Fanning-TWEnemyTaken With the EnemyTia FanningResplendence Publishing, LLCCopyright © 2008 by Tia FanningErotica/Romance. 50672 words long. First published in RP, 2008 enNoveltext/xmlErotica/Romance

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Taken With the Enemy
by Tia Fanning
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Erotica/Romance

Resplendence Publishing, LLC
www.resplendencepublishing.com

Copyright ©2008 by Tia Fanning

First published in RP, 2008

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

CONTENTS

Taken With the Enemy

For my sisters Rachel and Renee...

Glossary

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Dear Reader,

About the Author

* * * *

Taken With the Enemy

By Tia Fanning

Copyright © 2008, Tia Fanning

Published March 2008 by Resplendence Publishing, LLC

Edgewater, Florida

All rights reserved

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Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

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For my sisters Rachel and Renee...

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Glossary

Military Acronyms and Lingo

PFC—Private First Class

IED—Improvised Explosive Device

ACU—Army Combat Uniform

The Wire—The perimeter of a secured site. Used as a reference because most deployed sites lay some type of razor/barb or concertina wire along the perimeter as a deterrent.

Chem Bag—Short for Chemical Bag. It contains items such as a gas mask and chemical suits to be used in case of a chemical/biological attack.

Ops—Short for “operations".

MIA—Missing in Action

CIA—Central Intelligence Agency

NCS—National Clandestine Service

RPG—Rocket Propelled Grenade

List of Ethnic Clothing

hijab—Arabic word for “cover". Is sometimes loosely used to reference the khimar, or “headscarf".

burqa—(Also spelled as burka) The all-over garment worn by some woman that leaves only the eyes exposed.

abaya—A loose fitting robe/cloak worn by some woman over their clothes. It comes in many styles, ranging from a large sheet of fabric draped over the body, to the more modern style that wears like a caftan or long tunic.

khimar—Head covering

niqab—Face veil

chadri—A burqa with the grille netting that covers the eyes. Worn by some women in Afghanistan.

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Chapter One

The blast knocked me on my ass. Literally. Like slow motion, one moment I was tending a wounded man sitting along the battle-strewn street, the next I was flying backwards.

I hit the ground with a jarring thud.

Opening my eyes to smoke rising in the dusty glare, I struggled to get my bearings. My ears were ringing, my limbs heavy, and I couldn't seem to remember anything beyond the explosion.

Where am I? Shit. Who am I?

The smell of charred rubble swirled around my nose.

Iraq. Sergeant Brenna Mathews. US National Guard. Combat Medic. Assigned ... no, attached ... in support. Attached in direct support of the infantry battalion.

Damn. My head throbbed beneath my helmet.

What the hell had happened? Car bomb? Suicide Bomber?

Trying to shake off the shell shock, I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. Amidst the painful moans and fearful cries engulfing me, gunfire echoed off the war-torn buildings.

“Take cover!” the squad leader, Jackson, shouted.

Soldiers scrambled to their feet. People ran, becoming nothing more than blurs of fabric. There was screaming—directions, orders, and wails of grief—in a meld of English and Arabic. More gunshots pierced the air, closer, rapid in succession, adding chaos to the madness.

Thump-thump-thump.

There were grunts, and then bodies dropped, some collapsing in a mist of spraying blood. Automatically, my hand searched for my weapon.

Cover. I had to take cover.

No. There were still wounded.

Abandoning my weapon in lieu of gathering up my much-needed medical supplies, I quickly low-crawled over to one young soldier. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, his neck cranked at an unnatural angle.

Dead.

Bullets whizzed over my head, hitting the ground nearby. I ducked lower as shots were returned from behind me.

I scrambled to the next victim. Civilian. Male. Bullet wound to the chest. Also dead.

“Mathews, take cover!” Sergeant Jackson hollered. “Now!”

I hesitated. What of the wounded?

Suddenly he appeared at my side. I barely had time to snatch up my med kit before he grabbed my arm and dragged me behind our vehicle.

...tink—tink-tink-tink-tink...

The bullets hit the armored transport just as he pulled me to safety.

Another soldier, Corporal Mollina, was issuing details into his radio. “IED, taking on fire, soldiers down..."

Sergeant Jackson scooted over to the edge of the vehicle and glanced around the side. “Doc, Big M is hurt. His leg.”

I never told any of them what I did back when I was in the civilian world. But out here, all medics were called ‘Doc'.

He looked over his shoulder. “Bee, behind you.”

I swung around and saw PFC Michaels applying pressure to his calf. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Shit.

I scrambled over Corporal Mollina to get to where Big M, aptly named due to his size, lay propped up against the side of the tire.

“Is it bad?” he asked, wincing in pain.

“Let me see.”

He hesitantly removed his hand. I lifted the torn shreds of his ACU pants out of the way. Shrapnel. Small pieces. Embedded. Oozing, but not spurting.

I dug into my kit. “You'll make it,” I whispered, placing a pad over the wound and tying the bandages firmly around the edges.

“Specialist Pinot ... he's injured too,” he strained.

I glanced up. “Where?”

Michaels winced, then looked past me.

Following his gaze, I turned to the bombed out home behind us, maybe ten yards away.

“He crawled in there. I think he took a bullet.”

Gathering my supplies, I held my breath and waited. When Mollina and Jackson rose to return fire, I sprinted toward the old, crumbling shelter.

Off to my right, I heard a loud whistle.

Oh Fuck!

I dove through the doorway just as the shockwaves rattled the area. The lintel came crashing down, taking the doorjambs and the brick mold with it.

I lifted my head, choking on the cloud of dust that stole all the breathable air. My chest burned. God, I felt like I had been tackled by a three-hundred pound offensive lineman.

Rising to my knees, I squinted through the haze, searching the debris-filled room. A couple of feet in front of me, lying on his stomach, was Pinot.

I crawled over to the soldier, fearing the worst.

The ceiling groaned and bowed, raining sand and small chunks of rubble. I prayed that the standing columns would hold out just a few minutes longer.

Pinot was alive, his breathing shallow. The puddle beneath him told me he had lost too much blood. When I rolled him over, his eyes fluttered open.

“Sergeant Mathews,” he mumbled. “I've been shot.”

“I know.” His whole left arm was coated in sticky crimson. I felt around, finding the entry hole on the top of his biceps, near his shoulder. No exit. Bullet lodged. “And what did I say about calling me that?”

“Only do it when the superiors are around,” he moaned.

I pulled out my shears and began cutting into the blood-soaked combat uniform. “Right. You can call me Bee, or Doc, or even Mathews. I'm only a weekend warrior, remember?”

He gave a small smile, but instantly winced when I lifted his arm slightly to remove the fabric from around the injury. “Am I going to die, Doc?”

“I don't think so. More troops will be here soon. We'll get you to the hospital.”

“What does Bee stand for?”

I pressed dressing over the wound. “Brenna.”

“Pretty name,” he mumbled before passing out.

The gunfight grew heavier and loud voices filtered into the building, bouncing off the walls. I crouched low, holding my breath and slowly reaching for Pinot's weapon. Suddenly, a shadow passed over me. Before I could blink, I was hauled off the ground.

Strong fingers wrenched my arm and swung me about, my back colliding into a hard chest. A palm smothered my lips, silencing my cry.

Sandalwood.

“Do not scream,” the deep voice whispered in my ear. “Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

Large vehicles rumbled into the area. Reinforcements.

Another male voice echoed in the room. The man holding me responded in Arabic and shoved me away. I crashed into one of the columns and slid down to the ground.

Rapid dialogue ensued between the two armed insurgents. The older, scarier looking of the two, pointed at Pinot, still unconscious on the floor. The other shook his head.

Outside the front window, shouts and booted feet rang through the air. Both men glanced in that direction and lifted their weapons. The older one said something, glared at me in disgust, spat on the ground, then sprinted out the back. The remaining insurgent aimed his rifle at me.

I met his deep dark eyes before closing my own.

He fired.

I cringed.

A few seconds passed.

When I opened my eyes, he was gone and I was still alive, unharmed.

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Chapter Two

The chow hall hummed with the din of small talk, but I sat alone, staring at the tray of food in front of me.

Three days had passed since the battle, but he haunted my thoughts, invaded my dreams. Those dark eyes, the deep voice, that scent. Sandalwood, and a hint of something else ... vanilla maybe.

Why hadn't he executed me?

Strangely, I was bothered by that decision.

I replayed his whisper in my mind over and over like a broken record. He had spoken in perfect English, his accent barely noticeable. He sounded ... American.

Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?

His word choice and usage, all grammatically correct and properly pronounced, clearly showed fluency. Native fluency. He didn't say ‘be quiet’ or ‘do not talk’ or ‘do not speak'. No, he used the phrase ‘do not say a word'.... a very American English phrase.

The last thing that bothered me, even more than his surprising act of mercy, was the fact that my dog tags were missing. I tried to figure out how I could have lost them. I knew I'd put them on that morning. Those tags were sometimes the sole way of identifying a person if they should meet a violent end, and a soldier never left the wire without them.

During the gun battle, I knew they were a under my shirt, which was tucked into my uniform pants. Even if the chain had come undone, I would have found the tags when I undressed.

My mind, fueled by the hazy memory of a negligible twinge on the back of my neck, kept asserting only one possible conclusion...

He took them.

It must have happened when he had pushed me into the column. I had felt a small pinch around my neck, like he had yanked my hair. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Now the mystery consumed me.

Why would he want my dog tags?

“Nothing like a late dinner,” Corporal Mollina said, taking a seat across from me. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you since the services.”

I nodded, remembering all too well the five pairs of empty boots positioned in front of five standing rifles, the butt of each adorned with the helmets of our fallen comrades.

“It's been two days,” he continued. “It's not like you to avoid us.”

“I know,” I replied, moving the mashed potatoes around my plate.

“Or are you trying to avoid the ass chewing you know is coming your way?”

My head shot up. “What?”

“Sergeant Jackson wasn't happy about that last stunt you pulled.”

“Oh, whatever.” I sighed, finding myself deeply annoyed by the direction this conversation was going. “He's just pissed because I'm here—being a woman and all.”

“No, he's pissed because when he says to take cover, he means it. You might not be assigned to us, but you're still his responsibility. The First Sergeant tasked him specifically with watching over you. There'll be hell to pay if you get hurt. And I hate to say it, Bee, but this time, I have to agree.”

“That's Sergeant Mathews, Corporal.”

“Whoa.” Chuckling, he lifted his hands in surrender. “You don't like what I'm saying, so you're going to go all gung-ho with the rank? Cool, cool ... I understand, Sergeant.”

“Sorry, Mollina.” I pushed my tray forward. “It's not you. I'm just in a mood. You can still call me Bee, or Doc as you all so lovingly titled me.”

“Hey, no problem. It's been a rough week.”

I gave him a forced smile.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked, pointing to my dinner roll.

Before I could answer no, he snatched it off my plate.

Deciding it was best to just go to bed and sleep the icky feelings off, I stood, only to come eye to eye with Sergeant Jackson.

Damn.

“Just the soldier I wanted to see.”

“I'm out,” the corporal said all too quickly. He shoved the roll in his mouth, got up, and moved to another table.

Jackson took a seat.

I let out a heavy breath. “Hey, Sergeant. I was just leav—”

“Sit your ass down, Doc,” he ordered.

I did as I was told, preparing myself for the reprimand the corporal had warned me about. I listened without comment as the squad leader droned on about my carelessness and issued threats of disciplinary action the next time I failed to follow his orders. He then went on to say if I ever took off into an unknown building without my weapon—and backup—again, he'd save everyone the trouble and shoot me himself.

“Don't think because you're a medic those terrorist assholes out there consider you a non-combatant,” he remarked. “This ain't Geneva. They'll kill you and not think twice about it.”

If he only knew how close I had been to dying that day. I'd failed to mention the incident with the two insurgents. If I had, I knew I'd never be allowed outside the wire again.

Then Jackson moved on into his usual ‘no woman assigned to combat’ spiel and how the military might have found a way around the law, creatively using the words ‘support’ and ‘attached', but that didn't make it right.

“Don't think that I don't have faith in your abilities as a medic because you're a woman. I think you're a damn fine medic. But why be out there if you don't have to be?” he reasoned. “Shit, I don't even want to be out there.”

Here it comes...

“Perhaps you should consider giving us more training so you can take less mission work. Teach us what you know.”

It would take me eight or more years to teach him what I know. But he was referring to my military medical training.

“I understand your concern, Sergeant Jackson. But—and I mean this with the utmost respect—there are some things that only a certified medic can do. I have already shared with you all the basic first aid knowledge I can. I'm sorry my gender makes you uncomfortable, but it's better to have a female medic than no medic at all.”

“Have you heard anything on Pinot and Michaels?” he asked, dropping the subject.

“Michaels is recovering well. I haven't heard anything about Pinot since he was flown to Ramstein Air Base.

He looked at the nearly untouched food in front of me, then stared me directly in the eye. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm all right. Tired. But I'll be back to work tomorrow. The doctor had me take an extra day of rest. My legs and backside are bruised something awful.”

“No, Sergeant Mathews. I mean how are you holding up?”

Oh, he meant emotionally.

A person dying around me was not a new experience, but then the squad leader wouldn't know that. Back in my civilian life, it was never the people dying at the hospital that had destroyed my spirit; it was telling the news to those left behind.

“I'm all right. Really,” I assured him.

He gave me a tip-lipped smile. “Okay. Go do as the doctor ordered and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Nodding, I rose from my seat and left.

As I walked away from the chow hall, something nagged at me, slowing my steps. I looked at everything around me, but saw nothing out of order. If anything, the area was kind of quiet.

I moved out of the way so a Humvee could pass. Instead, it slowed to stop and a couple of soldiers got out, falling in-step behind me. Sandalwood teased my senses. Before I had time to register the scent, someone grabbed me and a cloth sealed tight over my nose and mouth.

Scratching at the hand smothering my breath, I struggled desperately for freedom, but it was of no use. A few moments later, everything went dark.

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Chapter Three

I closed my eyes again and willed the bed to stop spinning.

Where am I?

Suddenly, my stomach roiled and I no longer cared where I was—as long as it had a bathroom.

The desire not to be sick on myself prompted my legs to move. Rising from the bed, I staggered around the dim chamber, holding onto anything that would support my weight. The floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. I headed toward the light shining in the doorway and stumbled out into an illuminated living room.

The world around me tilted back and forth like a ship being pitched in a storm. I pressed my hand over my lips as my stomach tensed and my throat tightened. I swallowed hard. Using the wall to hold myself up, I leaned into it and let it guide me in my search.

Thankfully, the toilet was the first door I came across.

Collapsing to my knees in front of the porcelain bowl, I vomited a little and dry-heaved a lot. Forever passed before my body relaxed. After wiping my mouth with toilet paper, I rested my head on the seat, trying to make sense of it all.

Why do I feel so sick?

Memories of a rag being held over my face flooded my mind.

Fuck me. I'd been visited by the ether bunny.

I glanced down at myself, noting that I was still dressed, the only bare part of me being my feet. I hadn't been sexually assaulted by the group of soldiers, or at least I didn't think so, but why in the hell was I wearing an abaya over my clothing?

Squinting, I searched the clean, tiled bathroom. Seeing the bidet, then looking back down at the black frock-robe thing that covered my body, I realized something very important.

I was no longer on site.

I again replayed my last conscious moments as I had as I left the chow hall. Had I been kidnapped? Off an American compound?

Un-fucking believable.

I tried to stand, but my vision blurred and my legs turned to jelly. Suddenly very cold and weak, I rested against the toilet again.

I do not know how long I sat there before, in the hazy recesses of my mind, I acknowledged a door opening in the other room followed by heavy footsteps approaching my location.

Sandalwood ... him.

The insurgent.

My abductor.

“No, don't,” I groaned when he knelt down beside me and began gathering me into his arms. I tried to resist, but it was a fruitless attempt. Though my mind demanded that I continue to fight, my heart and body lacked the strength.

He pulled me close. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he murmured.

His soothing words calmed me. He smelled so good, his body was warm, and his strong arms held me firm. Closing my heavy eyes, I settled against him, the basic need to feel safe and secure, for the moment, satisfied.

“I'm sick,” I said softly.

He drew me deeper into his embrace. “I know. You'll be all right soon.”

Shifting my weight, he lifted me off the bathroom floor. I grew more disoriented, and more nauseated, the more he moved.

I buried my face into his warmth, finding comfort in his scent. “Don't let me go,” I whispered as I felt myself falling into darkness.

“I won't.”

* * * *

The chatter of voices and the aroma of cooking spices drew me from my sleep. I rolled over and snuggled deeper into the warm blankets, trying to ignore the noise and tempting lure of food. I was dreaming of something good, of someone good, but it was quickly slipping away.

As my mind fully awoke, I was jarred from my coziness.

I'm not supposed to be here.

Opening my eyes, I sat up, and my heart leapt in my chest.

Shit.

I hadn't been dreaming. I was still here, wherever here was.

Here—My new prison.

The light filtering through the barred window told me it was midday. I looked out. I was on the first floor, maybe of an apartment building or hotel. As for a geographical reference-city, town, or oasis in the middle of the desert-I couldn't tell which. My view was blocked by an eight foot tall sand-colored concrete wall that stood maybe twenty feet away from my window. From what I could gather, the ‘privacy’ wall probably circled the whole building.

I glanced at the bedroom door. It was cracked open, but I saw no movement.

Letting out the breath I'd been holding, I surveyed my surroundings, trying to come to terms with the present situation. The wooden vanity near my bed drew my attention first. Neatly arranged on the top were my personal belongings: brush, makeup bag, perfume, and even some magazines. And strangely, my purse hung off the vanity chair. I stared for while, too stunned with disbelief to do much else.

What the hell? I have to be imagining this...

The air conditioning kicked on, jerking me out of my shock.

Removing the covers, I left the bed on shaky legs, the marble cold beneath my feet. I touched the items on the vanity, finding them as foreign as I did familiar. I looked into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. I still wore the abaya from the night before, and dark circles adorned the space under my eyes and above my sunken cheeks. My parched lips were cracked and ready to bleed.

Unzipping my make-up bag, I pulled out lip balm and glossed it over my lips, then instantly regretted it.

What if they had done something to it?

Throwing it down, I opened the vanity drawers, only to discover all my toiletries. Deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotions...

On the other side of the bedroom were a dresser, a small cabinet, and two large wardrobes.

Approaching warily, I opened the first wardrobe. Inside hung more abayas and other forms of hijab attire, and matching head coverings. However, next to this exotic assortment hung my civilian clothes—jeans, shirts, sweats, jacket....

Horrified, I closed the door and moved to the next wardrobe. My uniforms were in there. At the bottom were my military bags, filled with all my field equipment. Even my Chem bag was there. But no weapon.

I went to the dresser and searched the contents. My undergarments, pajamas, socks ... Then moving on to the small cabinet, which was actually a shoe rack, I found it filled with sandals, slippers, and contained my shower shoes and boots.

“Are you feeling better?”

Startled, I gasped. My feet slowly moved me backwards until the back of my knees hit the mattress and propelled me to sit.

My kidnapper leaned against the door casually, his expression showing patience as if he waited for me to say something.

I didn't.

He rubbed the dark stubble on his face. “Look, the food will be ready in a couple of hours. Why don't you take a quick shower and relax.” He came further into the bedroom, approaching a closed door and opening it. “You have your own bathroom. Hamper is in the corner, towels are on the shelf. Your soap and shampoo are already in the tub.”

My shampoo and soap? How did my stuff even get here?

I stared at him, then at the vanity, then back at him.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before his eyes brightened, as if he suddenly understood the silent question. “We retrieved your belongings when we picked you up.”

Oh, fucking nice. Picked you up. He said it so easily, like I had needed a ride somewhere.

I studied my enemy. Jeans, fitted white t-shirt, a perfectly sculpted body to go along with his perfect English. If he wasn't an American, he could easily be mistaken for one. It probably had been easy for him to get on post. All he would have needed was the right documentation.

“I have to get back to the kitchen,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “After your shower, you can go out to the living room and watch TV if you want. We have satellite.”

I glanced over at the doorway, still hearing voices I could not understand. I shook my head. No. There was no way I was going to hang out with insurgents.

He must have read my thoughts. “It's a news station. There is no one here but you and me.”

My eyes followed him as he headed toward the doorway, his familiar scent lingering in his wake. Just as he was about to walk out, he stopped.

Letting out a heavy breath, he turned to me. “I know what I'm about to say will fall on deaf ears, but you are safe. No harm will come to you. You are safer here with us than you were before. Try to be open-minded and consider your stay as a temporary reassignment.”

On that, he left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Open-minded? A temporary reassignment?

He had to be kidding. Though he seemed sincere when he said that no harm would come to me, and secretly, deep inside, I was relieved by his words, I still had to face the truth of the matter: This place, as nice as it was, was my cell.

He was my captor.

And I was his prisoner.

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Chapter Four

I would guess that two hours had passed when a soft knock sounded at my door. And I, acting as if my ass was glued to the mattress, hadn't moved since my last discussion with my captor.

He knocked again.

I said nothing.

The door slowly opened, but I didn't bother to look up. I simply stared at the floor.

I could feel his eyes boring into me. I imagined the thoughts going through his head. Why hadn't she showered? Had she sat there like that the whole time?

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

When I didn't answer, he came into the bedroom. He moved the vanity chair over, positioned it in front of me, and sat down.

I stared at his boots as the scent of sandalwood, cloves, and mint danced around us.

So close. Why is he so close?

Resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands in front of him, he leaned in. “Talk to me.”

I looked away.

Gentle fingers captured my chin and gently pulled me to face him. “Brenna. I want you to talk to me. What's wrong?”

A thousand and one different responses came to my mind ... You're my enemy. You have captured me. Kidnapped me. You're holding me against my will. I'm your prisoner. What do you want from me? What could I have that you possibly want? Why are you being so nice? Why do you act like you really care? Why did you hold me when I was sick? Why do you have to smell so good?

Instead, I choose this ... “Brenna Marie Mathews. Sergeant. September 21st, 1976. 592-30-9754.”

He bit his bottom lip, but it didn't do anything to hide his smile.

Resisting the urge to smack the fucking smirk off his handsome face, I jerked out of his grasp.

Clearing his throat, he sat back. “I'm sorry. I know you're only doing what you were trained to do. But I assure you, you're not a prisoner of war. Like I said earlier, I want you to consider your stay here like you would a reassignment. Except that you'll be working out of your quarters.”

When I didn't acknowledge him, he let out a frustrated breath and rose to his feet. “I think I've been more than amicable.” He moved the chair back in front of the vanity. “I'd appreciate it if you at least attempted to return the gesture.”

My anger surged and all good sense flew right out the barred window. “I guess I'm not good at making friends with the enemy,” I muttered.

He stared down at me with hard eyes. “I'm not your enemy.”

“Oh, my mistake,” I offered apologetically. “You just look so much like the insurgent who shot at me five days ago.”

Shaking his head, he made his way toward the bedroom door. He stopped, looking back at me from over his shoulder. “If I was an insurgent,” he said, his tone taking on a serious edge, “you'd already be dead.”

Then he was gone.

Alone again, I tried to figure out what scared me the most. The fact that I just picked a fight with my captor—and really was as careless as Sergeant Jackson accused, or that I was starting to believe the things my captor was telling me.

* * * *

A short time later, he came back in with a porcelain bowl, silverware wrapped in a napkin, and a bottle of water.

“You haven't moved much,” he said, holding out a rice dish to me.

The food smelled delicious and I was tempted to take it, but pride was a powerful thing.

“I made it just for you,” he pressed softly.

Well, that explained the hint of clove and mint that had lingered on him earlier.

No, I couldn't accept it. Though my stomach protested my decision, it was a matter of principle. I refused to take favors from the enemy.

“Are you being stubborn? Or do you not like Chicken Biryani?

Why did he have to endear himself to me and prepare a real meal himself? Why couldn't he just be a normal captor and give me bread and water?

When I still didn't take it, he placed everything on the vanity. “I see,” he whispered.

He sounded almost hurt by the rejection, and it made me want the food even more, if not for my hunger, just to make him happy.

Oh God, I was so fucked up. Day one of captivity and I was already empathizing with my captor. I wish he would do something to make me hate him. If only he would yell at me, hit me—something other than trying to make me feel bad.

Truth be told, I didn't bear guilt well.

“I appreciate the gesture,” I offered, hoping that it not only soothed his feelings, but my own conscience as well. “But I'm not ready to eat yet.”

He exhaled slowly, sitting on the lone chair in the room. “I have to leave for a couple of days.”

My heart dropped. My breath caught in my throat. The turmoil of my situation finally caught up with me. Though I was ashamed to admit it, I didn't want him to go. Who would he leave me with? What if my next captor was a malicious asshole?

“I will return,” he assured me. “You are safe. I need you to trust me on that.”

Yeah. Trust the enemy.

I glanced down at my lap and my fidgeting fingers. I chose my reply carefully, remembering how bad things went the last time I used the ‘e’ word.

“How do you trust someone you've just met?”

“I promise. No harm will come to you by any of us here.”

Who was ‘us'? My captor and his merry band of armed insurgents? The day of the firefight danced in my head.

“How can you be so sure of that?” I asked, my voice weak even to my own ears.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him rub his square jaw before leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his broad chest. “I'm not going to say that I expected you to take me on my word, but I'm curious to know what's prompting this question.”

“Didn't he tell you to shoot me?” I whispered. “The man you were with?”

My captor gave no response, but he didn't have to. The little vein on the side of his temple twitched and I knew the answer.

Shaking my head, a sad smile touched my lips. “I don't understand Arabic, but it was very clear what he wanted. I expected to die, and I was okay with that. But I have to know ... Why didn't you kill me?”

“I would never hurt you,” he said softly.

“And had he not left when he did? Had he stayed to see the deed done?”

“Then I would have killed him.”

My eyes misted at the shocking answer and darkness that laced his reply. God help me, I was falling for this bullshit.

Before I could ask him why he would choose my life over ‘the cause', he leaned forward and covered my restless fingers with his rough hand. His thumb caressed the inside of my wrist. The intimate gesture was probably meant to be comforting, but it unnerved me.

I looked up and met his gaze. What exactly did he want ... really want?

“I don't have much time. I want to show you around the flat before I go.” He gently squeezed my hand. “Please.”

