” Jackson said with a twinkle in his eye. “Short version. Go for it.”

I breathed out a sigh, bringing my mind from Bourbon Street and weapons and making new flight schedules to the insistently curious man standing in front of me.

“There was, well, this
person
I'd encountered during a catch a while back,” I said. “Name's not really important because he's pretty much nobody. I'd messed him up a little on that mission, and he apparently had a hard time getting over it. He thought it'd be cute to kidnap me and try to sell me on the black market like he does his other women.” Jackson stiffened, and before he could interrupt, I said, “But I was able to escape, no harm no foul. He just got lucky catching me like that because I wasn't concentrating and I parked on a bad street and forgot my gun at home.”

I laughed, trying to make it all seem as innocent as tripping and stubbing my toe. Jackson didn't look convinced.

“So, anyway,” I said, “I got away from the stupid ass because he's really nothing but a slime ball with no brains, and you know, I was making my easy escape from him when I ran out of steam and you found me on the bench. I was pretty tired, as you saw. But then again, I'd been running, and I'm not in as good of shape as I was back in college, bounty hunter or not.”

I huffed a laugh and grinned. Gulping, I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. Jackson waited. When I said no more, he asked:

“That's it?”

“That's it,” I said.

“That's all that happened?”

“Well, that and I'm going after him.”

“What?” From the tone of his voice, I hadn't been successful in convincing him everything was okay. Crap. “Mina, I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

“Oh, now, I can handle it. He caught me off guard, that's all, but I know who he is and how he works. I can get him. I'll bring help. I won't do it alone.”

“Yes, but I don't know if I want—I mean, it's your choice, but—jeez. You should've seen yourself last night! I stayed awake for hours, just to make sure you were breathing!”

“I—well, you did?” I blushed, this time unable to hide it. “Well, you didn't need to. I really was okay.”

“
Okay
? Are you kidding me? You couldn't even stand up! And you acted so thirsty, like you hadn't had water in—”

“I get dehydrated easily.” I shrugged and tried a smile. “It was just one of those nights.”

“One of those nights, huh?” Anger lit his voice.

“Yes, one of those nights.”

He gave me an exasperated stare. Then he shook his head and looked out the window. I watched him, unmoving, and after a moment my eyes fell to the floor.

Why was I acting like this? I fidgeted with my hands, trying to ignore the flashbacks: his fingers rubbing salve into my wounds as I lay on the bathroom mat, helpless. The memory made me so dreadfully uncomfortable. He'd possibly saved my life. Why couldn't I be nicer, more truthful?

He'd stripped my clothes off, tended to my wounds, and put me to bed. This man, once my casual friend, had seen that vulnerable side of me I had too much stubbornness to show anyone. He'd seen it.