Nodding, I allowed him to help me off the bed. He held on to my elbow as we went into the living room. It looked like any other house in America, warm and comfortable, with cushy couches, high-tech stereo system, big screen TV, and a bookshelf filled with reading material, CDs, DVDs—even a small plant. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls, thick curtains lined the barred windows, throw pillows dotted the furniture, and an area rug lay on the marble floor beneath the coffee table.

“All the remotes can be found on top of the DVD player. There are board games in the bottom cabinet, as well as video games, books, and magazines. Just to let you know, sometimes the electric goes out. But don't worry, that's just us switching over the generators.” He pointed to a door. “And I'm sure you remember the guest bathroom.”

He guided me to the adjoining room with a wood table and six matching chairs. “Dining room,” he said, then led me past that to a swinging door. “Kitchen.”

The kitchen was nice. Granite countertops, microwave, dishwasher, full-size refrigerator. Ah ... coffeemaker.

He opened and closed the cabinets as he listed their contents. “Dishes, glasses, spices, soups, and snacks. Pots and pans are in the bottom cabinets, and everything else is in the drawers.” The refrigerator came next. “Besides leftover Biryani, there is also bottled water, soda, milk, eggs, vegetables, and meat in here.”

“So you're not only a dark and mysterious kidnapper, but a gourmet chef?” I asked.

Refusing to take the bait, he fixed a stern gaze on me and continued, “Once a week, someone will stop by and replenish the perishables, and anything else you might need.” He moved and opened a door off the kitchen. “Laundry room.”

Cupping my elbow in his palm, he moved us back through the dining room and into the hallway. “What do you think?”

His question caught me off guard. “Um, it's a very nice place. It has everything a person could want. Thank you.”

What is wrong with me? This is my prison cell, not my vacation house. I'm not supposed to thank him for allowing me to stay here!

He grinned. “I'm glad you like it. But really, it's not as luxurious as you might think. In this part of the world stone building materials, like marble and granite, cost less than wood, and electronics are easy to come by, being that we are so close to Asia.”

I got it: The ‘benefits’ of cheap labor and low import taxes. But who cared? What did that have to do with me being here against my will?

“This is the most important thing in the house,” he said, laying his hand on a simple, unassuming wall phone located next to a padlocked door. “If there is anything you need, anything at all, just pick up the phone. You will hear a beep. Once you do, make your request and hang up.”

“Then what?” Ugh, why do I feel the need to ask?

“Well, it depends on what you ask for. If it's on hand, someone will bring it to you. If not, they will try to get it. If it's non-attainable, then, well, your request is not met. Another thing. The other residents in the building, the ones who'll be taking care of you while I'm gone, will not speak to you. And if they do, it will be in Arabic. If you have a question, be sure to phrase it in a way that they can nod an affirmative, or shake their head for a negative.”

“If they only speak Arabic, then how will they understand my questions at all?”

With an arrogant smirk across his face, he looked at his watch. “I have to go. I'm late. I will see you in a couple of days.” He headed for what I assumed was the front door.

But if that was the exit, then what was I standing in front of?

“Wait,” I called out.

He turned. “What's up?”

I cast a meaningful glance at the heavy padlocked door.

“It used to be the spare bedroom.”

Used to be? “What is it now?”

“If all goes well, you will never have to find out,” he offered cryptically, shrugging his shoulders. Then he was gone. The door closed behind him, there was a jingle of keys and the click of deadbolt sliding into place.

I looked at the padlocked door again. If all goes well, I'll never have to find out ... What the hell was it? A fucking torture chamber?

Shit. It probably was.

My mind instantly filled with images that I could not physically see—shackles hanging from the ceiling and horrible devices that inflicted agonizing pain. Famous war movies with gruesome torture scenes danced across my mind.

My stomach churned. It all made sense now. I could do what they wanted and stay in my gilded cage, or I could suffer the horrors of whatever lay behind that door.

And my dumb ass was actually playing into his nice-guy act. Could we say Stockholm Syndrome?

Lying bastard.

The guy was the definition of the word ‘contradiction'. I mean, who ever heard of a gourmet chef who cooks a beautiful meal one minute and talks about his willingness to kill someone the next? No, he wasn't all accommodating and harmless.

Well, I wouldn't make that mistake again. He was the enemy, and he would get nothing from me. And in turn, I would take nothing from him but the bare minimum—that which I needed to live, and perhaps even less. And if I suffered for that decision, so be it.

What did they want from me anyway?

Of all the people in the world, why did they go through the trouble of taking me? I had no information that would help their cause. Ransom maybe? For a trade? Perhaps some of their buddies were being held in an Allied prison? But that still didn't explain why me. They could ransom any American.

Maybe they thought they'd have more weight with me because I was a female?

It didn't matter.

I would not play the pampered prisoner any longer.

Retrieving the Chicken Biryani from my room and throwing it, along with the bowl and silverware, into the kitchen trash can, I opened the fridge and grabbed as many bottles of water as I could carry before retreating back to my bedroom. Setting the water on the vanity, I gathered my pajamas and toiletries, then went to the bathroom for a bath.

I decided that I would give myself this one last creature comfort before I began my passive protest.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

Lying in bed, daydreaming of food, I heard the front door open. Soft footsteps moved into the flat, but once again, no one called out to me.

My abdomen quivered when the unmistakable sound of porcelain being placed on the dining room table met my ears. But it was only after the steps retreated and the deadbolt lock slid in place did I rise out of the bed, curiosity getting the better of me.

I don't know why I was so anxious to punish myself. My head throbbed to the point of dizziness, my empty stomach hurt, and every muscle in my body ached. On trembling legs, I ventured into the living room.

I had been here five days ... five long days without food. Five endless days of denial when I had a perfectly stocked kitchen full of yummy goodness. And those five days didn't include the three days prior to my abduction when I had hardly eaten at all.

Staring at the dining room table, I decided right then that my keepers were overly cruel people.

This time, they had left me a huge ice cream sundae.

My mouth watered.

Bastards.

I would not give in. If they wanted me to eat so badly, then they needed to let me go. I'd eat only after I was returned to camp.

Despite my stomach's objections, I left the latest lure on the table and made my way back into the bedroom. Collapsing on the mattress, I felt around the covers, searching for my bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, I took deep gulps of the tepid liquid, as much as my stomach could tolerate, hoping it would ease my hunger pains.

I wondered how they even knew if I ate or not. Unlike my original captor, the other keepers never came around unless I was in my bed, which was most of the time due to the constant fatigue I'd felt since I started the ‘resistance'. I had yet to meet them—not that I wanted to.

Hidden cameras, maybe?

Day one was the Chicken Biryani, so I'd guessed my keepers assumed I wasn't hungry right then and that I'd eat later. Day two passed without a visit, as did day three. But the morning of day four I'd awakened to the smell of bacon. When I had gone into the dining room, there was a plate waiting for me with an all-American breakfast upon it.

The torture hadn't stopped since.

Yesterday's lunch had brought salad and yogurt, and dinner had been roasted lamb chops and vegetables. This morning it was fruit and muffins, and lunch, grilled kebabs and pita bread.

Now this. Fucking ice cream.

I had to laugh. I brought this suffering upon myself. What did I expect?

In a way, I guess I expected them to either let me go, kill me, or let me die of starvation. No questions asked. What I didn't expect was for them to care enough to cook on my behalf, with the sole purpose of trying to coax me into eating again.

In a few hours, they would come to retrieve the ice cream. Perhaps I'd make an introduction then. I couldn't fathom why I wanted to do such a thing, considering that previously, I had avoided them at all costs. But if felt like the right thing to do. Though I wouldn't partake of their fare, I still wanted to thank them for the concern.

Thank them?

Shit. The water fast was really screwing up my mind.

I thought about changing my pajamas for more appropriate clothing, so I'd be ready when they came, but my body was too tired to get out of bed again.

Maybe after a quick nap I'd be up for the task.

* * * *

Thwack!

I woke up to darkness and another crashing noise, like that of a pot being thrown into a kitchen sink. Damn. They were being loud tonight. I rolled over and turned my back to the light spilling through my doorway from the living area. Later, when I felt up to it, I would get up and shut the door. But until then, I needed more rest.

Thunk.

Dinnerware slammed on the dining room table.

Then heavy footsteps advanced toward my room.

My eyes shot open.

They never came into my room. It was like some unspoken rule, it just didn't happen ... unless...

Sandalwood.

Yanking the covers away, he grasped my arm and pulled me off the mattress. I was so shocked, I didn't object when he dragged my ass into the dining room. He shoved me down into the chair at the head of the table.

“You will eat. Now,” he growled.

Staring at the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and the glass of fruit juice before me, I instinctively touched the spoon resting on the napkin, but drew my hand back. The thought of putting something in my mouth made me feel queasy. I really just wanted to go back to sleep. I was exhausted.

At the other end of the table, he angrily slid the heavy wooden chair out, marring the air with the shriek of scratching marble. I flinched, hating the sound that echoed through the room.

He sat and stared me down. “I said eat.”

“I'm not hungry,” I mumbled.

“I don't care.”

The edge in his voice, the hard set of his jaw, and the dark gleam in his eyes cautioned me not to press the issue. But amongst the inner chaos that consumed me—including the tug of self-preservation insisting I eat the damn soup—was the overwhelming urge to rebel against his demand.

“Don't make me tell you again,” he warned, raising a dark brow.

What was I? A wayward child. If I wasn't hungry, I wasn't fucking hungry.

I shook my head.

“Eat.”

It was all too much.

Frustrated, I slammed my hands down on the table's surface. “I'm not eating this.”

“Yes, you are.”

I swept my arm across, knocking the bowl and the glass off the edge. They hit the hard floor in a shattering, splattering mess.

The gratification was short-lived.

Quick as lightening, he was out of his chair and in my face, as dangerous as the first time we met.

“I'm going to let that slide,” he growled, “because apparently, not having food for five days has made you irrational and far braver than you should be, given the circumstances.”

I glanced away.

He pounded the tabletop. “Look at me!”

Flitching, my gaze immediately jumped back to his, my heart thumping in fear.

“I am going to get you another bowl and you are going to eat,” he continued, enunciating each syllable with careful restraint. “And if you don't, I will tie you to that chair and force feed you. Am I making myself clear?”

Stunned speechless, I couldn't do more than nod.

“Don't move.”

He retreated and disappeared into the kitchen.

The heavy silence weighed upon me, and I did something I had not done in over two decades since the death of my parents ... I started to cry.

I covered my face with my hands as I fell into hysterical tears.

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.

I was being irrational. And careless. I was doing stupid, ridiculous things ... for what? Where was it going to get me? Foolish decisions would not gain me my freedom. But worse than my illogical behavior, I was hurt by his words. To my utter shame, I actually cared what my enemy thought of me.

His boots crunched against the porcelain and glass, and he set a new bowl down in front of me. “You can cry all you want, but that's not going to get you out of eating.”

Grabbing the napkin, I dabbed at my cheeks and attempted to get a hold of myself. “I don't know what's wrong with me.” I choked out between sobs. “I usually don't...”

Actually, I did know what was wrong. This was me having a nervous breakdown. It had been years in the making. The war, my capture, this freaking fight over soup—all were tiny grains added to an already tipping scale.

Twisting around the chair beside me, he sat in it and sighed. “You are going to make it through this. And once you eat, and get your strength back, you will feel better.”

I picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup, but my fingers were shaking so bad, I couldn't keep the liquid from spilling off before it reached my lips. Dropping the utensil, I pressed my palm over my mouth, trying to contain the new flood of tears and still my quaking body.

He took my hand in his. “Breathe, Brenna.”

I met his dark gaze and shook my head. One breath and I'd fall apart.

But when he drew me into his solid embrace, the torrent came anyway. Laying my head on his shoulder, I cried and cried, letting out years of pent up pain and anguish.

Gathering me onto his lap, he rocked me back and forth, stroking my hair.

My mind screamed ... What are you doing, going willingly into the arms of my enemy? But my heart was hurting, and at the moment, didn't care who was comforting me, be it American or Iraqi, friend or foe, ally or enemy.

Peculiar how the heart did not make those distinctions the way the mind does.

“I imagine that you're scared and confused,” he said.

“I'm a weak person,” I mumbled into his shirt. “I'm bawling like a baby.”

“No, never that.” He nudged me back and raised my chin with the curve of his index finger. “Showing emotion does not make you weak. You are brave and courageous, and as strong as you are beautiful.”

His out-of-place compliment fluttered through me, caressing me like a breeze ripples over the wings of a butterfly. But my mind was quick to shoot it down. I was an emotional wreck. My hair was a mess. I hadn't showered in five days or even changed my pajamas. And in the end, no matter how poetic his words were, or how soft his touch was, he was still my captor and I his prisoner.

He picked up the napkin and tenderly wiped my cheeks. “Your eyes, your expressions, they hide nothing,” he said. “I can see the fight within. How much you want to believe me, but you refuse because your sense of honor says it's wrong. And here I am, unable to hold that against you, because I am the one who has put you in this situation. But I am at a loss, Brenna. You still see me as an insurgent holding you hostage, and it's not true. One day, I'll prove that to you.”

“You could let me go,” I responded in a soft, subtle plea.

Slowly, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Then tell me why you have brought me here?”

“When—and if—the need arises.”

I looked away. “If you're not an insurgent, then what are you?”

He didn't reply.

I moved off his lap and back into my chair. “You want me to trust you,” I murmured. “How can I when you can't answer the simplest of questions?”

He rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking very tired. “Your simple questions actually have complicated answers.”

“Then I can only judge you by what I know. You say that you're not an insurgent, but when we met, you were running with them. You kidnapped me and brought me here, and I have no idea where I am. I'm kept under lock and key, constantly watched by what I guess is to be hidden cameras. If you keep me in the dark, then how can I see you as anything other than my enemy? How can I see myself as anything more than your captive?”

He gave a small smile. “If I knew you wouldn't try to flee, I wouldn't lock you in.”

I absently picked up the spoon. “Until you can find a way to disprove my ‘prisoner status', I am obligated to find a means of escape. I'm a soldier. I must attempt escape whenever the opportunity presents itself.”

“Are you familiar with the Law of Armed Conflict?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Hypothetically, if I was your enemy, I have more than adequately followed the guidelines listed by the Geneva Conventions concerning prisoners of war, such as providing sustenance.”

I moved the noodles around my bowl, worried by the serious nature the conversation was taking. “You have.”

“Yet, you do not accept what I have offered. Doesn't that go against your military training? How can you attempt escape if you are too weak and malnourished, or are dead from starvation?”

The Geneva Conventions also stated that seriously sick or injured soldiers had to be released. I wondered if he would let me go if I were too ill to serve whatever purpose he had in mind.

“Are you saying that if you were my enemy, hypothetically speaking, you'd follow all the Laws of War?”

My question must have caught him off guard. He studied me for a few moments before answering. “Perhaps.”

Then maybe I wouldn't eat the soup after all.

As I went to lay the spoon back down, his fingers closed about my hand. “Have I mentioned how easy you are to read?”

I nodded slowly.

“You can eat, Brenna. I'm not your enemy, you're not my prisoner, and those rules don't apply here. Besides, I won't allow you to purposely hurt yourself.”

His earlier threat to tie me down and force feed me came to mind.

He slowly pulled the spoon from my grasp and submerged it into soup before bringing up it to my lips. I looked up and met his piercing gaze.

Is he really going to feed me?

“Please,” he said, softening his tone.

I opened my mouth and closed my lips around the warm metal. When he withdrew, I swallowed.

Big mistake.

Thankfully, I was able to grab my napkin and cough into it before I sprayed the table with my nourishment.

Unconcerned, he dipped the spoon into the bowl and brought it back up. “Try again.”

This wasn't going well. And I didn't want him see me like this.

I turned away. “No more.”

“It'll pass. You have to eat.”

“I'll eat after you leave.”

“Unfortunately, I don't trust that you will.”

Trust. There was that word again. I hated hearing it from his lips. I tried to quell my rising anger, but it still inflected my response.

“Why do you care either way?”

Letting out a heavy breath, he laid the spoon in the bowl and sat back in his chair. “I'm surprised that you don't. Doesn't starving the body go against the doctor in you? Your oath?”

The way he said it ... No. He couldn't...

“You mean medic,” I tested.

He pulled something out of his pocket and laid it on the table, his palm covering it from my view.

“Brenna Marie Mathews, M.D. I know who you are.” He removed his hand, and my breath caught in my throat. “I have since the day we met.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

Shit.

I stared at the dog tags lying innocuously on the table. “You're mistaken. I highly doubt I'm the only Brenna Mathews in the world.”

“While that might be true, it's the nine-digit number listed under your name that sets you apart.”

“So what?” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Okay. I'm a doctor in the civilian world. You got me. You Googled my name, you paid your twenty dollars to whatever website and obtained my public records. What's the point?”

“Why lie?”

I scoffed. “This coming from you? When you've done nothing but? Cute.”

“Do not insinuate that I've lied to you about anything. I've gone out of my way not do so—”

“Said the man whose name I don't even know.”

“Stop.”

“What?” I chirped. “Don't like hearing the truth?”

“Look, I know I've withheld a lot of information from you, but what I have shared has been completely true.”

I had heard a similar comment a couple of years ago from a guy I had been dating. He failed to mention his wife and two kids. But he never actually lied; I'd just never asked the proper question. So, obviously, the whole ‘misunderstanding’ had been my fault.

Seething inside, I glared at him in disdain. “Withholding, lying ... Is it not one in the same?”

He folded his arms across his chest, anger flashing in his eyes. “You tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you filled out your enlistment papers, you gave your signature under a paragraph agreeing that all the personal information written above was completely accurate and true to the best of your knowledge. However, there was no mention of college experience or a medical degree. Were you lying? Falsifying government documents? Or, when you signed your name, did you tell yourself that the information listed above was ‘accurate and true', and since a higher education was not necessary to join the enlisted ranks, you were not obligated to divulge that part. So tell me, Doctor, was that little omission a lie or not relevant?”

Once again, I was floored. He'd seen a copy of my enlistment papers?

“How do you know what I wrote?” I asked.

“Why join the military and take on a position you're overqualified for? Why not join as a military doctor? You are a respected Emergency Room physician, and I cannot believe that the military had no use for your skills. Why not mention it on your application?

“How do you know all this?” I reiterated.

“And as for previous job experience, you listed all your volunteer work, positions you've held while working for charities. I'm sure your recruiter asked about the job experience listed, or lack thereof. What did you tell him? That you've never worked anything but charity because you'd been living off the inheritance your parents left behind when they died in a tragic car accident?”

This wasn't happening—couldn't be happening...

“I wonder if you bothered to tell your recruiter it wasn't just a simple inheritance you received, but that you are actually the heir to a vast fortune, that you have enough money not to have to work another day in your life. How did you get around explaining why you wanted to join? Did you give him some speech about patriotic pride?”

“Fuck you.”

“What Brenna? Don't like hearing the truth?” he spat. “Are you upset because I'm calling you out on your hypocritical bullshit? You want to thumb your nose at me for hiding things, but you have done the same for many years.”

“I don't have to take this.”

I went to rise from my seat, but he grasped my arm, holding me in place. “You will not walk away from me.”

We sat there, staring each other down. It was in those few tense moments that I realized how dangerous he truly was. This threat wasn't physical. No, it was something so much worse. He wasn't going to let me run. He was going to make me face this—whatever ‘this’ was.

In such a short span of time, my captor already knew how to get past barriers I'd carefully erected. He knew how to bring down my emotional defenses. He had the means to draw me out. Clear as crystal, I read it all right there in his eyes. He knew just how to break me.

“I get it. You can stop,” I said, tears threatening once again.

“I'm not even close to being done.” He released my arm. “We checked up on those charities you've worked for. Your parents started each one of them years ago, and you have kept them running since their death. But what I find strange is that the positions you listed on your application were low level—manning the food lines at soup kitchens, picking up trash off the beaches, passing blankets out at the battered women shelter—”

“Please,” I whispered. “Don't do this.”

“I'm going to place a bet that the people you worked with at these charities never knew your real identity. Your fellow volunteers thought you were ‘Average Jane’ off the street and had no idea that it was your money funding the projects in the first place. You never even told them you were a doctor.”

I didn't respond. Why bother denying or confirming anything?

He continued. “You were once dismissed from a volunteer job at a homeless shelter where you managed the finances for hinting to the director that he should stop pocketing the money and put it to better use, such as more blankets and cots. He chewed you out, and you left without protest. How ironic you should be fired from your own charity for accusing someone of embezzling your money. But did you stand up to him there? No. Couldn't reveal your secret, could you? Instead, the mysterious benefactor sent him a letter later that day, relieving him of his position.”

I stared off into space, occasionally wiping the silent tears that rolled down my cheeks. God, how could he know all this? And why did his words hurt so much?

“Why do you live this secret life?” he asked. “Why do you take the back seat on things when you're more than capable of being in the lead? Why do you live the life you do, instead of living the life of an investment heiress?”

“Perhaps I never had the opportunity,” I offered softly, instantly regretting the moment the lie rolled off my lips. I knew better, and so did he.

“You were twelve when your parents died. Your sole living relative, your grandmother, took over your care. Intelligent and resourceful, you graduated high school when you were sixteen and left for the university. You were nineteen when your grandmother passed away and you received your inheritance. Besides paying your college tuition and funding your charity work, you've done little with the money. You have no children, no husband, just a couple of past boyfriends that never became serious, and you have no close friends. You live in a modest apartment, drive a modest car, wear modest clothes, and spend a majority of your time working at the public hospital for a modest salary. Any free time you have is spent volunteering.”

“What do you want me to say? That you're right? That you've perfectly summed up my empty life and lonely existence?

“Is there anyone in this world who knows who you really are besides your financial advisor and your personal accountant?”

I shrugged. “I guess you do.”

“No, I know nothing about you. And neither does your financial advisor or accountant—or your lawyer for that matter. They might know your ‘true’ identity, your background, but they don't know you. And neither do I. In fact, I doubt there's a living soul in on this earth who knows the real Brenna. You've locked yourself in tight and hidden the key. I could sit here and claim to know who you are based off what I've seen—your responses, your actions, the way you dress, the things you say—but I won't. It would be a false claim. Because I know there is more to you than what I can locate in some file.”

He got up and walked toward the front door. “I'll tell you what, Brenna. When you are ready to answer my ‘simplest’ of questions, I'll be more than happy to answer some of yours.”

After it slammed shut, I stared at the closed door, noting that he didn't lock it. He didn't seem the type, even in anger, to forget such a detail. No, he was a man who did things when they served a purpose.

An act of trust or another lesson?

I'd already told him I would escape, given the chance, so I'm sure he didn't just trust me not to run. And the cameras in the flat were in place for a reason, so if I even approached the door, they would know.

Another lesson.

But this new lesson was harder to bear, even more so than the emotional rollercoaster he'd made me endure during the others. Even if I left now, I wouldn't get far. Not because of the cameras, or guards, or walls, but because my body was weak from malnourishment. The conversation had drained what little energy I had left. I barely had enough to get myself to the bedroom, much less to attempt a daring escape that would probably entail a brutal trek through the desert.

He was a dick for reminding me how I had thwarted myself.

Well, lesson learned.

I picked up the spoon and went about choking down the soup, thinking I would ‘escape’ after I was done, just for the sake of principle. Between eating and fighting off the bouts of nausea, I thought about the other lessons he'd imparted.

The first was the easiest, and the most cliché: You couldn't judge a book by its cover. Looks were definitely deceiving. He touched on all three of my secret lives, and even knew I went through great lengths to keep my roles as ‘doctor', ‘soldier', and ‘bleeding heart’ separate. I guess his acknowledgment of my daily challenges was his way of telling me that I couldn't judge him by what I saw, and that he might just be telling me the truth when he said he wasn't an insurgent.

Obviously, he wasn't.

He was so much more.

That was the second lesson. The details he knew about my life could not have been gathered by a simple background check. The story about the unscrupulous homeless shelter director proved that. That wouldn't have been found on paper. The tale would've been told from one of the resident employees who were there that day. So either my captor had boarded a plane for the US and went to the shelter—which was unlikely, or he had connections of some sort back in the States.

Maybe he'd hired a really good private investigator. But how did he see a copy of my enlistment papers? Those types of government documents were protected under the privacy act. They wouldn't—shouldn't be so easy to get. And let's not forget how he'd abducted me from a US encampment and managed to retrieve my personal belongings while he was at it.

He definitely had connections, something associated with government, a job where he could obtain personal information and gain access.

Was he some kind of spy?

If so, for what side?

He looked and lived in the world of an Iraqi insurgent, but spoke with the fluency of an American familiar with US military life.

And he insisted he wasn't my enemy.

He also hadn't played the stereotypical captor. He hadn't tortured me or anything ... yet.

Like some Hollywood movie plot, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that he might be working covert ops for the US. But then again, he could just as easily be working for some Iraqi political faction.

Shit.

I suddenly realized, after all was said and done, that he never did reveal anything about himself—at least nothing concrete. Fuck. Nothing. Not even his name. Even what I had once believed about him as fact was no longer substantiated.

And here I was, after having my whole life unearthed and paraded about, left utterly open and exposed, my defenses completely obliterated ... and I knew nothing more about him than I did the moment we met.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

By the time the soup bowl was empty, I was feeling a little better, but not by much. I swear the noodles were slithering around in my tummy ... like little slimy worms.

Oh, God. I thought. I'm going to be sick.

Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard, willing my stomach to calm. It was time to get ready for my escape and I needed to keep the soup down for strength.

I put on my dog tags and rose from my chair, careful to step around the broken glass lying scattered across the floor. Damn. After I was ‘recaptured'—assuming that I wasn't sent to the torture chamber—I would have to clean all that up.

Oh well.

I dragged my tired ass into the bedroom. Standing in front of the wardrobes, I tried to decide what to wear for the great escape. I should put on the uniform, but it seemed like so much work with the boots and all. Plus, if I donned all the gear, it would be too heavy for my poor muscles to carry.

In the end, I decided on another pair of pajamas. To hell with it. How long could I possibly be gone before I was brought back? I wasn't even up to this now. I had to fight to stop myself from collapsing on the bed and going back to sleep. It had to be after midnight anyway.

Gathering my bra, panties and other needed items, I went into the bathroom to take a quick shower, wondering exactly where all those hidden cameras were.

* * * *

After putting on my PJs, I tied my hair up and went back to the wardrobe. The shower had revitalized me some—just some. However, I was feeling a little more optimistic about my escape.

I figured wearing the hijab might work in my favor. At least, in the slim chance I did make it past the walls, I could blend in with the locals. I searched through the selection, bypassing the traditional draping styles, choosing instead one of the contemporary abayas that many of the younger women favored, which wore like a loose, lightweight caftan without the sash.

Donning the black full-length tunic, I hung the head scarf around my neck, not wanting to dampen the silk material by wrapping it over my wet hair. I slipped my feet into a pair of embroidered ballet shoes, pleased that they fit.

I took a deep breath. This was it. Time to go.

Leaving the bedroom, I resisted the urge to go back for my purse. It seemed weird to leave all my personal belongings behind, even if I was doomed to be recaptured. My wallet, my identification, my credit cards, my cell phone—which doesn't work anywhere but in America—damn it! It was for the best. Anyway, what was my captor going to do? Steal my identity?

I smiled at my own joke.

Passing through the dining room, I found the floor spotless. They must have swept and mopped while I was bathing. Funny, I was actually grateful, being too tired to do it myself.

I slowed my pace when the front door came into sight.

It occurred to me that my keepers might have locked the door after they came in and cleaned. My hopes, which I didn't even realize were up, fell slightly. I had to attempt it anyway. I wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise. Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true.

Listening closely, I tried to gauge if there were people in the corridor. I heard nothing but my rapid pounding heartbeat. “Don't get excited,” I scolded softly. “You're not going to get anywhere, even if the door is unlocked.”

No matter what I preached to myself, my body seemed to ignore it. It increasingly became anxious and alert with each step I took toward my freedom. I was a walking testament to the adrenaline rush theory.

They were probably watching all this and laughing at me ... ‘Oh look, she actually thinks she's going to escape. Ha, ha, ha. The joke's on her.'

My hand inched toward the handle.

Grasping the cold metal, I held my breath and turned.

It twisted beneath my fingers.

Tugging lightly, I cracked the door open and froze, waiting for alarms to blare and booted feet to come rushing down the corridor.

Moments passed...

Nothing.

I exhaled slowly. It couldn't be this easy, could it?

I opened it all the way and stepped out into the eerie quiet. There was a door in front of me with a small gold plate screwed into the wall next to it, Arabic numerals etched neatly upon the face. I glanced behind me, seeing a similar plate, but with slightly different characters. Apartment numbers, I guessed.

Looking right, I scanned the whitewashed walls, but saw no other doors except the one at the end where the corridor turned, also adorned with a plate. Must be another flat. I spun and searched left. The other direction held swinging wood doors with a small unreadable red sign above them, alight and similar to an exit sign. I hesitantly approached, finding the swaying fabric of my abaya loud in the oppressive silence. My nerves were on edge, my blood was racing, and I found it hard to draw in much-needed oxygen.

Fuck. How far were they going to let this go? The wait was killing me. I wanted them to recapture me and be done with it. It's not like they didn't know I was gone, they had cameras in the flat. What the hell were they waiting for?

I stopped in my tracks, shaking my head. God, what kind of prisoner wants to be recaptured?

The kind whose enemies are playing mind games with her.

Bastards.

“Well, let's play,” I whispered, resuming my steps. I tried to focus all my nervous energy, will myself to calm down, and pay attention to my surroundings.

When I got to what I hoped was a way out, I stilled and listened for sound on the other side of the swinging barrier. Hearing none, I checked behind me to make sure no one was there while simultaneously pressing on the wood just enough to slip through.

I found myself in a small passage. Directly before me was an elevator. On one side of it was a stairwell leading up into darkness. On the other side, another stairwell descending maybe five steps into light.

Ping.

An engine turned on and the bulbs above the elevator began to glow.

“Shit,” I gasped, fear searing my insides. Instinct surged and I bolted down the illuminated stairs, stepping on the hem of my abaya as I did. Propelled forward, I plummeted through the air.

But instead of colliding face first onto the cold marble floor, I hit a yielding wall of wrapping warmth. Time stopped, the world stilled, and I found myself suspended in the most awkward of positions.

“Steady,” the deep, familiar voice soothed. “I've got you.”

The sound reverberated in my ears. I was leaning into a sculpted chest, my cheek brushing against soft fabric. I inhaled slowly.

Sandalwood.

The numbing shock wore off and my body took inventory. Strong arms laced under mine held me up, my breasts crushed against a firm stomach, my back arched in, my legs were swept back behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I looked up. My captor appeared concerned, scared even. Oh God. I tripped and he caught me. Too embarrassing. Feeling heat rise to my cheeks, I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

He pulled me onto unsteady feet, his arms drawing me closer until my length was pressed tightly against him. “Are you sure you're not hurt?” he asked.

Unable to find my voice, I simply nodded again. My ankle was now throbbing, but it wasn't worth mentioning.

He captured my gaze and held it, searching. Silent seconds passed. His warmth seeped into my chest and my stomach flip-flopped. The air grew heavy, intimate, like a moment shared between lovers. I almost expected him to lean in and kiss me.

The grin he gave made me wonder if he read my thoughts.

My cheeks went from hot to scalding.

He unraveled his hold and slowly began stepping back, running his hands down my arms and lifting them up as he went. He didn't stop until his fingers intertwined with mine and a large circular gap stood between us.

“Walk to me.”

Not knowing what else to do, I limped forward two paces.

“You've hurt your ankle?”

“I'm okay. I just need to walk more,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I'd know. I'm a doctor. Remember?”

He chuckled. “I'm glad to hear that.” He let go of one hand and turned, leading me away from the staircase.

I looked around and saw that we were in a small lobby, the front entrance just a few feet away. Damn. We bypassed another elevator, two couches, an unmanned desk, and went through a set of engraved wood doors.

My heart raced as we stepped outside into the chilled night.

The door swung close behind us, casting the world in utter darkness. As the gentle sound of bubbling water reached my ears, my eyes adjusted, and the full moon's soft glow illuminated the small garden courtyard. Light reflected off the glass windows that surrounded us on all four sides. I realized that the area was enclosed by the building itself.

“Come.”

He led me on the tiled path that meandered through a lush garden of date palms and other tropical flora. Soon, we came upon the center of the courtyard to where a little fountain stood. He guided me over to a stone bench. We sat and I found myself succumbing to the enchantment of the small oasis. Before me, the trickling water sparkled in the moonlight, tinkling softly in the cool desert breeze. A billion stars dotted the ink-colored sky like diamonds scattered across rich velvet, and I inhaled deeply, relishing the heady scent of jasmine mingling with that of sandalwood.

Sandalwood. His scent.

I looked over and met the glittering eyes of my captor. It was only then that I recognized how inappropriate our situation was. We sat so close together, our thighs touched, the heat from the contact contrasting with cool dampness that seeped through my clothing from the stone seat. His large fingers had somehow interlaced with mine, producing an intimate hold further emphasized as our joined hands rested lightly in his lap.

“You know, you look beautiful tonight. The abaya flatters you.” His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist as he spoke.

Oh, my God! Was he actually hitting on me?

My stomach fluttered, but I willed myself to keep it casual. “Thank you,” I said, gently tugging my hand out of his. Suddenly fearing that he would be offended, I hid the reason for my withdrawal by moving my hem out of the way and lifting my foot to show him the embroidered shoes. “I was very lucky. The abaya was a perfect fit, as were the slippers.”

“I'm glad. We procured those items just for you.”

I didn't know what to say. Good manners dictated that I should show gratitude, but my suspicious side also surged, wanting to know how he knew my size at all.

Duh! The guy knows everything about you.

“Why am I here?” I blurted out. After I said it, I wondered which way I meant the question. Why here imprisoned, or why here with him now in this would-be romantic moment? Shit, I'd be satisfied if either of those questions were answered.

“Why did you become a doctor?” he asked.

I froze. “I ... um ... wanted to help people.”

“Very noble,” he replied. “But what prompted your decision? Tell me about the moment that started you on the road to your profession.”

No.

“I don't know,” I said slowly. “It's just something I always wanted to do. Are you going to answer my question?”

He nodded. “You're here because I need you to be.”

“That's a very vague explanation.”

Cocking his head to the left, his gaze scanned over my face. “And so was yours.”

I looked away. “I know what you want to hear, but that's very personal. I don't talk about it.”

“I understand,” he replied. “And I will not force you to.”

Swinging my head around, I glared at him accusingly. “Are you not? You're demanding a trade of information. I can't do that. You're my en—”

“Don't say it,” he warned.

My heart thudded at the acid in his tone.

“I'm not asking you for government secrets,” he continued. “I'm just asking you to tell me about yourself.”

“I can't. A captive should never give her captor personal information. Why do you want to know anyway? To hold it over me later? To manipulate me? To play more mind games?”

“Okay, discussion over.”

“No. Tell me why I'm here. Why do you need me? If not for government secrets or some kind of intelligence that will give you a tactical advantage, then what? Ransom?”

“Brenna, I'm not going to argue with you. We've done enough of that tonight.”

I exhaled my frustration, but let the subject drop. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with him.

“Look, I don't have a lot of time left,” he said. “I want to make a deal with you before I go.”

“You're leaving again? Go figure,” I muttered.

Inwardly, I cringed. Why should I care either way? I shouldn't ... I didn't.

“I don't have much of a choice. I wasn't supposed to come back for another three days.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was worried about you. I heard you weren't eating, that you rarely left your room...” he trailed off.

My insides heated and I melted like a teenage girl getting the team captain's jacket on a cold night. No—I would not be swayed again by his sweet words of concern. If he hadn't brought me here in the first place, I wouldn't have fasted in protest.

He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “But, I am flattered to know that you will miss me when I'm gone.”

I smirked, then put my hand in his, letting him help me off the bench. He weaved my arm through his and we started down the paved path.

“What makes you think I'll miss you?”

“Because you always have the most engaging responses when I tell you I am leaving. The first time you were sad, this time, you were angry.”

“Don't take my responses to heart,” I said, annoyed by his observation. “My caring is just a symptom of Stockholm Syndrome.”

He held open the door for me. “If you say so,” he replied, guiding me over the threshold.

“What do you mean by that?”

He led me toward the stairwell. “So, you're not attracted to me at all?”

What? What!?!

“Not in the least,” I assured him.

“You're lying.”

“The hell I am.” Fuck! I was. In a sick, demented way, I was. I was attracted to him. God help me...

“Did I mention how easy you are to read?” he asked.

“Yes,” I growled. “This is the third time you've said it tonight.”

He laughed. “I'm sure it's just the Stockholm Syndrome making you feel that way.”

Before I could agree with his statement, he swept me in to his arms and carried me up the steps. But instead of putting me down when we reached the top, he continued to my room. Still reeling from the ‘attraction’ comment, I didn't fight against his display of chivalry.

When we got to the door, still open the way I'd left it, he stepped inside and set me on my feet. I took a couple of steps back to put some distance between us.

“Here's the deal,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “As long as you eat three square meals a day, you can go into the courtyard. Whenever you want to walk outside, just pick up the phone and leave a message. Someone will come to escort you out.”

“What? Is this to be my reward for being a good girl who eats all her food?”

“You can say that.”

I scoffed. “Oh, and if I don't, what are you going to do? Spank me?”

A mischievous grin spread across his face.

Realizing what I'd just said, my cheeks ignited. Worse, erotic images popped into my head, which intensified the blush until it burned my hairline.

“You know what I mean,” I rushed. “Being treated like a child and such.”

He nodded and reached for the door handle. “Good night, Brenna. I'll see you in a couple of days.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to bid him a safe trip, but I caught myself before it slipped out. For all I knew, he was leaving to plan another attack on my comrades.

My captor shut the door and keys jingled as the lock slid into place.

I rubbed my eyes and scolded myself for being the fool. My fatigue had to be the reason for my utter lost of common sense. I went to my room and threw myself on the bed, replaying all the humiliating moments I'd endured this night.

Dumb, dumb, dumb...

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

I strolled through the garden, my thoughts drifting back to him. Four days had passed and he hadn't returned. I glanced over my shoulder at my armed escort, walking a few paces behind me, his rifle in hand. He wasn't much company. The strong, silent type I guessed.

Looking at the ground, I resumed my useless task of counting tiles.

On the morning after my captor left, I ate a light breakfast, dressed, and picked up the phone, hesitantly requesting to go outside. I wasn't sure what would happen, but minutes later, the deadbolt was unlocked and a knock sounded. Surprised by my escort's manners, I answered the door. Before me stood a brutish looking man, big, brawny, with a full beard covering most of his face. He had a weapon slung over his shoulder. Though I was scared shitless, I went with him, hoping that my captor spoke the truth when he had promised that no harm would come to me.

He had. My escort and I spent a half an hour outside, and then we went back in. Lunch and dinner brought the same routine.

Three times a day, for four days now, my escort and I had taken walks together. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get the man to say anything to me. I'd talk, he'd listen. If I asked a yes or no question, he'd nod, shake his head, or shrug. Sometimes, when I made a sarcastic joke, usually regarding his stoic personality, he'd smile. Otherwise, nothing.

The lack of interaction was starting to grate on my nerves. In a way, I really did miss my captor. At least he talked to me.

Behind me, my escort cleared his throat. It was the signal he gave when it was time to go back inside. However, this time, I ignored him. He cleared his throat again. I pretended not to hear, as if I was lost in deep thought, too busy counting the stupid tiles.

“Yalla.”

I spun around, surprised all to hell. “Did you just speak?”

He smiled, and cocked his head toward the door.

I went to his side. “What does that mean?” I asked as we started walking back.

He regarded me, but said nothing.

“Is it like saying, ‘Hey you?'”

He shook his head.

“Look at me?”

He shook his head again.

“Time to leave?”

He waved his palm and squinted, as if to say close, but not quite. He then pointed at his watch and shook his head.

“No time? Out of time?”

He shook his head, very adamantly, then rolled his hand as if signaling something backwards.

I shrugged. “Time to go?”

When he shook his head and tapped his watch yet again, I realized that he was trying to tell me not to say ‘time'.

Remembering the guess that he had signaled as so-so, I revisited it. “It's not time to leave, but close to that, without the word time.”

He nodded.

...to leave ... to go...

“Let us leave?”

He rolled his hand forward, nodding.

What was another way of saying ‘let us leave?'

“Follow me, we go now?”

I was on the right track. He was nodding and rolling more.

All of a sudden, a memory flashed inside my head, one of a battle torn neighborhood and a young Iraqi boy tugging on his little brother's arm, urging him to move faster while he chanted that word.

...follow me, let's leave ... hurry, move it ... come on, come on ... let's go...

“Come on, let's go?”

My escort smiled big and gave me a thumbs-up.

I couldn't help but laugh. Despite my escort's gruff appearance, he was actually kind of nice, reminding me once again about the lesson on how looks can be deceiving.

When we got back to my apartment, he opened my door and let me walk in. Then, dipping his head as if to say goodbye, he started to close it.

“Wait.”

He stilled.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Will I ever find out why you can't—or won't—talk to me?”

Grinning broadly, as if my question amused him, he winked at me, closing the door behind him and locking it.

“Thanks. I guess I'll get ready for another quiet evening.”

I was very bored, and lonely. Even though I was not much of a social person, I guess I always took for granted the power of conversation, even if it was just with a patient or a coworker.

Moving into the living room, I dropped onto the couch and turned on the news. I watched for a while, my hopes for rescue slowly fading. I had been monitoring the English speaking news channels for days, looking for some small tidbit about my disappearance. I sometimes flipped over to the foreign language news channels.

But there was nothing. I thought that was really shitty. There was so much news about the war, from casualties, to insurgent activity, even news about kidnapped civilians, but there was not one mention of a female soldier missing in action.

It was as if no one even realized I was gone.

I have no friends, no family, so who would miss me?

Self pity overwhelmed me to the point that my stomach cramped. I struggled hard to keep the emotions under control.

He had said ... showing emotion does not make you weak.

Grabbing a throw pillow, I hugged it close and poured my sadness into it, wondering how I had ended up with such an empty life. He'd also said I had locked myself up tight and hidden the key. Maybe I did have a tendency to shut people out.

The thought made me cry harder.

As the minutes passed, and the torrent of tears went on, I tried to find comfort in the possibility that the military was trying to find me, but was just keeping it all hush-hush. I mean, after all, someone had to report that I wasn't at work. Someone had to miss me there, like Jackson, or Mollina.

Yet, even that sliver of hope did little to make me feel better

Suddenly, the front door opened. Something was placed on the floor, and the door closed again. Swiping the moisture from my cheeks, I rose and went to see what was going on.

When I reached the door, I leaned down to pick up the items on the floor. It was another ice cream sundae and ... a sheet of paper? I looked over the typed-out note, but didn't have the slightest idea what it said. Unfortunately, I didn't read Arabic.

Oh well, it was the thought that counted.

As I headed back, I stopped by the wall phone and picked up the receiver.

Beep. “Thanks. I really appreciate the ice cream,” I sniffled and giggled at the same time. “Hey, if you happen to have any champagne and caramel-filled chocolates, feel free to drop those off as well.”

With that, I hung up and took my gift to the living room.

Turning off the depressing news, I searched through the music collection. Finding Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits, I stuck it in the CD player. I turned up the volume then went and lay on the couch.

I ate ice cream as I stared numbly at the ceiling.

Only about ten minutes had passed before I heard three loud knocks. I jumped up, waiting for whomever to barge in.

Moments passed. Nothing happened.

Intrigued, I put aside my desert and approached cautiously. More gifts from the enemy? Sitting on the floor in front of the door were three packages of Rolos and a half filled bottle of Jack Daniels.

Oh, my request. Close enough for me.

After grabbing a small glass and a couple of cans of cola from the kitchen, I picked up my new gifts and went back to the couch. Though I wasn't a drinker, and definitely not a hard-liquor kind of gal, I poured myself a good amount of the golden liquid and opened one of the cans, topping the drink off. Settling back into the cushions, I lifted my glass high, toasted the hidden cameras, then downed the drink in two gulps, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down my throat.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

It occurred to me that I might have had a tad too much alcohol when I finally succumbed to the overwhelming urge to dance to Copacabana.

My drink sloshed around as I swayed my hips and sambaed around the living room. I was not drunk enough to fall on my ass, but I had a good buzz going, which allowed me not to care about the hidden cameras anymore. If anything, I hoped they were all enjoying the show. It made all those years of dancing lessons my mother made me endure when I was a little girl worth while. Anyway, the samba was a sexy dance, and I was feeling incredibly sexy, even if I was dancing in my pajamas.

As I danced, I sang. Yes, I was fucking up the lyrics, but I kept trying anyway, determined to get it right. When the song finally ended, I collapsed on the couch, out of breath, and waited for the next track.

Mandy.

I finished off my drink and opened my last package of Rolos, popping one into my mouth. Sitting back down, I closed my eyes as the lonely tears, brought on by Barry's melodic voice and the beautiful lyrics, flowed.

Sandalwood.

My thoughts drifted to my captor. Even though he'd been gone for days, it was like I could smell him now. I wanted to see him, wanted to touch him, simply wanted to be with him.

When the song ended, I wiped at my cheeks and giggled. “Damn. There's nothing worse then a crying drunk, Brenna.”

“I agree.”

Fuck!

Startled witless, I shot up to my feet. The room swayed and I grabbed a hold of the armrest to steady myself. “Oh, shit! You're back!”

He flipped off the CD player. “Yes, I am. I hear you've been having fun without me,” he remarked, his tone carrying his displeasure.

My heart dropped to the pit of my drunken stomach. “Are you upset at me?”

He eyed the bottle of Jack, then gazed back up at me. “No, it's my fault. I should have told the others not to give you alcohol.”

Oh good. He wasn't mad at me. “Why?”

“Because I need you alert in case there's an emergency.”

“Like a medical emergency? Or like a ‘crap, we're being attacked and I need you to run’ kind of emergency?” I lifted my hands and shook them in front of me in mock fear, then covered my mouth to stop from laughing.

“Actually, both.”

The room suddenly lurched and I began tipping over. He was there then, his strong arms wrapping around me. Once I was steady again, I leaned my head on his chest and breathed in deeply. My body tingled in reaction to his yummy scent. I smoothed my hands across his rock hard muscles, pressing closer to his warmth. For being the enemy, he was incredible sexy. When he tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes, I took his hand and brought it to my lips...

“Be a good girl, Brenna,” he whispered, removing his finger from my mouth.

I moaned my disappointment with a pout. He tasted good. I wanted to taste more.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Fine,” I conceded reluctantly. “I'm not supposed to do that stuff with you anyway.”

Holding my arm, he guided me back to the couch.

“Thanks,” I offered, dropping into the pillows. “I guess I shouldn't have drunk that last one. I wasn't feeling this...” hot, wet, aroused, “...tipsy a few minutes ago.”

Sitting inches from me, he reached forward and lifted the empty glass off the table. “May I use this?”

When I nodded, he poured himself a drink. “Was there a reason why you were crying?”

“The song. It's a beautiful song.”

At last, he laughed. “Moved to tears by Mandy? And here, I thought you might have been missing me.”

“That too. I missed you,” I responded automatically.

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you always this open when you've been drinking?”

“Yep. Do you always smell so good?”

Another look of amusement crossed his handsome face.

I was feeling very proud of myself. It was nice to be the one with the upper hand. I was turning the tables on him, catching him off guard with my words. True, tomorrow I would probably regret everything I was saying now, but hey, that was tomorrow.

“Well?” I pressed.

“I guess. Thank you for the compliment.”

“How was your trip?” I asked, burrowing into the cushions.

The stoic silence returned. Leaning forward, he pulled out the note from under my empty ice cream bowl. He read over it, then looked at me curiously.

I shrugged. “I don't know. I don't read Arabic.”

“What was your question?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last person you talked to. What was the last question you asked?”

“I asked for champagne and chocolate.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Not a request. A question.”

It took all my concentration to remember. “Um ... I think I asked my escort why he wouldn't talk to me, or something along those lines.”

“He must like you a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because he answered.”

I sat up. “Really?” Yeah, he liked me. “What did he write?”

“A voice, like a name, can be used to identify you,” he translated.

“What the hell does that mean?”

He gave me that arrogant grin and clucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

I waved him off. It was obviously another one of their secret things that I wouldn't understand. “Well, it was sweet of him to take the time to write me anyway. Give him my thanks when you see him.”

“Should I be jealous?” he asked, his tone playful, perhaps even flirtatious.

“Why?” I giggled.

“I'm starting to think you like him better than me.”

Caught up in the banter, I batted my eyes. “Well, my other keepers bring me ice cream when I'm sad. You haven't done that.”

The cocky smile faded from his face. “I wish you wouldn't call us that.”

I wasn't going to let him ruin my good mood.

Pasting on my most innocent expression, I placed my hand on his forearm and gently squeezed. “What else should I call you all? I don't know any of your names.”

I knew it was a risky move, one that could come back to haunt me later, but I wanted him to be happy again. I wanted just one night where we could be normal people before we had to go back to being enemies.

My plan worked. A smile touched his lips. “Okay, you got me there.”

“So?”

“What?”

“What's your name?”

“Can't tell you that yet.”

I sat back, letting out a long, noisy breath. “Oh, okay.”

Honestly, I hadn't really expected him to tell me anyway.

“Sorry,” he offered.

“Why can't you tell me anything?”

“I'll tell you what. First answer my question. If you answer mine completely—with totally honesty—then I will answer yours. Agreed?”

“Okay, ask.”

“Why were you sad earlier?”

It was another personal question. But, why not tell him? Maybe if I just said it aloud, I could get this lump out of my gut. Gulping in all the air I could handle, I folded my hands together and rested them in my lap.

Keep it simple and easy.

“I was sad earlier because I've been watching the news for five days, but no one seems to notice I'm missing. I'm hurt because I feel like no one cares enough about me to know that I'm gone. This made me look back at my life and, you know, I am truly alone in the world. And I realized, to my utter horror, that you were absolutely right when you told me that I don't let people in.”

There. I said it. And did so without breaking into tears again.

Go me!

On top of all that, I did feel better for sharing. It was hard after a while to keep everything bottled up inside. But the serious confession was killing my buzz. I didn't want to leave the alcohol-induced euphoria just yet.

I took the glass from his hand and managed a sip before he retrieved it. “Did it ever occur to you that you might not be missing?” he asked.

“That makes no sense.”

I tried to ponder his words, to find the underlining meaning, but it took too much concentration and made my head hurt. I'd think about it later, when I had a clearer head.

“Anyway,” I chirped. “I've answered your question. Now you answer mine.”

“I won't tell you anything so that you will never be forced to lie. When you leave here—and yes, you will one day leave here and return home—people are going to ask you questions about where you've been. And when you answer, you will be telling the truth. You will not have to feel guilty about hiding things from your friends, nor will you ever have to worry about slipping up and saying something you shouldn't. You will never have to fear keeping all your stories straight.”

“You mean like, um ... plausible deniability?”

“In some things, ignorance truly is bliss,” he said. “Trust me.”

Trust. There was that word again. It rattled in my brain. “Why is it so important that I trust you?”

“Because if you trust me, then I can trust you.” He took a swig from his glass. “And I need to be able to trust you. I need to know that you can do the job I have brought you here to do, without the fear that you might purposely...” he trailed off.

“What job?”

“Do you always like to ask the hard questions?”

I shrugged. “Do you want an easier question?”

“Yes.”

I thought it over. Oh! There was something I'd always wanted to know, but was too afraid to ask.

Here's to the benefits of liquid courage.

“You know that room in the hallway with the padlock?”

He nodded.

“What is it?”

Relaxing back, he took another sip of his drink. “Here's a tip. Around this place, you'll get much more information by asking yes or no questions.”

“Is it some kind of torture chamber?” I whispered.

His expression blanked out. Then he leaned toward me, staring me straight in the eyes. “Brenna,” he drawled, matching the volume of my voice. “Are you seriously asking me this?”

Shit. Was he going to be pissed if I answered yes?

“You are,” he said slowly.

I bit my bottom lip, and lowered my gaze.

“No, Brenna. It's not.”

I gave a relieved sigh. “That's nice.”

“I can't believe you would think—”

“Hey,” I said lightly. “It was valid question. And you don't want to hurt my feelings by making me feel stupid, do you?”

He awarded me a small smile. “No, I would never want to do that,” he said, then swallowed the last of his drink. “I really like this side of you, doctor.”

“What side?”

“Your diplomatic side.”

I laughed. “Oh, that's a skill I picked up after dealing with so many ornery patients.”

“No, it's more than that.” His gaze roamed over me, slow and thoughtful. “You're warm and expressive. I'm enchanted by your sweet candor and innocence. You're beautiful tonight, sitting here in your pajamas, your cheeks rosy, your eyes sparkling with laughter.”

“Enchanted?” I was sure my cheeks just got pinker. “I-I don't know what to say.”

“Say what's on your mind.”

“Thank you. You have a beautiful way with words. I don't get many compliments like that.” I then added, “Are you trying to butter me up?”

“No, I'm just being honest. I've spent a lot of my time...” he trailed off, as if he caught himself saying something he shouldn't. “Whenever I can, I want to be open and honest. Especially with you.”

He rose from the couch and began collecting the dishes. I watched him silently as he cleaned up, then took everything to the kitchen. I heard him turn on the sink, I assume to wash out the bowl and cup.

A domesticated man's man ... was that right? Or was I drunker than I thought?

As I thought about his poetic flattery, I felt that tugging in my heart. It was a feeling I always got when I was falling for a guy. I needed to tread carefully, I needed to erect my personal barriers again and put distance between us. If I didn't, I'd soon find myself taken with the enemy, and that was something I could not allow, no matter how much I wanted to.

God, I so wanted to believe him, believe in him.

It almost broke my heart.

If only things were different, then maybe ... Perhaps one day, in another time, in another place, in another life.

When he came back, I looked up and forced a smile.

“I think you need to go to bed.” He held out his hand. “I'll help you up.”

I hesitated. Distance yourself.

Oh, what was one more little touch? He really did have the most impressive fingers.

I placed my hand in his.

He pulled me off the couch. The ground moved beneath my feet, I leaned into him to steady myself. I was so going to regret this night when I was nursing a hangover in the morning.

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong Brenna?”

Distance yourself! “A little vertigo, that's all.”

He held my gaze, searching my eyes for an answer.

“Probably all the alcohol,” I said. “I just need to sleep it off.”

He didn't seem convinced.

I glanced down at my feet. “I'm fine, really.”

“You've shut me out again.”

Was I that damned easy to read? “No, I haven't.”

“Look at me, then. Look at me and say it.”

I shook my head.

“That's what I thought.”

His words were enough. They hurt and I couldn't stand it anymore. If he cared as much as he said he did, then let him bear some of this pain.

“What do you want from me?” I hissed. “And I'm not talking about why you brought me here. I mean now, at this very moment. You say that you want to be open and honest with me? Then prove it. Right now.”

His lips suddenly captured mine, hot, demanding, and utterly consuming. I yielded to him, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. And I wanted more. I wanted to taste more, to feel more, to have more. Like the water that spills out from a ruptured dam, my shocked senses surged. I was flooded with desire, engulfed by pleasure, and drowning in need. I wrapped my hands around his neck and pulled him closer, intensifying the kiss and taking it to dizzying heights.

He broke it off.

“God, Brenna,” he gasped. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...”

I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his words faded into a dull hum. What a kiss! I was simply awed by it. It had to be the most amazing kiss ever.

Staring into his wonderful eyes, I smiled as the world started falling away beneath my feet. “Wow.”

Then everything went dark.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

I don't know what kept me in bed longer ... my hangover or my humiliation.

What in the living fuck was I thinking last night?

I touched my mouth again. The memory of the passionate kiss was so fresh in my mind my lips tingled, as did other parts of my body.

No, they didn't tingle.

They ached.

An empty, throbbing ache.

And that was the root of my humiliation. I had tried to seduce him last night. He wouldn't have me. But had I been given the opportunity, I would have slept with him. Not because of the alcohol, but because I wanted to.

I desperately wanted to place the blame on the Jack and Coke, wanted to say that I was drunk and didn't know better, but as I lay there, sober as could be, nothing about the way I felt the previous night had changed.

I still wanted him.

I still wanted to sleep with the enemy.

Please, someone shoot my traitorous ass and put me out of my misery.

However, it was so much more than lust. Yes, my body was attracted to him, but my heart had fallen as well.

How could this have happened? It was wrong on so many levels.

I had spent the morning trying to console myself. My mind tried to give me a million and one excuses as to why this wasn't my fault—he was manipulating me, I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, I was drunk and taken advantage of...

Lies, lies, lies.

Not his.

Mine.

I was lying to myself.

But I wouldn't allow myself to travel down the false road. I was a grown woman, capable of making decisions and taking responsibility for my actions.

Last night, though I had been drinking, I wasn't oblivious. I remembered everything. I knew full well what I was doing. All the alcohol had done was lower my inhibitions, and even then, if I was truly honest with myself, I couldn't claim that it had solely been the alcohol.

I had been looking for an excuse to open up to him—guilt free.

It didn't matter. What mattered was my next course of action. What was I going to do when I saw him again? Should I pretend like last night had never happened? Should I talk to him about us? Or should I just ignore him totally?

Ignore him, my mind screamed.

Talk to him, my heart interjected.

My head's throbbing intensified.

Shower, dress, eat, take a walk, and then decide.

Rubbing my eyes, I crawled out of bed, trying to will him out of my thoughts. But it didn't work, not after seeing what was waiting for me on the vanity. I picked up the two aspirin and popped them in my mouth, then I uncapped the bottle of water and took deep drink.

My ever-thoughtful enemy.

* * * *

After finishing a simple repast of toast and fruit, I picked up the phone and requested my usual post-meal walk. I knew I had a couple of minutes before my captor would come, so I went to my room and slipped an abaya over my jeans and tank-top, remembering the compliment he gave me the last time he saw me in one.

I didn't want to examine why I cared.

I made my decision early, choosing to talk to him about the kissing incident. We were adults and we could do this. It was what adults did. We would have a calm, civil discussion about last night.

Now I just had to figure out what to say. Obviously, I had to tell him that the kiss could never be repeated. But should we talk about why it happened? Did I dare ask him why he kissed me? Did I dare share why I let him?

Knock-knock-knock.

The rapping told me that the armed escort had arrived. After all, my captor never bothered with such formalities. He always just walked in.

I can't believe he didn't come himself...

I knew I shouldn't feel disappointed by that, but I was.

When I answered the door, I looked up, only to see a big grin spread across my escort's face. I almost smiled back, but his shining eyes glimmered with knowing humor, like someone who had some big, funny secret they desperately wanted to share, but couldn't. My cheeks instantly flamed as a flood of memories from the night prior assaulted me.

Fucking cameras.

Huffing, I pushed past him and made my way toward the courtyard. My escort followed silently. When we arrived outside, I went straight to the center of the garden, sat my ass on the stone bench, and stared off into the trickling fountain.

I should have been embarrassed by the things my escort probably had seen, or at the very least, had heard about. And in a way I was. But that was not why I was so hurt. The more I thought about last night, the more I played with the thought that my captor might be avoiding me.

How ironic.

What a damn coward.

I wanted to avoid it all, but I made-or was going to make if he'd been here-an effort to talk about it.

He could be gone again ... and maybe he just didn't say goodbye?

I glanced over at my escort, milling about. “Hey, is my captor around?”

He looked up at me quizzically, as if he had no idea who in the hell I was referring to.

“You know, my captor. The other guy who usually takes care of me.”

He continued to give me an empty expression.

There was no way he didn't know who I was talking about. He had to know. I asked a yes or no question, so what was the problem here?

“Okay, I've only met two of you,” I explained. “I don't know his name. He's my ... my captor. The one who brought me here.”

When my escort winked at me, I finally figured out what he was doing...

Friggin great. I guess in his mind, I wasn't a prisoner either. I didn't know how he could think otherwise. After all, my escort was carrying a rifle just to walk me around an enclosed courtyard.

“You know damn well who I'm talking about,” I muttered.

My escort had the gall to smirk.

I threw up my hands in frustration. “Fine. You win. Is my ... host here? In the building?”

He nodded.

That meant ... “He's avoiding me.”

My escort didn't deny or confirm my statement.

“I take it you saw what happened last night. The kiss and all.”

At first, my escort just stared at me. But I held his gaze, demanding that he answer the question. Finally, he slowly nodded, a smile touching his lips.

I wanted to ask him why he was here with me and not my captor, but that would be an open question. So, I figured I'd have to go through the list of possible reasons as to why my captor wasn't here.

I went with the reason foremost in my mind; the one that worried me the most, the one question with a ‘wrong’ answer that could literally shatter me into a million pieces. Did I really want to know?

“Is he embarrassed?” I asked. “Is that why he did not come to collect me?”

My escort went wide eyed in shock. He actually looked at a loss for words—or gestures in his case.

Taking his silence as a concurrence, I hung my head in shame, tears of humiliation instantly welled in my eyes. Oh, my God. He was embarrassed to have kissed me. In my mind, it had been the most amazing kiss of my life. I guess my captor felt differently.

“Was it that horrible for him?” I whispered.

Suddenly, my escort's booted feet came into view. I glanced up when he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in. He pointed at me and shook his head. Then made an indication of bringing a glass to his mouth.

“Embarrassed because I had been drinking?”

He smiled and nodded. He then put the back of his hand to his forehead and tilted his head to the side.

“And then I passed out,” I offered.

He nodded again.

I gave a half-hearted giggle, then covered my eyes with my hands and abruptly started sobbing in relief. If he only knew the real reason why I fainted.

My escort sat down next to me, awkwardly patting my back in comfort. I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around me and stroked my hair while I cried into his chest.

I had to stop this. I had to get control of myself. I shouldn't be crying this much. I knew I was in a rough situation, but I had to be strong, to overcome. And more importantly, I had to figure out why my captor had such an impact on me, and I had to eliminate that power.

“What's going on here?”

My head shot up.

My captor glared down at us, his usually placid expression showing how unhappy he was. No, not unhappy—a stronger emotion. Pissed. Yeah, he looked very pissed off. I resisted the urge to move away from my escort like some guilty girlfriend caught cheating.

“Well?” he asked coolly.

Fuck, Brenna. Say something! Anything!

Blank.

When I didn't answer, my escort did, in Arabic.

A terse conversation ensued. Suddenly, my escort rose to his feet, growled one last thing, and stomped off.

My captor pinched the bridge of his nose and silently paced in front of me, throwing a funky look in my direction every few seconds.

I glanced over in the direction my escort had disappeared. “What's wrong with him?”

“He says I made you cry again.”

Wiping my eyes, I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “Well, you did.” When my captor stopped in mid-stride and looked at me, I regretted my comment. “I'm kidding,” I added.

“No, you're not.”

“Seriously, I am. I'm fine. I'm better now.”

“You say that often, but it's not true, is it?” he whispered. “I think you want to be fine, but you're not, are you?”

Thankfully, I caught my tongue before ‘well, you did kidnap me’ slipped out. But true to his uncanny ability to read people, I think he knew my thoughts anyway.

He came over and squatted before me, grasping my hands with his own. His dark eyes grew intense, and his distinct scent filled the air. “I'm sorry that this has been so hard on you. I won't say I regret bringing you here, because honestly, I don't. It goes beyond needing you here for the mission. I ... I...”

With bated breath, I waited for his next words. Was he going to say that he needed me?

Exhaling heavily, he continued. “I apologize about last night. It won't happen again. As much as I want to, I won't kiss you again, at least not while you're here. Forgive me?”

I nodded slowly, finding it weird to hear my captor—my enemy—asking for my forgiveness. I was about to explain that he hadn't taken advantage of me, that I wanted it as much as he did, but he rushed on before I could.

“Brenna, you'll probably be going home sooner than you think. I can't give you an exact date, not because I don't want to, but I don't know one. But it'll be soon. I need you to trust me. I need you to believe me. I need you to hang in there just a little bit longer. I know it's hard, but please, will you at least try? For me?”

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to give in to his heart wrenching request, but I couldn't. I couldn't give him anything—couldn't do anything for him. It would be wrong.

“I understand that you have to follow your principles and beliefs, try to escape from here, thwart me at every turn, and so on,” he said. “I want you to be okay. I need you to be okay emotionally. Fuck, I'll just say it. It hurts me to know you're sad. Your tears are starting to break me.”

I laughed at the strange confession. If anyone was breaking here, it was me. My tears were because of him—for him.

He wiped his thumbs across my cheeks. “See, there you go again. You're trying to torture me. Is this a part of your secret plan to escape?”

I knew he was teasing. Sniffling, I swatted at his hands. “I can't escape anyway. If I'm not with you, I'm with my armed guard.”

“He's not your guard.”

“Uh, big gun.”

“He carries it to protect you, in case something happens. It's not because we think you're dangerous or we're going to shoot you if you try to escape.”

“What dangers? This courtyard is in the middle of a three story building, surrounded by an eight foot concrete wall. And I'm sure there are other armed men around. It can't be just the two of you here.”

“You're trying to change the topic. I'm worried about you, Brenna.”

“I might feel better if I knew more...” About you. About us. About why we seem drawn to each other when we shouldn't be. “About why I'm here. Can you at least tell me where here is?”

He hesitated, then squeezed my hands. “I'll give you as many details as I can to answer your question, but I want you to just say yes to the question I'm going to ask you in return.”

“What?” I asked, my stomach jumping in anxiety. Or was it excitement?

“Have dinner with me tonight. I'll cook for you.”

Considering the information I could garner in return for accepting the simple request, I didn't feel guilty when I said...

“Yes.”

“We're in the Syrian Desert., in a region referred to as Al Hamad.”

Oh, my God. The Syrian Desert ran through four countries! And how the hell did they get me so far west so fast? How long was I unconscious?

“Are we still in Iraq?” I asked.

“Yes. We're inside the Anbar Province.”

“Where?”

“A remote location. This place has been fairly unaffected by the war. In the late eighties-early nineties, this area was built up. Modern infrastructure was established, among other things, and there was a...” he paused. “A rise in population. As the first Gulf War drew to a close and coalition forces swept into southern Iraq, this area was abandoned. So here we are now. This place is like a hidden jewel in the desert—an oasis of sorts—self sustaining, and known only to few.”

“It's like a secret base?” I whispered.

“If you mean secret, as in not found on a map, then yes, I'll agree with that.”

“How far to the nearest major town?”

He smiled, obviously knowing why I asked. “Well over a hundred miles.”

So much for being rescued. And an escape might be more difficult than I had anticipated. I would have to get a hold of a vehicle. And even then, would I survive the elements of the hostile desert?

“In which direction?”

My captor rose to his feet, pulling me up as he did so. “I need to take you back in. You should try to get some rest. I'll wake you up when dinner is ready.”

I nodded, letting him keep a hold of my hand as he led me toward the building. My mind was reeling with all this new information.

“I'm sure you need your rest after all that dancing you did last night,” he said.

What?

“Unfortunately, I was a few minutes too late to see it myself. But I hear you're quite a dancer.”

Oh. “You sound resentful for missing it,” I remarked casually.

He opened the door and moved to the side to let me past. “Very. When do I get to see that fun side of you?”

“Well, if it wasn't for the cameras, the others wouldn't have seen it either. Anyway, wasn't kissing me fun?”

I didn't know why I said that last part. Maybe I just needed to hear it from his lips.

“You were intoxicated and passed out in my arms. No, it was not fun. Thank you for reminding me what an asshole I am.”

Not the answer I was hoping for, but a gentlemanly response all the same. I remained silent until we reached my apartment. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not what?” he asked, following me into the flat.

“See you at dinner.” Going into my room, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it.

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?” His voice floated through the barrier between us. “Stroke my ego and whatnot?”

“No,” I replied. Walking to wardrobe, I pulled off my abaya and hung it up. “If you leave now and hurry, you can make it to your monitors in time to see me undress. I'm sure that's a much better show than my dancing.”

“There are no cameras in your room—or either of the bathrooms.” He sounded truly offended. “We're not perverts you know.”

I giggled.

“What? You don't believe me?” he pressed.

Slipping off my jeans, I crawled into bed. “I trust you,” I replied, yawning as I laid my head on the pillow.

“Pleasant dreams, Brenna.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

"Do you trust me?” my captor asked, his fingers grasping my shoulder as he guided me ahead of him.

I clenched my rope-bound hands held tightly fastened behind me. “Yes,” I whispered.

He spun me in toward his chest, his arm wrapping around my back as he drew me to face him. “Are you sure?”

This was so hot. He was so hot.

Unable to find my voice, I simply stared into his piercing dark eyes.

He pulled the ropes that secured my wrists up higher, thus forcing my shoulder's back and my chest up. My breasts strained against my thin shirt.

Moisture gathered in my core and I moaned weakly.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured. Keeping one hand on my restraints, he used his free hand to caress the swell of my breasts. “But I need to know. Do you trust me? We can go no further unless you do.”

His touch wreaked havoc on my senses. If not for his hold on my body, I might have crumbled at his feet.

Breathless, I nodded.

Lowering his head, his lips feverishly traveled over my heaving chest, moistening my shirt's fabric with his heated kisses. My pussy tingled. My nipples hardened. My heart raced.

“Please,” I begged, closing my eyes, losing my self in the sensations.

“Please what?” His mouth captured a budded nipple, teasing it with his teeth and tongue.

I turned my head and rested my chin against my shoulder, embarrassed to say anything more. I didn't want him to think me easy and wanton.

Though he didn't release his hold on my body, his head retreated. He brushed my hair back. “Look at me, Brenna.”

I did as he asked.

“Tell me,” he whispered, smoothing his thumb across my bottom lip.

I resisted the urge to take it in my mouth and suck on it.

“Well?”

When I still didn't answer, his hand skimmed past my ear, then moved on to play with the hair at the base of my neck. I gasped when he captured a handful, using it as leverage to pull me closer. Between my peaking arousal and his rough dominance, my body teetered dangerously on the edge of an orgasm. And he'd barely touched me—yet.

His lips were a breath away from touching mine. “Brenna, now.”

“I-I need you.”

He kissed me then, hot, demanding, all-consuming. My body instantly responded. I was nearly falling apart in his arms, melting away. I trembled, trying to halt the oncoming climax.

He dropped his hold and took a step back. “Dinner first, dessert later.”

I opened my eyes, waking up to a wonderful smell of food lingering in the air.

Retrieving my hand from between my legs, I rose from the bed, trepidation and excitement hurrying my steps.

I didn't want him to find me this way.

I was a worn-out mess.

Hot, sticky, and burning with pent-up sexual frustration.

I needed a shower. A really cold shower.

I had dreamt of him many times since our meeting, but nothing this erotic, or at least I didn't remember it being that way. Honestly, I barely remembered the previous dreams, only able to recall that he was in them, as I could never mistake those dark eyes or that deep, sexy voice.

Was this why I felt so attached to him? Like I'd known him forever? Because even when he wasn't around me during my time awake, he was a constant presence when I was asleep.

* * * *

I gazed at woman staring back at me from the vanity mirror. Hair pulled back or left down? Lip gloss and blush, or natural? Tank-top alone, or over shirt? Jeans, or something a little fancier?

I decided on hair up, a little make up, over shirt and jeans.

I opened the door and slowly made my way to the dining room where my captor was setting the table. I stopped, unsure of how to approach.

He looked up, an appreciative and gratifying emotion embedded in the depths of his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I returned softly.

“Are you feeling well? You look a little flushed.”

The erotic dream popped into my head and my cheeks burned. If I looked flushed before, I probably looked like I had sunburn now.

“Um...” Make up something! “I get easily embarrassed by compliments.”

Hey, it wasn't a total lie, especially concerning him.

Smiling, he nodded. “Come, please.”

If only he knew how much I really wanted to do just that. God, being so close to him was beyond frustrating.

Moving a chair out, he signaled for me to take a seat.

After I sat down, he pushed my chair in. “Italian, wonderful,” I said.

Lighting the candles, he proceeded to pour two glasses of wine, then prepared a plate of pasta, which he placed in front of me.

“Thank you. You are very much a gentleman...” with the exception of the whole abduction thing.

“My mother taught me well. She was quite a woman,” he explained as he sat down across from me.

I smiled. Had to love a man who loved his mother.

No. No, you don't. I'm sure his mother didn't teach him to kidnap people.

“A penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

“They're worth more than that,” I said evasively.

He chuckled. “Clever.”

I took a bite of my food. It was amazing. “This is excellent,” I complimented, thankful for something honest to say.

“I'm glad you like it. Cooking is a favorite hobby of mine.”

“Perhaps you should open a restaurant instead of ... um...” I trailed off, biting my tongue.

I really hadn't meant for the comment to come out like that, but my words, especially the unspoken ones, hung heavy in the air like thick smoke.

He didn't reply.

As we ate in silence, my thoughts had nothing to do but wander. Why were we having dinner together? Why did he bother to ask me? We had nothing to talk about. It's not like either of us were willing to share anything personal about ourselves.

I took in the romantic setting.

Could he be trying to woo me? Was this his attempt to get me into bed? But he didn't seem the type to be ruled by lust. If that had been the case, he could've just forced himself on me. After all, what could have I done to stop him? Anyway, when I'd tried to seduce him, he turned me down.

What could be his motivation? Did he care for me on some level deeper than captor and captive, or even friendship?

Should I ask?

“Um...” Shit! It was such a personal question, and I didn't even now what to call him to get his attention.

He looked up at me. “Yes?”

“I don't know your name. I know you don't want to tell me your real name, but can you at least give me a fake one I can use?”

He shook his head.

Okay. “Can I give you one?”

He smiled sadly. “You can, but I won't answer to it.”

This was infuriating!

“Why not? Is it a way of dehumanizing me, like I'm not worthy enough to call you by a name?”

“No,” he replied evenly. “If that was the case, I wouldn't call you by your name.”

“What? Do you want me to call you master or something?”

When he started coughing into his napkin, I knew he did so to hide his amusement. Jerk.

“Excuse me,” he strained, taking a sip of wine. “No, you don't have to call me master.”

I was tired of these weird rules, and beyond tired of trying to figure them all out. I was also sick of fighting with him for vague slivers of information. The emotional turmoil of being captured and held prisoner was hard enough without adding the stress of useless battles that would gain me little in the long run.

“Brenna, I'm sorry. I know...”

Blah, blah, blah.

Sighing, I tuned out his latest ‘I know this is difficult’ speech. We were stuck in a rut, replaying the same trite routine over and over again. If we weren't asking each other questions and trying our best not to provide answers, then we were arguing. And if we weren't arguing, it was because I was crying again and he was busy apologizing to me, trying to pacify me with his complimentary bullshit.

I was weary of it.

“Brenna?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard anything I said?”

Shaking my head, I replied simply, “No, not really.”

How was that for honesty?

He laughed. He didn't even try to hide it. Which was fine, I didn't really care anymore.

“Can we start anew?” he asked.

“No, I'm not up to that.”

“Listen, the name thing ... We just don't use names around here.”

“All right.”

“How trusting of you to take my word for it.”

The fucker was trying to bait me. I wasn't going to let him.

“Sure, no problem.”

He wasn't the only one who could be blasé.

“May I ask why the name issue came up again?”

I shrugged. “I had a personal question to ask you. But it's an inappropriate question to ask someone you don't know that well. I thought perhaps we could get to know each other better, starting with names.”

The statement rang as true as it did false. I wanted to know him as much as I didn't. However, I could see the longing in his eyes. He wanted to hear the question.

“I like this. You're toying with me. It seems you have found my weakness. You know I want to get to know you better.”

“I highly doubt that,” I remarked dryly. “I'm sure I still won't know your name after this conversation is over.”

“Why is my name so important to you?” he asked.

“How am I supposed to get your attention when I want to ask you something?”

The way he smiled and the devilish gleam in his eyes did things to me that undermined my defensive aloofness.

God, he was handsome.

“Brenna, you just open your mouth and speak. I will immediately acknowledge you. When I'm around you, you have my undivided attention. Always.”

The smooth words went straight to my heart, among other places already weakened by his charms.

Damn him! He was getting the upper hand again.

I lifted an eyebrow, hoping to keep up my nonchalant façade. “Well, then perhaps I should just ask my question.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Eeek!!!

“Okay, um...” I trailed off, not sure I could be so blunt after all.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Yes? I'm listening.”

His cocky smirk swept away any trepidation I had. I went for gold.

“Are you falling in love with me or something?”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twelve

Instead of being shocked, appalled, or any of the other expressions I expected to see cross his face, he seemed pleased. He smiled. A wonderful, sexy smile.

“That is a personal question,” he said. “And I'm more than willing to answer it. However, we have an agreement. The answer to that question will cost you a life story.”

My heart thumped in my chest. “I don't want to know that badly.”

“Yes you do.”

Of course, he was right, but ... “I don't think I could share the information you're requesting.”

“You still fear I'll hold it against you in some way?”

Actually, I didn't. He seemed too honorable for such an underhanded move. I know, it was crazy to think that, but it was how I felt.

“I just don't know if I can talk about my life without losing it,” I replied slowly. “You claim you don't want to see me cry again, and the Lord knows I don't want to cry anymore.”

“I understand.”

We held each other's gaze. He was searching into the recesses of my soul again, and I let him. I wondered, with all the information he had on me and his unusual talent for reading people, why he hadn't already guessed why I did the things I did. I mean, if he really bothered to analyze what he knew about me, he should have been able to put two and two together.

“Were you some kind of profiler in your other life?” I whispered.

“What are you really trying to ask me, Brenna?”

“You already know, don't you? Or you at least have a good idea why I live my life the way I do.”

“I still want to hear it from your lips. I could be wrong.”

“You're not.”

“I care about you. I want to have more between us ... one day. We can't move ahead if you won't open up to me.”

He wanted more between us? Shit, we weren't even friends.

I wanted to look away, but I didn't. I wasn't running anymore. “I thought you said this was about trust. That you needed to trust me for whatever reason you brought me here.”

“That too.”

I couldn't open up to him. Could I?

“You told me you cared. My question has been answered.”

“You know caring for someone doesn't necessarily mean you're in love with them,” he said, never breaking eye contact.

I was drowning in those endless depths, too busy fighting my own internal war to come up for breath. Did he really love me? No, impossible ... But God, I had to hear him tell me no. I had to know for sure.

But what if he said yes? Improbable. But in the slim chance that he did say yes, what would I do?

“I-I...”

Where did I start?

“Do you remember my questions from the other night?” he asked.

I nodded, no longer surprised by how easily he knew what was going on in my head. I kept staring into his eyes, finding a numb strength there to do what I had to do.

“When I was twelve,” I started, closing my eyes and reliving that exact moment, “my parents were in a car accident. My mother died on impact, but my father was found alive, and taken to the emergency room. When my grandmother and I arrived, I overheard the doctors tell her that he wouldn't live much longer, that he was hemorrhaging internally, and they couldn't do anything for him other than make him comfortable.”

The memories of that last goodbye moved into my mind, but I couldn't bring myself to vocalize them.

Taking a deep breath, I continued on, answering the first question. “I remembered thinking then, had I been a doctor, I could have saved my father. So, I vowed that when I grew up, I would become one. And I did, specializing in trauma and emergency room care.”

He didn't say anything, and I'm glad he didn't. One word from him and I would fall into tears. Again.

On to the second question.

“My parents, when they were alive, were very generous people. While I was in school, my grandmother kept the charities running, in memory of my parents. She never gave speeches or did the press thing. At every function to raise money, my parent's pictures where always on display, as if they were still there. After she died and I took over, I just thought to keep things the way they were.

“However, charities don't just happen because of money. They require work, so I always tried to do my part. I never told anyone who I was because I didn't want the other volunteers to be uncomfortable. I didn't want to be treated differently because of the money. It was the same with work. I didn't want anyone to know my personal background because I wanted to be treated normally. If my co-workers respected me, I wanted it to be based on my merits, not because I was a ‘little rich girl'. Social status means very little to me.

“I grew up wanting for nothing, but my parents instilled the belief that just because we were blessed financially, it didn't make us better than anyone else. They used to tell me that we should never expect to be treated differently because we had money, that it was character that really mattered, not our bank accounts.

“Though we had tons of money, for the most part, I grew up like any other kid. I mean, we lived in a nice upper-middle class neighborhood and I went to private school, but we didn't live like we were rich. Nothing flashy. I guess it was something else I kept going after my parents died. After college, I donated the house and their cars, moved to the city and rented a small apartment so I'd be close to work, got a small car...”

“Your parents sound wonderful,” he said quietly.

Nodding, I let a small smile touch my lips. “They were.”

For once, instead of reliving all the tragedy, my brain began replaying the good times. It was nice to remember the better days.

I jumped when the phone rang.

“I'm sorry, I have to get that.” Rising from his seat, he moved to the wall phone.

The conversation was short, and of course I didn't understand a damn thing. When he hung up the receiver, he sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against the wall.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He looked over, a regretful expression shadowing his features. He rubbed the back of his neck. “There's a matter I have to attend to.”

“You can go. I understand.”

A sad smile formed on his lips. “I don't want to go.”

Elated joy rushed through me, his words affecting me more than they should. “But you have to.”

He nodded. “I might not see you for a day or two.”

Goodbye joy, hello melancholy.

“Okay.”

“I'll miss you.”

I laughed. “What?”

He chuckled. “I said I'll miss you.”

There he went endearing himself to me again. “Why?”

“I like being around you.”

“So, before you leave, you're going to answer my question, right?”

He came over and took my hand in his. Lifting it up to his lips, he placed a series of soft kisses on the tips of my knuckles.

Melting again ... “Well?” I whispered.

“No. We have a deal, remember? You're not done answering my questions.”

I tsk'd and gently tugged my hand back. However, his reply didn't ruin the happy feelings his touch had magically conjured within me.

“So I will have to sit here and wonder for two days?”

“I'll tell you what. Ask another question—a simple one—and I'll answer it.”

I racked my pleasure muddled brain for something. “Why is it that you can talk to me, but no one else can?”

“Because I had already spoken to you, you are my responsibility, and my time here is almost up.”

Staring at him, I tried to make sense of ‘my time here is almost up'. Was he going to martyr himself or something? I couldn't imagine him strapping explosives to his body and taking out a group of people. On the other end of the spectrum, maybe he was some military operative and his mission was almost done, so he'd get to go home soon...

To his wife and kids?

No. He would have told me.

Wouldn't he?

I squinted my confusion. “What does that last statement mean?”

“I have to go. I'll see you soon, Brenna.” He then turned to leave.

“Wait. One more question.” When he didn't stop, I jumped up and followed. “Please, it's important to me.”

His hand stilled on the door handle. He looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows rising in query.

I took a deep breath. “Are you married?”

He gave me the most gorgeous, sincere grin. “No. I'm not.”

“Thanks,” I exhaled in relief.

“How I wish I could stay and explore the reasons behind your decision to ask me that question.”

“Oh, just curious,” I rushed.

He gave me that cocky ‘yeah, sure you are’ look before disappearing behind the door.

Back in the dining room, I cleaned up dinner, trying to figure out why I'd felt compelled to ask him if he was married, and why I was so thrilled to find out he wasn't.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Thirteen

The scent of musk and sandalwood accompanied his footsteps as he entered the kitchen. I smiled to myself, but didn't turn to look at him. After all, the cucumbers weren't going to cut themselves. He placed his hands on my waist, pressing his body against mine.

"Did you miss me?” he murmured in my ear, his breath sending tingles straight to my center.

“You know I did,” I giggled.

“You have beautiful shoulders,” he said, then began trailing warm kisses across my skin.

I tried to concentrate on my task, but couldn't manage it. His touch had the most profound affect on me. “You're distracting me. You want salad with dinner, don't you?”

“You're much more appetizing than any salad.”

My body instantly reacted to his words. My hold on the knife weakened as moisture pooled inside the crouch of my jeans.

He pulled the delicate straps of my camisole down, trapping my arms at my sides and exposing my aching breasts. I leaned back into his chest and titled my head. He showered my neck with heated kisses while his hands massaged my breasts. I moaned when his wicked fingers began rolling my sensitive nipples, tugging the taut buds.

No longer caring about the thin fabric straps that bound me, I dropped the knife and twisted around, drawing him closer and capturing my captive's lips. Lost in the intensity of the kiss, we stumbled back, colliding into the granite counter.

Pinning me there, his mouth seared a path down my chest, and lower still, pulling my camisole to my waist as he knelt before me. I held onto the stone countertop while his lips skimmed across my stomach. He unbuttoned my jeans, sliding them to my knees.

“Dinner,” I gasped.

“I'd rather taste you.”

“But—but I still don't even know your name.”

“Does it matter?” he asked, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my panties. “Don't you trust me?”

“Yes,” I sighed, closing my eyes as he explored the slick folds of my pussy, circling my throbbing clit. My core tightened in anticipation.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now wake up for me.”

“What?”

“Wake up, Brenna.”

Opening my eyes, I blinked through the sunlight streaming into the room.

My captor sat on the edge of my bed, looking down at me with the most bemused expression. “Did I interrupt a pleasant dream?”

Ah! I pulled the covers over my head to hide the blush that assaulted my cheeks. My body stilled hummed from the erotic episode, my inner thighs damp and sticky, my center a throbbing ache of frustration.

“Should I take that as a yes?” he asked.

“Why are you in my room?” I mumbled from beneath the blanket.

He gently tugged the covers back down. “Were you dreaming of me?”

I knew he was just teasing, but my face flamed so hot, it tingled. There was no way he could miss that blatant sign. “Would you believe me if I told you no?”

His grin broadened and he shook his head. “Was I good?”

Oh, my God. We're not actually having this conversation. “It was a dream.”

“You were moaning in your sleep when I came in.”

“And why is it you came in? You've only been gone two days. You couldn't have missed me that much.”

“I did miss you,” he said. The humor slowly faded from his face. “Unfortunately, this is not a pleasure visit. I woke you up because we require your services.”

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. “What services?”

He rose from the bed and went to my wardrobe, opening it. “You'll need to wear the hijab. Unfortunately, you can't just wear a khimar, but will have to don a niqab, the cover with the eye slits.” He pulled out the black head scarf with the face veil, laying it on the bed. It was followed by a black abaya.

“Where am I going?” I whispered.

“To another location in the building.” As if he knew what my next question was going to be, he pasted a smile and continued. “It's for your protection. In all honesty, I wish I could have you wear the chadri instead, to better conceal your amazing body and those big, beautiful, expressive eyes. But I fear you'd have a problem doing what you need to do with it on.”

The compliment was lost in the translation. A chadri? The burqa with the thin net that covers the eyes?

“Why do I need to hide myself so ... thoroughly?”

“So you can't be identified.”

Such a simple, matter-of-fact response. I guess I should have known that, or at least expected it. Everything around here was done for protection, to remain unidentifiable.

“What am I doing again?”

He headed for the exit. “Why don't you wash up and get ready. I'll wait for you in the living room.”

As annoying as it was, I was starting to get used to being left out on the details. “Okay.”

He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

* * * *

After I had dressed as requested, I stared into the mirror, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Well, for one, I was definitely unidentifiable, that was for sure.

A soft knock sounded at my door. “Come in.”

My captor entered and upon seeing me, seemed relieved.

“What?”

“Do you want me to be honest?”

I turned around to face him. “Go ahead.”

“I thought you'd fight me on this.”

“Why?”

“Most American women would object to being forced to wear the hijab.”

“I didn't know I had a choice,” I remarked.

“You didn't. I just expected more of a fuss. I appreciate that you're being so accommodating.”

I shrugged. “Whatever, it's just clothing. Are you ready?”

Honestly, I was just sick of fighting with him about petty shit. I had decided to pick my battles. Plus, the more relaxed he was around me, the better my chances for escape.

“One last thing.” He went to my wardrobe and pulled out yet another black scarf.

“I need another layer?”

“Not quite,” he said as approached me.

When he brought the fabric near my face, I leaned back, not sure of his intention.

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. It was always about trust with him. Images from my erotic dreams came to mind, and I realized that somewhere, somehow, I did come to trust him on a certain level.

Eyeing the scarf warily, I slowly nodded.

He placed the cloth over my eyes and tied it behind my head. The whole time that I had been here, they, for the most part, had treated me like a guest, but things like this reminded me that I was still simply a prisoner.

“Do you plan on executing me?” I asked lightly.

Though I couldn't see his expression, I felt him tense up. “No.”

I guess he didn't appreciate the joke.

His hand clasped over mine and he led me out. It was disorienting to not see where I was going, and I faltered with hesitant steps.

“I won't let you run into anything, Brenna.”

“I know, I know, just trust you.”

“You seem kind of cold today. Is something wrong?”

Among the things I had learned since my capture, and there were many lessons I'd learned, the big one was that there was little use lying to him. He always managed to get the truth from me in one way or another.

Pick my battles.

“I guess I'm just very confused, and that confusion has made me moody.”

I heard the font door close behind us. “How so?”

“Because I want to believe in you. Desperately. Against all that is right, honorable, and just plain good common sense, I trust you. I find you sincere. I feel for you in ways that I should not be feeling for you. And then you ruin it all by doing some fucked-up shit like blindfolding me. You want me to trust you, but it's obvious you don't trust me.”

The beep of an elevator, doors sliding open. He guided me and we stopped, doors closing. “I do trust you. How could I not? You have my heart.”

“You always speak pretty words. Are you saying that you're in love with me?”

Sandalwood.

Though I couldn't see him, I could smell him, feel the heat radiating off his body. He was close to me, so very close.

“If I hadn't made you that promise, the one that said I would not kiss you again while you were here, I would show you how much you mean to me,” he murmured in my ear. “But if you want to hear those words, you'll have to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whispered.

“I can't help myself. I know I shouldn't be saying these things to you. Every time I'm with you, I step over the line, or cross some boundary I should not be crossing. But the moment we met, I felt something. I know you felt it too. We were drawn to each other. You would have been brought here regardless of how I felt personally, but now that you're here, I can't let it go. Time is precious. I can't ignore it. I can't pretend there's nothing between us. And I don't want to.”

He moved away, and then I heard a soft click. The elevator began moving up.

What was this? Fate being cruel? A star-crossed destiny?

Had I always been in love with him?

No. It would never work between us.

I shook my head. “You're going to break my heart in the end.”

“Never that, Brenna. If you'll let me, I'll make up for all of this. I swear. Please be patient, keep trusting me.”

The elevator slowed to a stop, I swayed on feet, my body still unaccustomed to the loss of a vital sense. He pulled me close, his solid body steadying me. I heard the elevator doors slide open and we disembarked.

“How big is this place?” I asked as he led me to our destination.

“Three levels, six apartments on each floor. Courtyard, lobby, gym, pool, roof.”

Wow, how surprising. He actually told me. Maybe my little ‘trust’ confession actually moved him.

I felt the change in the air the moment we stepped into the new place, the door quietly shutting behind us. I heard whispering, the clicking of a keyboard, a muffled speaker broadcasting in Arabic. He led me deeper in the oppressive room, then moved me around and untied the blindfold.

It was an apartment ... but not. Instead of the things you'd expect, like home furniture, it was more like some computer geek's basement. There was a long table against the wall with computers, security monitors, printers, and all sorts of office technology. Two men sat with their backs to me, headphones over their ears, intently watching a monitor showing a guy in a room.

“Brenna, look at me.”

I turned to my captor, noticing he held a large EMT bag.

“I need you to treat a prisoner.”

Another prisoner?

Some poor, young wounded US soldier came to mind.

“Listen, this is very important,” he whispered. “Do not speak, do not make eye contact, and do not touch the prisoner more than you have to. Work quickly so we can get you out of there. Do you understand?”

I nodded absently. I understood what he was saying, but I didn't understand. Something was off here.

“I can't go in there, but there will be armed guards to protect you. Do you think you can do this?”

Armed guards ... torture?

Had they tortured the prisoner? I glanced around at all the monitoring equipment. Was that why they had kidnapped me and brought me here? To heal their victims for the next round of interrogation?

My stomach turned, my eyes seeing my enemy in a whole new light.

“If the prisoner won't let you treat him, don't press it,” he continued.

I just stared in disbelief, his words meaning nothing. Had everything he'd ever said to me been a lie? God! How could I have been so stupid? How could I have ever trusted someone I met at gunpoint?

My captor turned and knocked on a bedroom door. “If things go wrong, leave immediately. I'll be waiting for you right here. Don't worry. I'll be watching,” he said, indicating the grainy monitor screen.

A man came out, said something in Arabic, took the medical bag and signaled me to follow.

My feet automatically moved, though my mind was numb. Be it fear, curiosity, or the doctor in me forcing me to comply because someone was suffering and needed my help—I'm not exactly sure what prompted me forward.

I followed the man into the dim room, looking over my shoulder when the door closed behind me, and thus noticed the first armed guard stood beside it. I turned back and assessed my surroundings. The glass on the window had been painted black. Like a scene from some copper movie, a single light bulb illuminated the room, hanging over a simple table with three chairs. The man with the medical bag moved toward the prisoner sitting on a cot against the wall, explaining something to him.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

The prisoner was young, but he wasn't American.

Another guard stepped out of the shadows and approached the cot. My escort? He glanced at me, or actually through me, as though we had never met.

The man put the med bag on the floor, said one last thing, then walked away. He didn't even acknowledge me when he passed by and exited the room, leaving me alone with the prisoner and his two guards.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fourteen

I stood there, waiting for an indication that I could proceed. Tense moments passed, but not a word, not a signal, nothing.

The prisoner, who couldn't be older than twenty-four, sat on his low Army-style cot with his back against the wall, staring at me like I was spawned from the bowels of hell. My armed escort, or guard in this case, looked at me blandly, as if he was regarding a plant. I didn't even bother to glance around at the door guard. I didn't have to. I could feel his eyes boring into my back.

Lowering my gaze, I moved forward, slowly approaching until I came upon the medical bag resting at the base of the bed. Not wanting to bend over, I got on my knees and opened it, shocked at how comprehensive it was. It was like a souped-up Paramedic kit and then some, complete with prescription medications not normally allotted to EMTs such as antibiotics.

After disinfecting my hands with a sterilizing foam, I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and shuffled closer, dragging the heavy bag with me.

The prisoner continued to glower.

I wished the cot wasn't so damn low.

Should I kneel on the floor, stand and lean, or sit next to him on the mattress?

I debated the safest course of action, considering the hostile looks the prisoner was giving me. Being on the floor left me open to being kicked, but leaning over the prisoner was just as dangerous. Fuck, it was all dangerous. Sitting next to him didn't guarantee my safety either. However, at least on the cot, we would be on an equal level. Hopefully, if he did decide to attack, he wouldn't grab me and snap my neck before I could get away.

Avoiding direct eye contact as I was ordered, I moved onto the thin mattress, riding the edge and keeping as much distance between us as I could and still be able to examine him properly. Automatically, I could see he was feverish, his pallid skin clammy looking, his cheeks rosy. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his dark eyes were glazed. Abrasions covered his forehead, and his forearm had a makeshift bandage of sorts, like a handkerchief tied over a wound.

I reached for his injured arm, but he leaned away and muttered something that, despite the language barrier, was obviously meant to warn me off. He then gave a response that obviously pissed off my escort, because my escort suddenly kicked the cot, jarring both me and the prisoner.

Rattled, I wasn't sure how to proceed. My captor had told me not to press the treatment issue, but the guy was undoubtedly suffering. I really wished I could talk to him. Maybe he was in a great deal of pain and didn't want me touching his injured arm? Or maybe he didn't know my intent and was scared of me?

Maybe the other man didn't tell him I was a doctor?

Thinking it would be best to show him that I was there to help, I pulled the stethoscope and the sphygmomanometer out to measure his blood pressure. These were universal medical instruments. He couldn't mistake my intent.

I reach for his good arm, but he pulled back, objecting. I followed his retreat, undeterred. He wasn't the first difficult—

“I will kill you if you touch me.”

I was so shocked by the outburst being in English, I forgot the ‘no eye contact’ rule.

“Yes, bitch, you understand now,” he hissed, then spat in my face.

The next thing I knew, my escort had his fists on the prisoner's shirt and was hauling him off the bed.

“Don't,” I cried, shooting to my feet as the injured prisoner was slammed against the wall.

My escort turned and gave me a warning look, but remained silent.

“I do not want a whore's hands on me,” the prisoner snarled.

“I'm not a whore. I'm a doctor,” I explained curtly, wiping his spittle from my veil.

“You work for these American pigs.”

It took a moment for his statement to sink in.

I looked up. “American? Are you sure?”

Deafening silence was my only reply.

I shook my head. “I wouldn't know. I'm just a prisoner here, too,” I remarked dryly, pulling off my head cover.

The prisoner stared up at my escort. “Pigs. You even steal your own women from their families.”

A commotion sounded, just beyond the closed door.

I glanced over my shoulder. “What's happening?”

The guard pressed on his ear as if he had a radio ear-piece in, nodded, and moved in front of the entrance, blocking it. But never offered an answer.

“One says you leave, the other says you stay,” the prisoner translated.

Shit. I didn't need to be told which one wanted me pulled out of the room.

I turned back. “Can I treat you now? Yes or no?”

When the prisoner nodded, my escort dragged him back to the cot and shoved him down.

I sat and resumed my exam. After taking his blood pressure, which was good, and his temperature, which was a little high at 101, I unraveled his makeshift bandage.

“They let you stay because I talk now.”

The warning about me not speaking to the prisoner came to mind. Ha. I only broke two of the three requests. My captor shouldn't be too pissed off.

Yeah, right.

“I not talk before you come.”

His injury would require stitches. It was an angry gash, filled with foreign matter and showed signs of setting infection. I pulled out my supplies to treat the wound.

“What is your name?” the prisoner asked.

The way they were about names around here, I'm sure my captor would have a heart attack if I gave my real one.

“Bee,” I offered.

“Like the honey?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

Taking a deep breath, I caught myself before asking the prisoner what his name was. There was no need to piss my captor off any more than I probably already had. I'd talk enough to keep the patient happy, and nothing more.

After preparing the area, I pulled out a few needles and began inserting a series of interrupted sutures. As I tied and pulled, and pulled and tied, I thought more on my captor. He probably wanted to throttle me. For all I knew, he might actually do it.

I felt a giggle bubble up. It was a cross between a nervous reaction of things to come and a bratty ‘ha-ha’ gloating cynicism.

Why should I gloat?

I guess because my captor didn't get what he wanted. I was still in the room, I was not wearing my headscarf, I was making eye contact with the prisoner, I was talking to the prisoner, and I found out something about my captor that he didn't want me to discover.

Childish, I know.

But nervousness stemmed from the fact that I'd have to deal with the consequences of these actions later. When he got me alone. And I was quite sure there'd be hell to pay.

I was snatched from my musings by the prisoner's next question. “Why are you here?”

Telling this guy you were in Iraq with the military will probably not go over well.

I played ignorant, as if he meant how I ended up a prisoner too. “I guess the same reason you are. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He chuckled. “I like you.”

I finished sewing up the gash, impressed with my own handiwork. “You'll need to have these stitches removed in 10 to 14 days. Do you have allergies to any medications?” I asked. When he shook his head no, I smiled. “Then I'll leave you some medicines with the guards.”

All I had left to attend to were the minor abrasions on his head. I opened an antiseptic packet and began treating the scratches.

“You have beauty and kind hands. I will remember you.”

I gave a small smile, continuing with my ministrations. It was always nice to be appreciated as well as complimented.

“You should not be here,” the prisoner said softly.

No shit. “I know.”

“Find a way to leave, my friend.”

Squinting at a cut on his ear, I nodded my concurrence. Yeah, I'm working on that.

I must have missed seeing the small laceration during my initial examination, being that it was on the far side from where I sat. It appeared deep and jagged, but was now crusting over and no longer bleeding.

“They underestimate us,” he muttered. “We are not without ways...”

I leaned in to take a closer look, testing the flesh around the wound with my fingers.

“We know who they are,” he whispered, “and we are coming for them.”

I froze and stared at him.

He had said it so softly, I wasn't sure I had heard him right. We know who they are ... we are coming for them...

Even as my escort's rough fingers snaked under my arm and jerked me to my feet, I never stopped gazing into the prisoner's eyes, my mind finally digesting all of his words. He was warning me, telling me to escape when I could—while I could. He didn't want to see me hurt.

The prisoner nodded. “Soon, insha'allah.”

Suddenly, I was dragged away.

My escort's biting grip never loosened, but I was too stunned to care. I kept looking back until finally we exited and the guard slammed the door shut, cutting off my view of the prisoner.

I was brought up short and spun about, only to meet the intense glare of my captor. Anger didn't describe what I saw there. Rage was more like it.

Fear sliced through my gut and cut off my breath.

“What did the prisoner whisper to you?” he bit out.

“I'm not sure—”

“Tell me. Now!”

I jumped. “I'm not sure I heard him corr—”

Abruptly, my captor moved forward, forcing his heated breath against my face. He was less than an inch away. I tried to step back, but my escort was the proverbial hard place to the rock before me.

“Don't you dare stand there and lie to protect him.”

“I-I'm not. I'm just saying...” I tried to collect my scattered thoughts. But I was panicky, my legs trembling.

My captor was trying to intimidate me. Scare me. And though the tactic was working, it was not needed—and the insult to my integrity was definitely uncalled for. I wasn't trying to hide anything from him. If he wouldn't keep interrupting me, he'd already have his damn information.

“What did he say, Brenna?”

As he continued to stare me down, his anger seemed to be escalating. I almost expected to hear the threats of torture tumble out of his mouth.

The prisoner's injuries flashed in my mind.

I inhaled a shaky breath. “Maybe some one needs to protect him,” I whispered, looking away.

He let out a contemptible snort. “So you're siding with insurgents now?”

Fury clouded my good sense. For a fleeting moment, I heard Sergeant Jackson lecturing me about being careless.

I ignored the warning.

“What are you? Special ops? CIA? NCS?” I sneered. “Is this why you brought me here? To treat the prisoners you fuck up during interrogation? Did you forget that fucking torture is against the fucking law in our country?”

“Is that what he told you? That we tortured him?”

“Did you?” I countered.

“I could give a crap less whether you think we did or not. I don't answer to you. You answer to me. Tell me, word for word, what he said to you. Now.”

Give a crap less, answer to me ... his statements, like sharp daggers, stabbed at my chest. And it hurt.

A thousand smart ass retorts teased my tongue, and I opened my mouth with the intent to lash out at the son of a bitch, but a subtle voice in my head, another whisper demanding that I pay heed, reminded me of the audience present. Though the others in the room pretended not be listening, too absorbed in whatever busy work they were doing, I knew they were.

Shame flooded me, cooling my lava hot temper and allowing reason to take hold.

This argument was getting out of hand. The problem here was not the transfer of information, or lack thereof. The problem was that my captor and I were too close to each other, cared too much, our emotions running too high, and we were now trying to wound each other with hurtful words...

God, it was like we were having a lovers spat over which button too push in the time of war. Red or green. The wrong choice would blow us all to kingdom come.

I told myself to calm down, to be a mature adult. I'd give him what he wanted for the sake of peace and for the safety of the people around me.

“I'm not sure if I heard him—”

“We're not doing this again, Brenna,” he spat. “If you can't do it on your own...”

AHHH!

“Stop, damn it, just stop! Stop interrupting me and let me finish my damn sentence.” My eyes watered in frustration. “Please.”

I would not cry, I would not cry...

He snapped his mouth shut, then offered an abrupt nod.

“I don't know if I heard him correctly,” I voiced slowly, emphasizing each word in a vain attempt to steady my quivering voice. I paused, expecting a fifth interruption. When it didn't come, I continued. “I think he said, ‘We know who they are and we are coming for them'.”

“Anything else?”

“Um ... inshallah, soon.”

He looked up and behind me. “Take her back to her quarters,” he said quietly.

And that was it.

My escort dragged me away again, albeit a little gentler than when he'd brought me out of the makeshift holding cell, but dragging all the same.

On the bright side, at least they didn't blindfold me this time.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fifteen

It was afternoon and I was still in bed, staring at the ceiling. I had spent the last two days doing a lot of thinking. I had plenty of time to do so. Two days and I hadn't seen or heard from my captor.

Which was fine by me.

Okay, it bothered me a little, but I wasn't going to go search for him—not that I could, being locked in the apartment and all. I didn't even bother with the walks in the courtyard. I wasn't going to lower myself to request anything from them. Not even my escort. Fuck him, too.

The only messages I left in the last forty-eight hours were the prescription instructions for their other prisoner.

Fuck them all.

I took an occasional break here and there from my soul-searching to watch the news, but of course, no mention of me being MIA.

Given all the information I had gathered during my stay, starting with my captor's ‘consider this a temporary reassignment', and ending with the injured insurgents ‘American pigs’ comment, I guessed that my captor and his friends really were some super classified US government agency. I probably was not missing due to them fudging paperwork, and their newly discovered identity explained how they were able to get on a US post—and take me off it—so easily. It also explained how they'd managed to retrieve my belongings.

So that led to my next conclusion, or maybe assumption: They weren't my enemy.

Gee, my captor had been telling the truth. Go fucking figure.

However, just because he wasn't my enemy didn't make things any better between us. He was still my captor. For one, he'd kidnapped me. For two, I was being held there against my will, secreted away behind white steel bars and padlocked doors. And three, most importantly, he was my captor because I didn't know what else to call the fucking jerk.

I should refer to him as asshole, but it just didn't have the same flow.

What it came down to was this: If they needed my help, they should have asked me, not abducted me. It would have made everything so much easier. Or even if they just ‘had’ to kidnap me, they could have at least told me we were on the ‘same side’ instead of leaving me to wonder if I was cavorting with insurgents.

I mean, maybe my captor did kind of tell me. But then he should have showed me, did something more than just hint at it. “Consider this a temporary reassignment, Brenna. I'm not your enemy, Brenna. If I was an insurgent, you'd already be dead, Brenna.”

Whatever.

Fucker.

Okay, not my enemy. But I still didn't know who they were, personally or professionally. I had no names and I had no idea what US government agency they worked for.

Shit, for all I knew, the whole wounded prisoner thing could have been a set up, an enemy mind game to earn my trust and...

Stop.

I was allowing myself to be drawn back to the conspiracy theories. The more time I spent in my secured and secret location, and the more information I found out, the more confused I became.

This was just the half way point of the thinking process I had been enduring for the last two days. It was a vicious circle, never ending.

I blew out a frustrated breath. God, they pissed me off so much. No, actually he pissed me off so much. The other guys didn't talk to me. He was the one who preached about trust and openness and how much he cared.

And I, sadly, fell for the bullshit and was now very much in love with him.

Yes, I could finally be honest with myself about it.

But you know what? That love didn't mean shit without honor, integrity, and respect. What good was love without those things?

Many of the wives at the battered woman's shelter used to tell me they still loved their abusive husbands even after all the pain and horror, but they couldn't let that stop them from leaving. Wrong is wrong and right is right.

And it wouldn't stop me from leaving either.

I could forgive him for the secrets, the hidden agendas, the manipulations, the fights—hell, even the kidnapping. But what bothered me most was the way he refused to answer the torture question.

I had made it my life's work to help people, not hurt them. And I hated the possibility that I was making people better just so they could endure more pain.

I didn't think my captor was capable of such cruelty, or at least I didn't want to believe it, but...

Why didn't he deny it?

How did the prisoner end up hurt?

Ah, and here I was, back to dwelling on the injured prisoner.

I found it strange that my enemy acted more like an ally than my supposed allies, who seemed to insist on acting like my enemies.

Find a way to leave, my friend ... we know who they are ... we are coming for them...

Nice.

My prison was now a terrorist target.

I should be scared, but I wasn't. Perhaps it was because my captor's cocky reassurances ... safer here with us than you were before.

I believed him, even if it appeared that somehow he and his team's mission, identity, and location had been compromised. It went to show that not everyone could keep secrets; maybe that was why they guarded them so closely.

God willing, I would be able to take the prisoner's advice and find a way out of here. Soon. It wasn't because of the warning he gave me that I felt the need to leave.

Actually, not need.

Want.

I wanted to leave.

I wanted to put some distance between me and my captor. I wanted to forget about him. Wanted to go on with my boring lonely life as if we had never met.

“Stop lying to yourself, Brenna.”

Okay. I didn't want a lonely life, but things would never work between us.

Memories from our passionate interactions filled my mind.

Those were just dreams.

My mind replaced the dream images with those of the very real kiss he gave me.

The room suddenly felt stifling, making breathing difficult.

I needed to get out and get some fresh air, but thanks to my boycotting of two certain individuals, the only two I knew in this god-forsaken place, I was out of luck on the ‘getting out’ part.

Rolling off the bed, I went to the window and drew back the curtains as far as I could. “Who puts the bars on the inside?” I muttered, reaching between the steel tubes. I unlocked the window and slid it all the way up.

I pressed my head against the cold metal rods and closed my eyes, enjoying the contrast between the cool escaping air as it met the hot desert breeze rushing in.

My captor had said we were drawn together, and he couldn't ignore that. And as long as I was trapped here with him, I wouldn't be able to either.

“Please God, help me find a way to escape.”

Hopeless, I grasped the bars, squeezed them tight, and tilted my head.

I blinked a couple of times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

Hinges?

Shit!

It couldn't be that easy, could it? God didn't answer prayers and produce miracles like this simply because one asks...

When I swung my head and investigated the other side of the window, I found that I was right. The quick release latch had a padlock securing it shut.

I shook the bars hard, testing them.

Solid.

“Okay, God. That was so not cool,” I grumbled as I went back to the bed and collapsed on it in utter dejection. “You shouldn't raise a person's hopes up like that.”

They security bars obviously swung open in case of emergencies, but sadly my keepers, or whatever the hell they were, had the option to lock the latch. Just like owners of an inner city home did so small children couldn't get out and intruders couldn't get in.

“I just hope the place doesn't catch on fire while I'm here.” I'd be shit out of luck.

My captor's sincere smile and words came into my mind ... you're not a prisoner here, you're safe here...

Whatever.

Wait. Unless...

I started laughing out loud. No, they took great care to ensure my safety. Assuming that I wasn't overestimating the kindness of my keepers, they wouldn't just leave me trapped in this apartment without a way out. I mean, what if there was an emergency?

Maybe a key lying around?

No. It would have to be easier. If there was an emergency, I wouldn't have time to look for a key.

One of the other windows.

Yes, that was possible. Like leaving the door unlocked the night of the chicken soup incident, it would be guarded by a camera, so if I so much as approached, they'd know. Even if I had stumbled upon it by accident, by the time I was ready to escape, they'd already know my intentions and be in place to stop me.

Okay, which window would it be? The kitchen window was too small and set too high, used more for ventilation.

I jumped to my feet. “Living room.”

There were two windows in there, heavy drapes covering the sides, so I wouldn't have noticed the latches.

I was giddy with excitement, but I had to play this cool. I couldn't go and check, if I did, then they'd expect the escape attempt.

I had to plan and then prepare. I debated on when to leave. Night would provide the most cover, but I wouldn't be able to see where I was going or which direction I should travel. But it would be too hot to go during the day and I couldn't carry gallons of water over hundreds of desert miles. The grueling sun, a sandstorm, a group of insurgents, all deterred my attempt on a daytime escape.

Around sunset. Yes, at least some of the threats would be lower. That would work. Enough light to get me started, get me into the desert, but darkness would fall quick enough, cooling the air as well as providing cover. It got cold at night; I'd pack extra clothes and keep moving to stay warm. Then as the sun came out, I'd find shelter and rest. Water? I'd figure it out as the time came.

I went to my wardrobe, opening the door that contained all my gear. I just hoped my captor was telling the truth when he said there were no cameras in my room. Searching through my field bag, I took out my small flashlight, my compass...

Awesome! They'd left me my field knife.

Why not? There are knives in the kitchen, too. Duh...

I skipped over my waterproof sleeping bag, deciding instead on the small, tightly rolled wool blanket by itself. It was light and compact. I zipped up the bag and closed the doors. As much as I wanted to take other field supplies, I had to be realistic. Even if I did escape from here, there was always the possibility that I'd be captured by someone else before I reached safety. I didn't want to have too many obvious military items on me—just in case. I needed to as look normal as possible.

Did they retrieve all my stuff?

On the flight over to Iraq, I had a carry-on, a small black backpack that I'd brought on the plane.

Finding it where all my civilian stuff was, I dropped to my knees and dumped the contents on the bottom of the wardrobe—CD player, three CDs, three magazines, two books, the folder containing copies of my orders, ticket stubs, and other various things. Placing the blanket at the bottom of my pack's larger compartment, I stashed the three remaining survival items into the front pocket.

Next, I pulled down an abaya and a head scarf. I wasn't going to try to escape wearing the long, flowing caftan again, considering I had almost killed myself last time, but I'd probably need it later in the event I came across a village or town. I stuck the hijab with the blanket. Anyway, it might come in handy before then. Who knew how long I'd be in the desert. The scarf would protect my head from the sun and the abaya could serve as a pillow.

No more, keep it light.

I hated leaving all my stuff behind, but such was life. I still needed to pack sustenance.

But how would I explain bringing food back to my room?

I grabbed a book and, willing myself to be calm and casual, walked out of my bedroom, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the story as I made my way to the kitchen.

Would they be able to tell something was up?

I gathered two bottles of water, a bag of beef jerky and small package of mini-muffins, then headed back to my room. I prayed that my keepers thought I was stocking up on goodies so I wouldn't have to interrupt my reading for another trip to the refrigerator.

Rather than packing the fare, I placed the items on the vanity, just in case my captor should pay me a visit. He was the most perceptive person I'd ever met, far more observant than the average human being. You'd think he was a fucking clairvoyant. And because it seemed that nothing escaped his notice, I had to be extra careful. If he knew I had the food, he'd expect to see signs of it. Even if I lied and told him I ate it, he'd probably look for the wrappers and crumbs.

I threw the backpack in the wardrobe and closed the door, then sat down on my bed, trying to stop my stomach from clenching in nervous excitement.

Sunset would not come soon enough.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Sixteen

Working quickly, I tucked my t-shirt into my jeans and looped the small flashlight and field knife onto my belt, buckling it snug about my waist. I placed the compass in my back pocket and donned a long sleeved pullover to cover it all. Last, I placed my hair in a pony tail.

I looked myself over in the mirror. It was almost sunset ... time to go.

Shit. Could I do this? There was still a wall to get over, and god only knew how many guards, and then the vast desert that I might have to cross for endless miles before I came across a village or town.

What if I'm all wrong? What if both windows are locked?

“Then you've lost nothing,” I whispered. “But if you're right, this is your one chance to escape.”

He promised to let you go sooner or later. You could die alone in the desert if you've miscalculated the situation.

“Better to die alone in the desert than compromise myself with the enemy.”

He's not your enemy.

“He is. He's dangerous to my heart.”

What are you so scared of?

No longer willing to argue with myself, I placed my food and water in the proper compartment and zipped up the backpack. I gazed at my purse and pulled out my lip balm and what little Iraqi Dinar I had in there, placing them both in the back pocket opposite my compass. I wasn't taking any ID or credit cards. I didn't want anything that could identify me later if I should get captured by another group.

Which reminded me...

Reaching around my neck, I removed my dog tags and laid them on the vanity. Funny, I hadn't taken them off since my last ‘escape’ attempt. I stared at them with a sense of heart wrenching nostalgia. Like the scent of sandalwood, they made me think of him—of us. I thought of our first meeting, of my stay here, of our discussions, of how well he knew me...

I just hoped I knew him as well as I thought I did.

My escape depended on it.

I knew that dallying any longer increased my chances of being discovered before I even made it outside. Taking a deep breath, I shouldered my bag, laid my hand on my racing heart, and proceeded toward the doorway.

One ... two ... three...

I moved quickly into the living room, targeting the closest window and sweeping aside the curtains in a flurry of fabric.

Padlocked.

I sprinted for the next window.

Bingo.

The phone rang just as I grasped the quick release. Did they really think I was dumb enough to stop to answer it? The latch was harder to open then I'd expected, and I wasted precious seconds fighting with it. But finally, it gave, the hinges creaking as I pushed the bars open.

I climbed out, dropping to the ground.

The ringing stopped. They were probably already on their way to my apartment.

I looked ahead at the high wall about twenty feet away. I could make it over, but it'd take time to pull myself up, and I had barely any to spare. I needed to get away from my window before they came, maybe even find a stepping stone of sorts.

Right or left?

Quick—go right.

I ran, skimming the building until I reached the end of it. Breathless, I looked around the corner, not believing my good luck. Maybe God was on my side today. It was a little area where they kept their assorted vehicles. Perhaps I could drive out of here. They had to have an opening in this wall somewhere, or at the very least a gate I could crash through.

I sprinted forth to the first car, a white no-name beater. It was unlocked, but a quick search of the interior produced no keys.

Shouts rang out from the roof top.

Shit! The fucking guards had spotted me.

Ducking down, I scuttled to the next vehicle, a pick-up truck. The driver door was unlocked, but no keys. I went to the third vehicle, an unlocked van, no keys, but binoculars. I grabbed those babies.

Footsteps approached my location.

I was running out of time!

Fuck driving. I darted to the truck closest to the wall, scurried up onto the hood, threw my backpack and the binoculars over the wall, then grasped the edge and bent my knees, preparing to jump.

Behind me, someone cleared his throat. I glanced over my shoulder only to find my escort and two guards there with their rifles pointed at me.

Crap.

My escort tipped his gun, as if to signal me to get down.

Though I had what was sure to be loaded weapons aimed at my body, I didn't move. I was too close to escaping to give up now. Instantly, Sergeant Jackson's last lecture about my carelessness popped into my head.

“Yalla,” my captor urged.

But I realized something important about myself in that moment of hesitation. I wasn't as careless as the squad leader once claimed. I was bold, brave even. And I was going to escape, or die trying.

No harm will come to you ... You are safer here with us than where you were before ... He carries it to protect you, in case something happens. It's not because we think you're dangerous or we're going to shoot you if you try to escape.

My captor's fateful words spurred my tongue.

“You know what,” I declared. “If you don't want me to escape, shoot me now. Otherwise, I'm leaving and nothing short of death is going to stop me.”

They stared silently, trying to judge how serious I was. For a moment, I worried that they might actually shoot my ass. Finally, my escort lowered his weapon.

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, my escort sighed heavily and waved his hand in the air, as if to say, ‘go then'.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

My escort chuckled.

I pulled myself onto the top of the wall, almost expecting someone to grab my ankle. I swung my legs around to the other side and hoped down.

Holy shit! I'm actually out! They let me go!

Breathing in the sweet scent of freedom, I picked up the binoculars. Blowing dust and sand out of the lenses, I assessed my new surroundings.

In the distance, less than a mile away, I spied a tower of sorts and a couple of large mounds. Placing the binoculars on my eyes, I zoomed in. No, not desert mounds ... they were concrete aircraft hangars painted to blend in with the desert environment. There were also a couple of scattered buildings and a small runway. The prison I just escaped from probably once housed off-duty fighter pilots and air crew.

Other than that, the area was barren. I was in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but sand, stone, and sun....

Was that a fence?

I zoomed in more, following its path. It seemed to go on for miles in each direction, encompassing the whole site, buildings, hangars and all.

And it was not an ordinary parameter fence.

Concertina wire.

Ick. Nasty stuff.

It would be an obstacle, but not impossible to get through. I'd just have to be careful not to get tangled in it.

Pulling out my compass, I found that the tower was west, and I needed to go east. As I picked up my backpack and took the first steps toward my journey, something landed behind me with a heavy thud.

“Brenna.”

I swung about, dropping sack, compass and binoculars, my hand automatically resting on the hilt of my knife.

My captor!

Shit!

Fight or flight?

His eyes narrowed. “Don't even think about drawing that”

Flight.

I bolted.

“Don't run either,” I heard him groan aloud before taking off after me in pursuit.

Hauling ass across the sand, I headed straight for where the parameter fence seemed to be the closest, maybe 300 yards away at most.

“You might as well stop,” he hollered. “You won't make it past the wire.”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw he was catching up to me.

“Fuck you.”

Though my legs protested, I urged them to move faster.

“You can't jump it.”

“The hell I can't.”

He was right, I couldn't successfully jump it. But I could make a very messy attempt for the sake of principle.

“Brenna, stop! Don't make me take you down!”

I didn't glance back at him. I didn't have to. I could tell he was close. But I ignored his warning all the same...

Which is why I found myself being tumbled to the ground moments later.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seventeen

Somehow, he managed to take the brunt of the jarring impact, with me landing on top of him, protected within his arms. We rolled through the sand in a dizzying blur, finally coming to a rest with him lying on top of me.

As the dust settled around us, I stared up at him—my captor once again!—trying to come to terms with this latest recapture.

Breathing heavy, he grinned. “Are you okay?”

My chest heaved, not only for air, but in all consuming anger. I pelted him with my fists. “No! I'm not fucking okay! Get the fuck off me!”

He caught my wrists and pulled them above my head. “Calm down, sweetheart. Where are you hurt?”

I started twisting and squirming beneath him. “Off!” I screamed.

“So you're not hurt, just mad as hell?” he asked calmly.

“Motherfucker. If you don't get the fuck off me, I'll—”

Suddenly, his lips covered mine, silencing my protests, exploring my mouth with firm tenderness. I yielded to the intimacy of the moment, my body relaxing against his with a reluctant moan. Sensing my submission, he slowed the pace and deepened the kiss, his fingers intertwining with mine while his tongue teased and cajoled my senses. He tasted so good. I pressed into him, conveying my desire for more.

He withdrew hesitantly, lingering on my lower lip for the briefest of seconds before pulling back.

I opened my eyes slowly, only to meet his searing gaze. “Damn it ... Why did you kiss me?”

He smirked. “It was the only way I could think of to calm you down.”

“Prick.”

“What?” he asked with utmost innocence.

“I guess getting your jollies off had nothing to do with it. You just had to kiss me. You know, duty and all that crap. I'm sure you didn't want to.”

“Oh, I definitely wanted to,” he assured me. “I just promised you I wouldn't. Again. At least not while we're here.”

Here ... prison. “You have to let me go.”

“Tell me why you want to leave.”

Evade. “The others let me go. Why can't you?”

“They didn't let you go. They just weren't going to shoot you.”

“They didn't try to physically stop me,” I countered.

He laughed. “Then they would've missed out on the fun of making me chase you down.”

“What do you mean?”

Releasing my hands, he sat up and rolled off me. “Look on the roof.”

Propping up on my elbows, I squinted into the distance. Sure as shit, it appeared as if a small group, maybe ten or twelve people, was up on top of the building looking out on our position.

“Oh, that's crap.”

He climbed to his feet. “Well, we guys are easily amused. Or, they're easily amused, usually at my expense,” he said dryly. He held out his hand to me. “Why do you want to leave us?”

I stared at his out stretched arm and shook my head. “I can't stay here.”

“Even if I was to let you go, you were heading the wrong way. There is a reason that fence is there. At the start of the wire until about, oh, I'd say a mile out, the land is littered with unexploded ordinance.”

I gasped. “What kind?”

“Landmines mostly, and some other fun surprises.”

Ignoring his offer to help me up, I climbed to my feet on my own. “Do you know how dangerous those are? What if some child was to stumble across one,” I grumbled as I dusted myself off.

“We didn't lay them. The last residents did before they left. Unfortunately, we don't have the time nor the manpower to disable them all, so we marked the area off, using concertina wire as a deterrent.

I stared at him in disbelief. “And your friends were just going to let me go into a minefield?”

“Nah, they knew I'd catch you in time.”

“And if you didn't?”

“There was no concern. They knew I'd catch you.”

Cocky mother fucker...

Throwing up my hands in disgust, I stomped off back toward my gilded cage.

Jogging to catch up with me, he fell into step with my angry strides. “Don't be upset, Brenna. It was an admirable escape.”

“Fuck you.”

He chuckled. “Do you always use the f-word so liberally when you're ticked off?”

I stopped short, placing my hands on my hips. “And is everything just a joke to you? This is my life you're playing with.”

“No, I take your life very seriously,” he said slowly. “But how would you have me act? I honestly don't know what you want from me, doctor. What do you want me to say?”

Scoffing, I waved him off and continued walking.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back. “Do you want to know how hard it is trying to thwart all your efforts to get one over on me? How frustrated I am with your unwillingness to open up and trust me when I say that you don't have to run, that if you'd be patient, I'd let you leave soon enough? Do you know how tired I am of wondering what new plan you're concocting, worrying every minute that you'll do something dangerous in your misguided attempts at escape?”

When I bowed my head and looked away, he moved closer, placing my hand over his heart. “Or how much it hurts that you would up and leave without so much as a goodbye?” he whispered.

That last one stung the most. “I can't stay.”

“Give me one good reason why I should let you go, and I will.”

I looked up to meet his gaze. “Because it's the right thing to do.”

“Not good enough,” he replied, releasing his hold and stepping back. He lifted his arms. “Tell me where it is you need to be that is more important than being here. Do you have children waiting for your return in the US? Is there a sick patient or family member? A lover to rush home to? Are you going to lose your position at the hospital if you don't go back immediately? And I assure you that while people in your unit do miss you, the mission is still being accomplished without you there.”

God, I hated when he did that, feeding me information to make a point. “You already know the answers to those questions. So why ask them? The point is, it's wrong to kidnap someone and force them—”

“To do their job? To help people? Force them to do something they love and do willingly all the time?”

“If you needed my help, you should've asked,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

“I don't have to.”

“Says who?”

“What does it matter? What we're discussing is the reason why you want to run away, not what right we have to bring you here.”

Pompous ass. “You have no right.”

“Regardless, you're safe and comfortable. Why do you want to leave?”

“Maybe I don't want to treat your tortured victims anymore,” I offered.

His expression grew dark. “Your last patient was hurt trying to flee capture, a capture prompted by the company he kept and a plan of attack that he was party to. But even if torture was the case, I don't believe you'd abandon those so-called victims when you are their only access to health care.”

“Maybe it also had to do the way you treated me the last time we saw each other.”

Letting out a heavy breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I would have apologized, given the chance.”

“You had two days,” I responded cynically, tapping my foot for emphasis like some irate fishwife.

“I was giving you time to cool down. I figured when you were ready, you'd call.”

His explanations made me feel better, especially hearing him say that he didn't torture his prisoners. However, I wasn't going to let the demeaning way he treated me go so easily.

I shrugged. “You still haven't apologized.”

“I'm sorry.” The smirk was long gone. He was sincere again. “Forgive me. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way.”

“Why?”

“Ah,” he paused. “I guess I should treat others the way I want to be treated?”

“No, why did you speak to me that way? Tell me why you were so angry at me.”

“All I can say is that I was scared for you and it caused me to act out of order. True to your gentle personality, though you might not let people in, when it comes to your profession, you always reach out. That can be a dangerous thing to do when dealing with the enemy.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Wow, really? You don't say...”

“You also know I'm not your enemy now, right?”

I nodded. “But you're still my captor.”

This was his hint on what to say to make things better between us, at least for now. But would he catch it?

He didn't disappoint.

“Brenna, will you stay with us? We need you here...” He held out his arm to me. “I need you here,” he whispered.

I knew once I put my hand in his, my heart would be lost forever.

But I did it anyway.

We began our trek back, heading a different direction from which we came.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“There's a gate over there,” he explained, pointing to the far end of the complex. “It's on the other side of the building from where you hopped the wall.”

“Is that where the road leads out of here? You all can't be completely surrounded by mines.”

He nodded. “There's only one way in and out of here, and it's guarded well.”

“By the group sitting on the roof?”

“Well, usually not that many. Some only went up there for the show.”

When I looked to the top, I noticed that the crowd hadn't left yet. “Why are they still watching? We haven't been doing anything but talking for a while now.”

“Yeah, they're watching with binoculars and at least three of them can read lips. I'm sure their passing on our discussion to the others.”

I suddenly felt like a star in a reality show. “Ugh, don't they know what privacy is?”

My captor laughed. “In our profession?” He shook his head. “No such thing.”

Suddenly, the audience started dispersing. I was impressed with the talent of some of my keepers, including the one walking with me who seemed able to read minds. “How can you live like that?”

“Well, there's privacy here, but only what we give as courtesy to each other. Like how we didn't install sound equipment in your flat or cameras in your room.” Then he added, “After what you accomplished today, maybe we should.”

I glanced up at him, a rude retort rising to my lips, but I swallowed it when I realized he was joking.

“You were just about to curse me out again, weren't you?” he said, his voice light with humor.

I sighed. “Yes. Cursing is one of the bad habits I picked up from the military. With all the words available in the English language, you'd think I could find something less vulgar to say than ‘fuck you'. But it just rolls off my tongue so easily.”

“I think it's cute when you say it.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah,” he assured me. “It's just one of your many quirks that I find very appealing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Okay, you. What are the other ‘many quirks’ of mine that you find so ‘appealing'?” I asked skeptically.

“I love how expressive your eyes are. Even if you say nothing, I can read your heart and soul in those gorgeous, sparkling depths.”

My face burned hotter.

Stopping, he turned to me. “I love the way I can make you blush with something as simple as a compliment,” he continued. “Your cheeks turn a beautiful shade of rose pink.”

Shaking my head at his poetic romanticism, I tried to keep from smiling, a combined reaction of joy and nervous embarrassment. He had the most profound effect of my body.

He drew me into his embrace. “I love the way you moan when you're dreaming of me.”

He did not just say that!

“And I love the way your mouth hangs open when I say something that shocks you,” he whispered, bringing his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. “It makes me want to kiss you that much more.”

My eyes fluttered shut.

I felt him withdraw, gently tugging me along to resume our journey. “I also love, despite your denial and my empty accusations, how much you really do trust me. I don't want to ruin that by breaking my promise to you again.”

Though I knew I should be flattered by his show of honor and chivalry, I wasn't. I regarded him with a tinge of annoyance. Maybe I want to you to kiss me!

“Did you want to say something, Brenna?”

Shit! “No.”

“I love how you try to hide your desires, which leads me back to how expressive your eyes are. If you want me to kiss you, just ask.”

“I can't be that blunt—and I'm not saying that because I want you to kiss me.”

“Hm. Are you not the same woman who asked me if I was in love with her the other day?” When I didn't respond to that truth, he cocked his head. “I think you can be very candid when you want to be. Until you say otherwise, I want to keep my promise.”

Tease.

I almost asked, but held back. I was a lady after all.

We walked in silence for a while. The barren land was awash with dark gold, the setting sun sinking below the horizon, and the cloudless sky, shaded lavender, carried a warm desert breeze and the scent of sandalwood.

“Should we try for dinner?” I offered. “I can cook this time.”

“As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I still have to attend to some things. Would you be willing to do a midnight desert?”

That erotic dream popped into my head again. “Sure. What should I make?”

“No worries, I'll take care of it. When we get you back, rest for a while, and I'll wake you up when everything is ready.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eighteen

I shot up in my bed, with my breathing labored and a moan in my lips. Covering my eyes, I pressed firmly, trying to remove the last remnants of sleep. My pussy tingled in wanting.

“I can't take these dreams anymore.”

It had been too long since I'd had sex, and my poor deprived body just couldn't handle the torture.

Glancing over at the clock, I saw it was quarter to midnight.

Fuck. I had to get cleaned up before he came.

Jumping out of bed, I undressed as I ran to the bathroom for my third shower of the day.

Unfortunately, the cold two minute shower did little to ease my body's raging desire.

Rushing to finish getting ready, all I had left to do was moisturize and put on clothes. Unraveling my towel, I sat on the bed and squeezed a generous amount of lotion into my palm. Closing my eyes, I began rubbing the cold cream into my shoulders and arms, relishing in the way it glided across my heated skin and the feel of my fingers caressing my body.

My nipples hardened and my core quivered. Why was I teasing myself?

When I started rubbing my legs down, I thought I just might unravel. Succumbing to my body's demands for attention, I wiped my hands off on my towel and lay back on the bed, letting my fingers linger on the plump sensitive lips in-between my inner thighs.

I probed further, gently massaging my swollen clit, but it wasn't enough to satisfy my cravings. My body was used to more stimulation. What I would give for one of my toys right now. I needed to come so bad.

Tap, tap, tap.

I jumped up, embarrassed all to hell. “Ah ... damn, hold on, I'm coming.”

Oh, God. If only...

“Are you okay? You sound agitated.”

My hands shaking from nervousness and sexual frustration, I picked up my undergarments, fighting to get them arranged so I could slip them on properly. It was an unsuccessful attempt. I was too excited, too jittery, and too damn anxious to even complete the simplest of tasks.

“Brenna?”

In a huff, I threw the garments down and scolded myself for being such an idiot.

“Do you want me to come back later?” he asked.

Looking at the door, I was about to say ‘yes', but didn't.

Why make him leave? Why not let him stay?

“No,” I rushed. “Stay right where you are.”

I dreamt of him, I enjoyed being with him in my dreams, so why not make my dreams a reality? Now that I knew he wasn't my enemy, there was nothing holding me back except my own sexual inhibitions. I'd never had a one night stand before, but there was a first time for everything.

For just one night, why couldn't I be the sexually confident woman that I was when I was alone with my vibrators and my over-active imagination?

“Brenna?”

“Don't move.” I ordered.

I could do this. He wanted me. And we were both adults. And he said all I had to do was ask and I'd pretty much get anything I wanted if it was in his means. Why not ask him to help a gal out?

No, no, no ... my lady-like sensibilities pleaded.

Yes, yes, yes ... urged my inner vixen.

What was the worse that would happen? He'd say no?

Inner vixen scoffed ... Please. He's a man. That ain't gonna happen...

He's different from other men. And he's your captor ... lady-like sensibility countered.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing? Are you okay? Do you want me to come in?”

Inner vixen bitch slapped lady-like sensibility and took over.

I flung open the door, presenting myself in all my naked glory. “I was, um, masturbating. It's very healthy, you know. Good for the body. Relieves stress and all that,” I explained in a breathless rush.

Okay, maybe I was a little more nervous than I anticipated.

When he didn't say anything, I added, ‘I'd know. I'm a doctor.”

“Ah, I, ah...” He pointed behind him. “Uh, dessert is ... in there.”

“Okay.” Just ask him! “Um ... Would you like to fuck me first?”

His jaw dropped open, but no words came out.

“You said to ask for what I desired, so I am,” I hastened to clarify. “I'm being candid just like you wanted. You said you thought it was cute when I said the word ‘fuck'. So I'm asking you to fuck me. Do you want to or not?”

He grinned. “Well, since you've asked so nicely—”

Grabbing the front of his shirt, I yanked him in, closed the door, then slammed him against it, pressing my body into his as I did so.

His lips suddenly captured mine with fierce intensity. Caught up in the animalistic passion, I clawed at his neck, simultaneously lifting on my tippy-toes while jerking him down, increasing the pressure and deepening the kiss. We stumbled backwards. His hands cupped my ass and hauled me up, forcing me to wrap my legs around him.

He fell on top of me as we collapsed onto the bed, his weight pressing the course material of his pants into my swollen nether lips and causing the fabric of his shirt to rub against my nipples. I moaned as my body spiraled into sexual overdrive.

As his lips roamed across my neck and shoulders, I worked at pulling his shirt off. With the thin barrier removed and tossed away, he descended lower, showering attention on my sensitized breasts. When his tongue swirled around the hard bud, my pussy clenched, demanding to be filled.

My thighs tightened around his waist and I hissed my frustration, raking my nails across his back.

He lifted me up again and swung me around. We collided into the vanity. Objects crashed together and rolled around. He swept the surface clean as he deposited me on the top, his mouth never once breaking away from his onslaught of my body.

“Are you wet for me?” he growled, his fingers delving into my pussy.

“Oh, God! Yes!” I cried, arching myself into his hand.

He seized my nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as his fingers plunged in and out of my slick hole. His thumb pressed on my clit, and I growled in frustration, my body quivering with the need for release.

“Please,” I begged as I unfastened his pants and pushed the material down. “Please don't make me wait any longer.”

He pulled me close and wrapped my calves around his center. In one swift, blurring move, I was lifted and moved back to the bed, and his hard cock was sliding into me.

He rode me hard, rough, forcefully—and I loved every minute of it. I was panting, then moaning, then screaming as I succumbed to powerful waves of pleasure. He was relentless, forcing me to come over and over again until I was sapped of all strength, too weak to do more than drown in consuming ecstasy.

His thrusts increased, coaxing one last mind-blowing climax from my body, leaving us both hot, spent, and gasping for air.

“That was amazing,” I whispered once I had the breath to do so.

He rolled us over so that I was now on top of him. “No, it's you who's amazing.”

I smiled and laid my head on his chest, snuggling into the smell of passion and sandalwood. “I'm sorry I was so loud. Sometimes I get so into ... I hope I don't get you into trouble.”

“No, I don't get in trouble. And no, please do not apologize, especially for that.”

“I probably woke the others up.”

He chuckled. “I don't care. They deserve it.”

I lifted my head. “Why?”

“For all the shit they've been giving me when it comes to you.”

“Like what?”

“They keep telling me that since you've arrived, I've been wandering around here like a love-sick puppy.”

I broke into laughter. “Have you?”

He rolled us back over and kissed me soundly. “That, my dear, you'll find out when you hold up your end of the deal.” He rose from the bed and headed toward the door.

“Wait.” I sat up. “Where you going?”

“Don't you want dessert?”

“Don't you want to put some clothes on first?”

“Why?”

“Um ... cameras?”

“There's only one guy on camera duty. He'll live.”

My cheeks grew hot.

“Are you embarrassed?” he asked in awe.

“I-I ... no.”

“You are.”

“Yes, I mean, no—everyone obviously knows what we were doing. I'm just...” I took a deep breath, knowing that I was turning redder by the second. “You go ahead. I'll get dressed and meet you out there.”

“You're so beautiful when you blush,” he said softly, as if relating a thought to himself.

I giggled. “I seem to blush a lot around you.”

“I think you misunderstand my intentions. I'm going to get dessert and bring it back in here. Unless, you're too tired.”

Oh! “No, no. I'm okay.”

“Don't you dare get dressed while I'm gone.”

I nodded. “I won't”

He came back a few moments later with silverware and a plate of Baklava.

Sitting next to me on the edge of the bed, he broke off a piece of pastry and put it to my lips. “Try this.”

Opening my mouth, I let place the bite size morsel onto my tongue. It was scrumptious. Swallowing the honey and pistachio layered phyllo, I moaned in appreciation.

He licked the sticky sweetness off his fingers. “You like it?”

“Very much. Is this another example of your culinary skills?”

“Yes,” he said, feeding me another bite.

“How do you get all the ingredients for the wonderful meals you prepare? There's not a grocery store around here for miles.”

“The same as you do when deployed to a remote location in the military. Some things are airdropped, other times we have to make a food run, mostly whoever leaves next gets a wish list of sorts and they try to bring the items back when they return.”

“But how can that be? My refrigerator has been stocked every week with fresh items.”

He fed me more. “This place is like a revolving door. We're coming and going all the time.”

“Seriously? You all are that active? Everything seems so quiet. I've never even heard a plane fly over or footsteps in the corridor. And I think the most people I've seen here at once was the small group on the roof.”

He smiled, but offered no comment. Instead, he tried to shove more baklava into my mouth.

I turned away. “Thank you, but please, no more. You're going to put me in a sugar coma.”

Placing the plate on the vanity, he dropped to his knees before me. “If my goddess is done eating,” he said, lifting my leg. “Then it is my turn for desert. And in the process, I have the pleasure of worshiping her body.”

My pussy tingled in anticipation as he kissed his way up to my inner thigh.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nineteen

Feeling like someone was staring at me, I opened my eyes.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

I blinked at the sunlight filtering in. My captor was sitting on the edge of my bed looking down at me, freshly showered, dressed, and smelling delicious as usual.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Watching you sleep.”

I rubbed my forehead. God, I was exhausted. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“I only need a couple of hours. Three, four at most.”

“It's not good to do that to your body,” I offered in my concerned physician tone. “You should rest more.”

Smiling, he took an extra pillow and signaled me to lean forward. “I know. After I leave here, I'm going on a long vacation.”

As I sat up to let him place the cushion behind me, my tired mind finally woke up, joining the here and now.

Shit, I was still naked.

I pulled the covers over my breasts as memories of the prior night assaulted me. I'd literally thrown myself at him. What had I been thinking? What must he think of me?

“Hmm. Morning regrets?”

His question jerked from my thoughts “What?”

“Morning regrets? You're blushing again, and you're suddenly being shy.” He stared pointedly at the blanket I had nearly tugged up to my chin.

More memories.

More blushing.

“Oh, no, it's not you. It's me,” I offered awkwardly, waving his concerns off.

A cliché and corny answer, I know, but I didn't know what else to say.

The look he gave me said he found the answer inadequate as well.

“Really,” I continued. “You were amazing. I just...”

He reached behind him and produced a tray which he placed on my lap. Breakfast. Fruit, yogurt, toast, and juice.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Talk to me.”

What did he want me to say? That I was embarrassed for acting like a royal slut?

I stared at the food.

I was in love with him. Maybe he was in love with me too, but I couldn't be sure. He never declared it. Either way, the possibility was there and I hated to think he thought less of me because I acted so ... sexually assertive. I had initiated the intimacy for the sole sake of my sexual gratification, true, but I couldn't have done it if I hadn't felt comfortable with him. And after the initial act, the following ones had seemed special, had been special, at least to me. He took such care in my pleasure, made love to my body in a way I had never experienced before, made me feel something deeper than carnal satisfaction.

Did that mean he really cared for me? Was he just the best lover I'd ever had, or did he love me? And if so, did I ruin things by being so forward? Did he take my lascivious display as a sign that I felt no emotional bond with him? That I was acting on lust alone, using him for my pleasure, that he felt everything and I felt nothing? And did he now have this negative perception of me, that I was not the lady he had come to know over the weeks, but some wonton bitch in heat who often slept with random men whose names she didn't even know?

“Brenna, how about less thinking and more talking.”

I met his gaze.

As odd as it might be, my nameless captor was probably the closest thing I'd ever had to a best friend. And even now, the way he stared at me gave me the sudden urge to spill my guts. Somehow, he always found a way to make me open up, make me laugh, make me feel safe, secure, and like I was something special and to be treasured.

“Last night, the way I acted ... Shit, how do I say this...”

“Just say what's on your m—”

“Do you think I'm a slut?” I blurted out.

Doh! Nice, Brenna. Very classy.

His eyes shone in humorous disbelief. “If I couldn't see for myself how much you're worried about this, I'd think you were joking with me.”

“You find my question stupid,” I groaned.

“No, I don't.” He took my hand in his. “And to answer your question—no, I don't. The word ‘slut’ never entered my mind in connection to you. Passionate, beautiful, amazing—these are the things I think of when I think of you. Last night was indescribable. I couldn't put into words what it meant to me. And you were—are, perfect.”

“I wouldn't say all that,” I whispered.

He kissed my knuckles. “You're so damn enchanting, incredibly sexy, and I can't get enough of you.”

I pulled my hand back. “You do know I'm in love with you, right?”

“Yes, but it's always nice to hear it.” His eyes shined bright in the morning light. “And if you'd hurry and complete your half of our bargain, then I could tell you I how I feel.”

“Do I want to know?”

He shrugged. “Do you?”

Yes.

“Tell you now?” I asked.

“No time like the present.”

“Okay. I lied on my application because I was afraid they wouldn't let me in the enlisted ranks if they knew my medical qualifications. Before I signed up, I called a recruiter on the phone in the guise of a wife getting information for her ‘husband'. After I explained what I, or my husband, did for a living, and what he wanted to do in the military, the recruiter said that it was his duty to place people where they would most benefit the force and that he could not, in good conscious, let my husband's specialized skills be wasted. Not when the military was in need of good medical personnel.” I laughed, recalling the recruiters concern. “He then asked for my husband's contact information so that he might tell him about the large sign-up bonuses doctors were getting, etcetera.”

“You do know that recruiters are like car salesmen. If you're insistent, they usually give you what you want.”

“I know. That's how I got to be a combat medic. I wouldn't sign the enlistment papers unless they could guarantee me that position. But I didn't want to run the risk of ruining my chances by being overqualified.”

He nodded, but said nothing else.

“I joined the enlisted ranks as a medic because I needed some time away from being a doctor. I love my job. I love helping people. But I was starting to lose confidence in my abilities. I was even ‘bringing my work home with me’ as they say. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to eat. I was starting to suffer from depression. I was haunted, not by those patients I couldn't help, but by those left behind.

“I know that dealing with the family comes as part of the job, but I was starting to let their pain affect me personally. The grief, the anger, sometimes the accusations that I hadn't done enough, that somehow their death was a result of my negligence. It was starting to get to me. I began to wonder if they were right, that maybe I hadn't done enough to save their loved one, or if I had done this instead of that, the patient would still be alive.

“When working emergency room trauma, you don't have the luxury of time. Since every second counts when it comes to saving someone's life, you have to make decisions quickly. But I found that I was starting to hesitate, and to second-guess myself. I knew then I needed a break.

“As a combat medic, no one expects miracles. All they expect is that I do the best I can to stabilize the patient until they could make it to a doctor. I thought it was good choice for me for many reasons. I could get out of the hospital setting for a while, but still work in the medical field. I could also do my part for my country and help our injured troops. I felt that my schooling and experience with trauma would be an added benefit. I knew that medic training would be a breeze, and I was already accustomed to dealing with the severely wounded, the concept triage, stressful situations and hard decisions. Nor would I break my oath as a doctor and cause harm, because I would only use my weapon for my own protection. I also thought I might learn something new, get to travel the world, and I could do both jobs, as the hospital would hold my position while I was away on duty. One weekend a month, two weeks a year, and couple of deployments thrown in.”

Hell, I only had one question left to answer, but I needed to think of the best way to put it.

Stalling, I nibbled on my toast and took a sip of juice. “Thank you for breakfast by the way.”

“Anything for you.”

I smiled. “How do you always know the right thing to say? Is your suaveness a part of your training, like your ability to read people?”

“That's a loaded question,” he chuckled.

“How so?”

“If I say formal training, then you'll think everything I say from here on out is not from my heart, but out of practice. If I say a natural ability, then you will think I have had lot of a practice, and that I must have manipulated and seduced many women to hone those skills.”

“You know me so well?”

“I want to know you even better.”

“See!” I squealed. “That's what I mean! I never had a chance, did I?”

He laughed.

“Why did you take my dog tags?” I asked. “You said you've known since the day we met that I was a doctor. But I know you found that out with the personal information on my tags. What made you take them in the first place?”

“I don't know. There was something special about you. I watched you work on that wounded soldier and knew you were more than what you seemed. And when I pulled you into my arms, you felt like you belonged there. I had the strongest urge to know more about the angel of mercy I'd stumbled upon. When I found out you were a doctor, I thought that it was fate intervening, sending me a sign. We needed a doctor, and I needed to see you again. How could I ignore it?”

How could I not love him? “I wouldn't have believed that such a man as you would put so much stock in fate.”

“I believe everything happens for a reason. There was a reason why we met, a reason far more important than completing the mission, capturing the bad guy, or—”

Someone pounded on the front door.

I saw an expression of apprehension cross his face before he masked it with a small smile. “Give me a moment.”

The muted discussion lasted under a minute.

He returned, sat on the bed, his eyes shuttered, distant. I knew there was something wrong. I wanted to ask, but I knew he'd never say what it was. I began to wonder if the way he kept secrets was official procedure, or if it was his way of protecting me from the horrors of the world.

“I have to leave again for a couple of days. Will you be okay?”

I nodded.

He leaned in and placed his lips on mine. Despite the tension in his body, his kiss was warm and gentle.

He pulled away and caressed my hair. “Be good while I'm away,” he murmured.

“I will.”

I closed my eyes as he gave me another brief kiss, and then he was gone.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty

On the afternoon of the seventh day, I shot up from the couch when my front door crashed open.

“Doctor, we need you,” my captor hollered.

He began unlocking the secret ‘not a torture chamber’ room while behind him, two men waited, holding tight to a third guy who was muttering and falling in and out of consciousness.

“What happened?”

My captor opened the door and ushered us all in. I took two steps inside and stopped. I felt like I was standing in an emergency room resuscitation bay. This room had all the same equipment.

The patient began struggling. The two men deposited him on the hospital bed and held him in place while my captor strapped him down. Once secured, they went about removing the patient's clothing and hooking him up to monitoring machines.

Lesions?

I blinked twice to be sure.

No. Burn holes. The patient's torso had burn holes, like those produced from a lit cigarette. There was bruising and lacerations covering his ribs.

“Brenna!”

Hearing my name shook me out of my stupor.

I scurried over to where my captor was holding out latex gloves. “We'll be your nurses. Tell us what you want us to do.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“We've had some training. We'll know what you mean. Just hurry.”

The patient was flushed, twitching, his eyes roaming around the room, the pupils dilated. Clearly he'd been tortured, but something other than his physical injuries was causing these symptoms. What was I missing?

It was then I noticed his arms. He'd been injected—more than once.

“What did you all give him?” I asked, leveling the men an accusing glare.

“Nothing,” my captor muttered. “He's one of ours. We just got him back.”

Leaning in, I placed my hands on the side of the patient's face. “I need you to look at me,” I stated calmly. When he didn't comply, I asked again, stoking his hair back in a soothing manner.

His frantic gaze found mine.

“There you are. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

He nodded, grimacing in concentration or pain. I wasn't sure which.

“You were injected with something. Do you know what it might be?”

“Dr—drugs,” he stuttered.

“Do you know what kind?”

He trembled beneath my fingers, his breathing growing shallow. His eyelids began to flutter close.

“Stay with me,” I urged. “Do you know what drug?”

“Ss-ser-rum.”

He then fell into unconsciousness.

I looked at my captor. “Serum?”

“Truth serum. Probably a barbiturate like sodium thiopental. Or some type of benzodiazepine. But I could be wrong.”

Shit. They must have given him too much.

“Which one was most likely administered?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

Then all I could do was treat the symptoms and pray that his body would decontaminate itself quickly. “Put him on oxygen and start an IV.”

* * * *

“Brenna,” I heard my captor say.

I opened my eyes to find him standing over me, a mug in his hands.

“Oh, there's coffee?” I asked.

“This is for you.”

“You are wonderful.” I began the agonizing task of unfurling my stiff legs from the chair I'd been sleeping in. Someone, probably him, had put a blanket over me during my nap. Once I was unfurled, I took the steaming cup from his hands and sipped the much needed caffeine.

“You even added cream and sugar just how I like. How did you know?

“You're sweet and creamy, so I assumed that's how you'd prefer your coffee.”

I giggled like a little school girl. “Thanks. But I wish you wouldn't have let me fall asleep.”

“You needed to rest.”

I looked over to the bed next to me. “And if the patient had taken a turn for the worse?”

“I was around. I would've woken you up.”

Rolling my shoulders, I tried to get all the kinks out. “You would've made a great nurse. Are there anymore talents I should know about?”

He maneuvered himself behind my chair. “I'm very good at massages.”

I closed my eyes and let my head drop forward as he began kneading the sore and tired muscles in my neck. Sighing in contentment, my body relaxed under his expert ministrations, so much so, I could almost fall asleep again.

“You have wonderful fingers,” I murmured.

“I'm glad you enjoy them so much.”

Many wicked thoughts came to my mind.

Shit. I needed to think of something else. Like my patient.

I stood to my feet. “Just out of curiosity, what happened to your last doctor? The one before me?”

“He had to leave.”

“Am I allowed to know why? Or is that a big secret as well.” I asked, checking the monitors.

“He was having a problem maintaining his medications.”

“Like he couldn't get them shipped here?”

“No, like he was ingesting too many.”

I cringed. “Yikes.”

The hallway phone rang.

“That's my cue,” he said. “I have to go for a little bit, but I'll be in the building. If you need anything, or he wakes up, give us a call.”

“Oh, okay.”

He crossed the room and placed a gentle kiss on my head. “I'll come back as soon as I can.”

I watched him leave, in a way already missing his reassuring presence. The front door opened and closed, but was missing the usual jingle and click.

Ha. He didn't lock me in.

Donning my stethoscope, I leaned over the wounded man and checked his heart and lungs. Thankfully, everything sounded clear. I sighed in relief and pulled the instrument off my ears. My patient was going to make it.

Deciding to take a few minutes to enjoy my coffee, I returned to it and picked up the magazine I'd been reading before my nap. Taking a sip of invigorating brew, I opened to the folded page. It didn't take me long to finish the cup. Like everything else my captor prepared in the kitchen, even his coffee was perfect.

He was perfect.

I put my mug down and rose from the chair, stretching. “Let's see how my patient is doing, now.”

Pulling back the sheet to his hips, I began checking the wounds that lay scattered across his chest. The poor man. I couldn't imagine, but I could see, the torment he had endured. I started to lift a bandage up on one of the more serious—

A hand snaked out and captured my wrist in a vice grip.

“You're hurting me,” I informed him slowly.

My patient opened his eyes. When he saw me, he released his hold.

“Sorry,” he croaked.

“It's okay. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted, sore, and thirsty. Feel like I'm hung over, but I don't remember all of the party.”

“That's understandable. You were drugged,” I explained. “Give me a moment and I'll get you something to drink.”

I went to the counter and opened a bottle of water, pouring a tiny amount into a small plastic cup. I returned and placed the cup up to his lips.

“Slowly,” I cautioned. “Baby sips.”

When it was all gone, he offered his ‘thanks'.

As I went to throw the plastic out, I heard my patient groan. I spun around only to find him trying to rise out of bed. I rushed back and gently pressed on his shoulders.

“No, no, no. Not yet.”

“I have to talk to the others,” he strained

“They can come to you. They'll be back shortly.”

My words seemed to appease him. Grimacing, he settled back onto his pillow. “The bastards really did a number on me, didn't they?”

I nodded. “But considering all you've been through, you're doing very well. Your ribs are bruised, but not broken. There appears to be no internal bleeding. As long as you take care of the burns and cuts and keep them clean, you'll be back to work in no time.”

“That's good to know.” He exhaled heavily, then offered me a small smile. “So when did you get here?”

“About a month ago.”

“That's why we haven't met. I've been gone for two.”

“You were held captive for that long?”

He chuckled a little, something that seemed to cause him great pain. “No, they did this damage in less than three days.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“Don't be. We all knew when we signed up that this could happen. So how do you like it here?”

“It's okay. It was rough at first, but things have gotten better.”

“Yeah, these remote assignments can be a bitch,” he said, opening his eyes to meet my gaze. “But this is one of the better safe houses to be assigned to. The accommodations here are nicer than most.”

Safe house? Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! He really didn't know! No wonder he was talking to me. No one must have told him about the circumstances that brought me here.

A small lump of guilt dropped into my stomach. Even though he didn't know he wasn't supposed to be talking to me, I knew he wasn't supposed to. Perhaps I should tell him. I didn't want him to get into trouble. Anyway, I still needed to call—

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

He stared at me in confusion. “You're very uncomfortable all of a sudden.”

Crap. He was just like my captor, gifted with uncanny observational abilities. It was like being around a bunch of friggin human lie detectors. It was as fascinating as it was unnerving. I knew I should just end the conversation and walk away. That would be the right thing to do. But I was kind of curious to see how far this would go.

My patient already sensed something peculiar was up. How long would it take him to figure out that I wasn't whatever he was?

Tell only truths, Brenna.

“I'm just tired.”

He lifted his head off the pillow. “So how did you get this assignment?”

This was chance to fess up, to be up-front and honest and tell him that I wasn't exactly assigned here, but more like kidnapped and brought here against my will.

Wait. Not yet.

I shrugged. “You all needed a doctor and I was available.”

When he continued to stare blankly at me, I broke under the pressure and glanced away. I knew that look very well. It was the same one my captor gave when he was trying to read me after I didn't reply the way he wanted or expected. My stomach knotted in apprehension. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my rattled nerves.

“Say that again? I think the drugs have muddled my brain.”

“They have,” a deep, familiar voice offered. “You're talking way too much.”

I looked over my shoulder and found my captor leaning against the doorway, his muscular arms casually folded across his broad chest. My stomach fluttered. Freshly showered and dressed, he was pure masculine sexiness, right down to the cocky smirk on his handsome face.

“I am?” my patient asked.

“We borrowed the good doctor from the US military.”

Shaking his head, my patient looked to me and smiled. “Tatakallami Arabi?”

“Laa—no, she doesn't,” my captor answered on my behalf.

Then my patient began spouting rapid Arabic.

There was a heavy sigh. “He's sorry, he didn't know, but he thanks you for taking such good care of him,” my captor translated in that ‘blah, blah, blah’ sing-song voice. “He feels bad for putting you in this awkward position, he hopes you understand, rules are rules, but he very much enjoyed what little time you two spent talking together.”

My patient glared toward the door.

My capture rolled his eyes. “What? Did I forget to tell her something?”

There was a muttered reply.

An exchange of words commenced.

Like watching a ping-pong game, my head bounced between the two men as incomprehensible dialogue shot back and forth across the room.

“But she knew better,” my captor concluded with a shrug.

“What?” I asked automatically, hearing the feminine pronoun.

“Nothing,” he said with a flippant wave. “He's just trying to defend you. First, he told me to stop being impolite, then he was telling me that this whole situation concerning you was his fault. But when I pointed out—”

The bedside team interjected.

“And now he's telling me I need to be nicer to you.”

“Oh.” I looked over to my patient and gave him a big, sweet smile. “Thanks.”

He gave me that ‘no problem, I got your back’ wink.

“You're actually agreeing with him?” I heard my captor express in mock disbelief.

Turning my attention back toward the doorway, I opened my mouth to utter a retort, but found my words stolen off my tongue by a sinfully sexy smile and a pair of eyes that sparkled with a deliciously devilish gleam.

“I-um...” I couldn't form a rational thought

His heated gaze roamed over my body, lingering far too long on certain key areas, before returning to silently convey a promise of unspoken carnal delights if I responded correctly.

My breath froze and my blood ignited.

He raised his eyebrows in question. “Yes? You were saying, doctor?”

Thankfully, my escort appeared, saving me from having to come up with an answer.

Grinning, my captor leisurely strolled over and cupped my elbow. “Doctor, your relief is here. Time for you to take a break.”

I managed to mumble a goodbye and a ‘check on you later’ to my patient before I was ushered out the room.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty-One

“You are a wicked man,” I hissed.

“And you, my dear, are a naughty girl,” he replied, shaking his head. He opened the front door and guided me into the corridor.

“How so?”

Slowing his pace, he leaned in, placing his lips near my ear. “Plying your patient for information. You should be ashamed.”

My cheeks burned. Though his tone was light with humor, his playful comment still made me feel guilty, like I had betrayed his trust in some way.

“It wasn't like that,” I explained softly as we moved into the elevator.

He pressed the second floor button and the doors slid closed. “What was it like?”

“The patient didn't share anything important. And I didn't ask him anything once I realized—”

My captor suddenly hit the emergency stop button.

Twisting me around, he forced me backward while simultaneously seizing my wrists and crossing them over my head. I gasped as his hot body trapped me against the cold elevator wall.

He looked down at me, searching my eyes. “But you let him keep talking, yes?”

I nodded reluctantly.

He seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Exactly how bad do you feel for your part in the leak?”

“Very,” I admitted.

Keeping one hand up to pin me in place, his other hand lightly, and ever so slowly, roamed down my inner arm. The feather gentle caress, in contrast to the dominant hold he exerted over me, wreaked havoc on my body. Warmth pooled in my panties.

“I'm not upset with you, Brenna.”

His fingers then trailed across my collarbone and chest, drawing out a shuddered sigh. My mind, heart, and soul yielded to the simple yet commanding contact.

“I know. But I still feel bad.” Or good, as long as you keep touching me this way.

“Do you now?” A small smile formed on his lips. “You don't seem very remorseful at the moment.”

“Oh, I am,” I breathed.

“Show me how much.”

Pasting on my most innocent ‘I'm sorry, I was a naughty girl’ expression, I bit my bottom lip and lowered my eyes. I arched my back, pressing my hips against his groin, conveying my desire to please him.

“And what punishment do you think you deserve for your misdeeds?” he asked.

A thousand and one things popped into my head, and all of them involved surrendering to my secret submissive fantasies. “Whatever you think is appropriate to correct my bad behavior.”

“You're too good at that.” He removed his hand and restarted the elevator.

“May I ask where we're going?” I whispered.

The doors slid open.

“My flat.” He took my hand and led me out, tugging me down the corridor.

We got to the door and entered his apartment, which looked similar to my own. My captor steered me straight to his bedroom. Though sparsely decorated, it was clean, neat, and smelled of him.

Stopping before the bathroom door, he lifted my shirt, pulled it over my head and threw it on the ground. Like a child who could not undress on her own, he nudged me around and unbuckled my bra, pulling it off my arms and tossing it aside. He then turned me back and lowered my pants and underwear over my hips and down my legs. Much to my body's dismay, his hands did not linger in any one place. He went about his task as if it was household chore.

I stepped out of the pool of clothing, slipping my sandals off my feet as I did so.

“Shower,” he ordered, smacking my bare ass as he nudged me toward the bathroom. “You have two minutes. Any longer and there'll be consequences.”

The warning heightened my excitement.

Counting the time it took me to turn on the water and get into the stall, I washed and rinsed in about one and half minutes, give or take ten seconds. If basic training had taught me anything, it was how to bathe quickly.

However, I didn't get out when I was through. I just stood there and let the hot water continue to run over me.

Around the three minute mark, I heard the shrill noise of a drill boring into the wall. Then there was some banging.

Another two minutes passed.

More drilling. Closer this time. In the bedroom. Then what sounded like a ratchet.

Curious, I turned off the water, quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it under my arms.

I ventured out of the bathroom.

He moved so fast.

One moment, I was facing out into the bedroom, the next I was gazing at a wall. My hands were once again above my head, but this time, my wrists were bound together by plasticuffs, which in turn were linked via another zip-strip onto a heavy-duty D-ring. The ring, attached to the wall by four large screws, was positioned high enough that, if I didn't want my wrists to bear my weight, I had to choose between either arching my back and stretching up as if I was reaching for something sitting high on a shelf, or standing on my tippy-toes.

I had been disarmed of my towel, as well.

A chair slid across the floor, coming to a stop a few feet behind me.

Silence.

I looked over my shoulder to see my captor straddling it, still fully clothed, contemplating me. When he didn't say anything, I turned back to the wall, unable to keep my neck craned at such an odd angle.

Water dripped from my hair, trailed over my torso and down my legs, forming a puddle at my feet. Though my body warmed in anticipation of things to come, goose bumps formed on my skin and my nipples hardened as the heat from the shower quickly faded in the cool air-conditioned room.

The contrast between hot and cold, my anxious excitement at being in such a vulnerable position, and knowing that he was staring so intently at my naked body, put me in a state of heightened arousal. My inner core throbbed, demanding some kind of contact to fill the empty ache.

“You have a beautiful body,” he commented.

His words near undid me. I couldn't wait. It was torture.

I pulled at the restraints.

“Don't,” he warned.

“How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Four minutes. But you only have two and half left.”

“Why four minutes.”

“Because that is how many minutes you went over when you stayed in the shower.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“No, you're not. And this is your punishment for your willful disrespect.” I heard him approach. “You should take this time to think about the consequences of your actions...” he breathed into my ear. “And think about what you're going to do to make amends.”

Ah! If he'd just let me go, I could make amends. All sorts of amends. I was so fucking horny.

He leaned against the wall and glanced at his watch. “Two minutes.”

“You're cruel,” I groaned, opening and closing my fists. “How could you do this to me?”

Squinting, he looked at my wrists. “Are you in pain?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

He came up behind me and slid his hands up my arms and tugged at the straps. The fabric of his shirt caressed my sensitized skin, sending chills up my body. His scent teased me. I inhaled deeply and leaned back into him.

“Better?”

“No.”

“The straps are placed correctly. Are you really in pain?”

The humming reverberation from his chest added to my already agonizing arousal. “Yes,” I whined.

“Where?”

“Lower.”

His hand moved to my shoulders and rubbed them.

“No, lower.”

“Tell me when I get there.” His fingers trailed gently over my ribcage, then over my hips, then down to the outside of my thighs.

“You've past it. Go back up and in.”

Starting back at my waist, he glided up to my diaphragm, brushing against the lower half of my breasts.

I shuddered. “Down.”

He slowly skimmed past my belly button, but hesitated at my pelvic bone.

“Lower,” I urged.

“Pain you say?” he asked, laying kisses on my shoulder.

“Yes. It hurts. Please make it go away. You don't want me suffering, do you?”

He chuckled. “No, I don't want you to suffer.”

As one hand went up and cupped my breast, teasing and rolling the nipple, the fingers on his other hand parted my folds and circled my clit.

My body instantly responded, but it was not enough. I hovered on the edge, but nothing more.

“Please,” I gasped, trying to maneuver into a more advantageous position. “Have you no heart?”

“I do.” He delved into my slick hole, stretching and filling me. Then he froze. He didn't move an inch.

AHHHH! “Don't friggin stop! Move, damn it!”

The hand he was using to play with my breast abruptly tangled itself into the hair at the base of my neck. He tugged my head back, commanding my attention. My gaze found his. I wanted to dive in those dark and intense eyes and lose myself.

“As I was saying, I do have a heart, but you are in no position to make demands. You ask, not order. As punishment for yet another offense, you will have to do better at begging me for what you want. Only then will I be moved enough to accommodate you.”

The reprimand alone did it.

I was going to come.

“Control your body, Brenna,” he growled, tightening his grasp on my hair.

Unfortunately, rather than halting the imminent climax, the pain only increased my pleasure and I cried out, spiraling into an orgasm.

Suddenly, I was released from the wall and flung over his lap. He brought his free hand down on my ass.

“You are a bad-"smack, “bad—” smack, “-girl...” smack.

Rather than coming down off the wave of pleasure I was riding, I started the climb all over again. I moaned as another orgasm began to take hold.

“Don't even think about coming. Do you understand me?” Then, as if to torment me more, he thrust his fingers deep into my tightening hole, plunging in and out as his thumb worked over my swollen clit. “You ask me first. You beg for it.”

“Pleas—” Before I could finish my plea, his ministrations set me off and I climaxed again, this one more powerful than the first.

That slip-up earned another series of spankings.

When he was done, he abruptly rose to his feet and tossed me stomach first onto the bed.

“Good girls know how to hold their cum,” he scolded as he ripped off his shirt and began unbuckling his pants. “They don't enjoy their punishment.”

He grabbed my ankle and dragged me back, then took a hold of my hips and lifted my ass high. He pushed his hard cock deep inside my dripping pussy.

As he worked me, I shoved hard against his groin and took as much of him in as my body would allow. My body tensed, ready to succumb to the pleasure.

“Don't you dare.”

Fuck! I held it.

“Why don't you want to be a good girl?” he asked, pounding hard into me from behind, his balls slamming against my sensitized clit.

“I—I do. Please.”

“You're lying.”

“No, I'm not,” I panted. “I can be good.”

He smacked my ass and rode me even harder.

My body shook uncontrollably, demanding for me to let go. “Please!”

I was going to die if I didn't come. It almost hurt to hold it back. But I didn't want to disappoint him. I didn't want to disappoint myself. I could wait.

“Are you sorry for all you've done today?” he asked and spanked me again. “For being devious, for implying that I wasn't nice enough to you, and for not following any of my instructions?

I wrapped my fists around the covers as raw pleasure battered me. I screamed in frustration and even started to cry, but I didn't release.

“Yes ... Please...”

“Please what?”

“Please just let me come.” I sobbed. “I'm begging you. I can't handle this much longer.”

“Take your pleasure, Brenna.”

The assailing orgasm was unlike anything I'd ever experienced in my life. Powerful waves consumed me in a boundless torrent of ecstasy. It was too much to bear. The infinite intensity of it shattered the tiny bit of sanity I had left.

Still trembling from the residual ripples, I collapsed in utter exhaustion and immediately broke into a flood of tears. “I—never...” I choked out. “It was—that was awesome.”

He lay down beside me and drew me into his arms, offering soothing words as he stroked my hair.

I slowly relaxed, lulled by his gentle caress and comforting scent. I wanted to shut my eyes, but I willed myself to not to. I couldn't risk dozing off.

“Sleep for me,” he whispered.

I yawned at the suggestion. “I can't. I have responsibilities, like my patient.

“You need to rest. We can take care of your patient until you wake up.”

Perhaps just a short power nap.

I snuggled closer to his warmth and let my heavy eyelids drift close. “Okay, but only for twenty minutes.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty-Two

My eyes popped open and I shot up.

It was dark.

I looked at the digital clock in irritation. Twenty minutes had turned into four hours.

Damn him.

The bathroom door was open and the light on, but I was alone. In the soft glow of the makeshift nightlight, I saw the note beside me, lying upon folded clothing. Picking up the white paper, I rolled my eyes.

“Let me guess,” I muttered to myself. “Handwriting can be used to identify someone.”

Jesus, these people were paranoid.

I knew every mark on my captor's sculpted body, every twitch and reaction to my touch, but I wasn't allowed to see his handwriting.

Oh well, at least it was typed out in English this time.

Had to go out for a bit. Essentials in the bathroom, food in the fridge. Relax and watch TV—better idea, stay in bed. Will be back soon.

Was this his way of asking me to spend the night?

How presumptuously sweet.

But as much as I wanted to, I couldn't abandon my patient more than I already had.

I grabbed my clean clothes—which I found were only pajamas and undergarments—and went into the bathroom. Hell, he'd even brought my little overnight bag filled with all the things a girl needs. Complete with a new red toothbrush.

After taking a short shower, which unfortunately washed away the evidence of our stolen passion, I dressed quickly and was out the front door in minutes.

Unlike my corridor, the hallway on this floor was dimly lit. It felt weird to be wandering around the building alone in my PJs. I hated the eerie quiet that seemed to perpetually hang over the place. It was unnerving. I almost expected that at any moment, someone would jump out at me wielding an axe, like in a bad slasher movie.

Relieved to reach the elevator with my head still attached to my shoulders, I descended to the first floor and made my way to my own flat. Opening the front door, I quietly slipped in, not wanting to disturb my patient if he was sleeping.

“...only four days to prepare,” said the unfamiliar voice.

My steps faltered as I approached the spare bedroom/makeshift infirmary.

“Are there any other residents besides the doctor and the prisoner?” I heard my patient ask.

“No. The evacuation should go smoothly.”

Not one to eavesdrop, I didn't delay in making my presence known. I appeared in the doorway and gently knocked. “Sorry to interrupt. I'm just here to check on you.”

My patient and escort glanced up, then both leaned over a little as if looking behind me.

I turned around, but no one was there.

Confused, I shrugged. “What?”

Silence.

Sighing, I moved in and went to the sanitizing pump to disinfect my hands. “How are you feeling?”

My patient nodded.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He nodded again.

“Was it something light? Like soup and toast?”

Another nod.

“Good.”

He pointed to the IV in his hand.

I went over to his side. “You want me to remove it?”

He smiled, his expression one of hope.

Scrunching my nose, I made a non-committal sound.

He then gave me a couple of imploring ‘pretty please’ blinks, like the ones little girls make when they're asking their parents for a pony.

Oh, how cute! “Do you promise to take the oral medications I prescribe—all of them—exactly as directed?”

His head bobbed up and down eagerly, and drew a chuckle from my escort.

“Okay,” I conceded and moved to gather gloves, cotton dressing and medical tape. “Honestly, all you men around here have me wrapped around your little fingers.”

Simultaneously, they broke into smug grins.

“It's true,” I ego stroked while putting on the latex gloves. “I'm simply charmed by you all.”

Though they chuckled in response, their chests puffed out a little more.

I pulled out the IV needle and deposited it in the bio hazard bin. “Press here,” I asked.

My patient held the cotton dressing in place while I taped it down.

“Which reminds me,” I continued while cleaning up. “We never know what tomorrow might bring, so I'm going to tell you this now. Though I came here under the worst of circumstances, I want you both to know that I appreciate the way you've treated me.” I looked to my patient. “Whether trying to cover for my ass,” I then glanced to my escort, “or trying to cheer me up with ice cream. I just wanted to say thanks. Those simple gestures meant a lot.”

They both dipped their heads in gracious acceptance.

Feeling foolishly sentimental, I smiled and started pulling medications from the cabinet. I laid them on the counter and quickly jotted down the dosage instructions for each of the bottles.

Never know what tomorrow might bring ... four days to prepare ... evacuation will go smoothly ... I guess I was leaving soon. It was something I should be elated about, but I wasn't. I'd probably never see him again. The possibility made my heart hurt.

I needed to get some fresh air. Fast.

I headed for the door, not looking at either man as I did so. I didn't want them to read my melancholy.

“Make sure to get some rest, please. Both of you,” I directed as I left.

* * * *

I sat on the courtyard's stone bench, staring into the fountain, and trying to lose myself in the lull of trickling water.

It was a beautiful night, reminding me too much of one three weeks earlier when I sat on the same bench with my enemy, trying to figure out what the hell he wanted from me.

I wondered if my captor made it back to his flat yet. And how he felt about me not being there. As much as I loved him, and everything about him, he seemed the type used to getting his way. Though he didn't directly write it in his note, I read the underlying message of ‘don't leave the apartment’ by his recommended suggestions of what I should do while he was gone. Even the pajamas were a testament to that hint.

Ha. Scrubs, pajamas, house sweats ... all the same to me. I had no problem wandering around in my night clothes.

I wasn't his prisoner, or so he claimed. As far as I was concerned, that gave me the freedom to do and go wherever I wanted. Just because he wanted me to stay didn't mean I actually had to.

However, he probably wouldn't like me being outside either, not without my escort and his big gun to protect me in case something happens.

Oh well, shit happens.

He'd get over it.

I was still amazed that he'd brought me to his flat at all.

In my mind, it implied that our relationship had moved up a level, grown more serious.

I know that sounded extreme—it wasn't like he gave me a key or asked me to move in or anything. But it still felt like it was a significant event, a show of commitment from him. I guess because he was so secretive about his life, every little baby step meant something more to me.

This clandestine existence of his, though completely frustrating at times, was something I was learning to accept as a normal and natural way of things. It was a part of his job, which was a part of who he was, and I was in love with him. I found that I no longer needed all the details where he was concerned. We had formed a bond despite all that, and I trusted him to do right by me.

Trust.

Wow.

Me trust someone ... How much I had changed in little over a month. Was I being foolish by putting so much faith in a man whose name I didn't even know?

Possibly.

Probably.

But didn't we humans do that all the time? How many of my patients came to the emergency room, and though they knew nothing tangible about me, not even my name, still trusted me enough to help them, take care of them, and do right by them?

Blind trust was a part of life. Though my situation was a little more extreme than most, was it that much different than trusting the police officer who stops you on a dark road, or trusting the punk kid making your hamburger at the local fast-food joint to not spit in your food?

Perhaps it was unwise to put blind trust in someone on an emotional level.

I would be leaving soon.

And despite all his pretty words and declarations of ‘care', I probably would never see him again.

It was clear that his job was his life. He seemed to thrive in the exciting world of intrigue. From what little I gathered, I guessed he and the other guys were taking on missions behind enemy lines, probably infiltrating terrorist cells to gather intelligence and all that other secret-spy stuff.

I preferred a simpler life.

I just couldn't see him wanting to live in my world. And obviously I couldn't live in his.

Star-crossed.

Only four days left.

I wanted to lament over my stupidity, for the idiotic way I'd handed over my heart to another with such careless abandonment. So caught up in the here and now, I never stopped to think about what the future would bring.

What could it bring other than heartbreak?

Fucker.

I once told him he would break my heart, and he said it would never happen.

“No, it's not his fault.”

Deep down, I knew he meant what he'd said when he'd said it.

Despite how intelligent, observant, perceptive, focused, thorough, and detail oriented of a person he was, he too was so caught up in the here and now. He also failed to see the obvious: Our relationship would have to one day come to an end.

We were foolish to pursue it.

And by doing so, we set ourselves up for heartbreak and pain.

We could have nothing more than a whirlwind affair.

Unless...

Was that his intention all along? Not to intentionally hurt me, no, I couldn't believe him to be so cruel. But did he only intend our relationship to be an intimate fling? He hadn't initiated the physical interaction, I had. He'd simply accepted it and did as I had asked.

Perhaps that was all he was offering me. A little taste of the forbidden. To experience an emotion that neither of us would ever get to experience otherwise due to the solitary way we lived our lives; to experience the intense rush of falling in love. Maybe he had always planned for us to love and let go, to give us the opportunity to be together for a fleeting moment in time, enough to produce bitter-sweet memories to look back upon after we went our separate ways and trudged through our lonely existence. Memories of a love that could never be, but of a passion that burned as hot as the desert sun.

“Stop, Brenna,” I scolded softly, rubbing my temples. “Stop trying to romanticize this. You're not a character in some tragic love story.”

But I felt like one.

I had to make a decision. End it now, tonight, so I could maintain the few pieces of my heart that were left with some dignity. Or I could enjoy the remaining days, pretending everything was perfect. After I left, I would let our relationship fade away, much like a friendship fades between distant friends.

“You know you shouldn't be out here alone. You should have asked someone to go with you,” my captor remarked.

I looked up at him. Yes! Please say something else to piss me off so it will make it that much easier for me to end this.”

“Sorry,” I offered. “You weren't around and the only other two people I know were preoccupied.”

“Then you should have waited for me.”

Bingo.

“If I'm not a prisoner, then I should be able to go outside without a guard.”

“It's for your own safety.”

Frustrated, I exhaled in exasperation. “Look. Enclosed courtyard, surrounded by a three-story building. Around that, an eight-foot wall. Around that, razor wire and a minefield. Also, you have lookouts on the roof. What in the hell could possibly happen to me?”

He scooted me over and sat down. “What if we were attacked?”

No worries. From my understanding, I won't even be here when that happens.

I shrugged indifference. “And?”

“None of us knew where you were. I thought you were in my flat. You weren't. You left there and went to yours. And when you left from your own, they thought you were going back to mine.”

“What?” I asked. “No cameras in the corridors? No cameras out here?”

“There are.”

“So, is your camera guy a slacker or something?”

He chuckled. “No, he didn't know you were missing. He assumed we were aware of your whereabouts.”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.” I mumbled.

“He thought that you'd been kind enough to let the rest of us know where you were taking off to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Taking off would be me jumping the wall and running away. I only came here.”

He regarded me. “The guys said you were a little despondent when you left them.”

“Whatever,” I dismissed irately. “Tell them to stop reading me. I'm entitled to a little emotional privacy, you know.”

“Okay. Talk to me.”

No, not yet. I need a few more minutes to work up the courage.

“About what?”

“You're lashing out at me. I want to know why.”

Yes, I know. Forgive me.

I squinted in anger. “How about this. I'm sick of what you want. What about what I want?”

“Are you upset about what you might have heard the others talking about?”

“Don't,” I warned. “Don't even go there. Not yet.”

“Are you worried?”

“No.”

“You're fibbing.” He took my hand. “I'm sorry. I'm so used to dealing ... I forget that you are not accustomed to facing these types of situations on a regular basis.”

“Are you for real?” I whispered in disbelief.

“If all goes well, you won't be here when it happens. There is no need for you to be frightened. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

My anger, my anxiety, my irritation, everything melted away, leaving nothing but an empty sadness that weighed heavy in my chest. However, it wasn't his words of reassurance that caused this, but rather was what he didn't say. He wasn't mad or upset. He was being his usual thoughtful self and showing me once again how much he truly cared, but...

Gently tugging my hand away from him, I rose to my feet. “You just don't get it, do you?”

He looked into my eyes, searching for the meaning behind my statement.

“Yes, I was lashing out at you. I apologize. And you're right. I am worried, but not for the reasons you think. And no, I don't agree with your assessment of my safety. You might be able to protect me from whoever is attacking this place in four days, but until then, who's going to protect me from you?”

“Have I wronged you in some way?” he asked.

I sensed his hurt feelings, even though he hid them behind an impassive mask.

“No, you haven't. You've been wonderful since day one. The bitchy attitude I just gave you was a defense mechanism, one of my many personality flaws. Something I do to push people away so I don't have to open up. But you and I, we've already broken down those barriers and moved past them. Do you agree?”

He nodded.

“Then the immature way I've acted tonight shouldn't have happened, and I don't want to ignore that it did. For whatever reason, I must not be ready to share what's bothering me. Not yet anyway.” I knelt down in front of him and placed my hand on his cheek. “I couldn't bear to hurt you any more than I already have, so I'm asking that you give me this one night to myself. Let me sort out everything in my head, and I promise, tomorrow morning, we can have breakfast together and do the sharing thing you love to do so much.”

His rough palm covered my fingers. Eventually, he took my hand and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. “Until tomorrow then.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I turned and walked away.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty-Three

Explosions rang out in the distance.

"Take cover!” Sergeant Jackson shouted.

Soldiers scrambled to their feet. People ran, becoming nothing more than blurs of fabric. There was screaming—directions, orders, wails of grief—a frantic meld of English and Arabic. More gunshots pierced the air, closer, rapid in succession, adding chaos to the madness.

Thump-thump-thump.

There were grunts, and then bodies dropped, some collapsing in a mist of spraying blood. Automatically, my hand went for my weapon.

But I didn't have one.

I ducked lower as bullets whizzed over my head.

“Mathews, take cover!” Jackson hollered. “Now!”

No. I couldn't. There were wounded.

Ignoring the order, I grabbed my kit and low crawled over to a victim lying face down on the street. I struggled to roll him over.

My heart dropped when I saw his face.

It was my captor.

Jackson appeared at my side and grabbed my arm, hauling me backwards.

“No, no!” I cried as he dragged me away.

A whistle filled the air.

We were rocked by an adjacent blast.

I shot up in bed, gasping for air and clutching my heaving chest. The echoes of my scream were still resonating off the walls.

My bedroom door suddenly flung open and a man with a rifle rushed in.

I shrieked, scrambling back against the headboard.

“Hey, it's me,” my patient said, flipping on the light. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck! You scared the living shit out of me!”

“Me?” he exasperated. “You were the one screaming.”

His words registered and I rubbed my eyes. “Oh, sorry,” I muttered. “I was ... I was having a nightmare.”

A thunderous boom sounded in the distance. Instinctually, I glanced out my window into the darkness. Then a string of firecrackers went off. That explained the dream. I looked at the clock. It was o'dark thirty in the morning. Who the hell would be celebrating at this hour?

I turned back to my patient, but my voice failed me when I saw him—I mean really saw him.

He had a weapon. His worn, plain brown t-shirt was tucked into some sort of desert colored fatigue pants. He even had combat boots on.

He slung his weapon over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, our intel was wrong. They came sooner than we expected.”

I just stared at him.

“You don't have to worry. They still have to find their way through the field.”

A second explosion. The building shook.

I glanced at the window, then back to him.

Shaking his head, he gave a small ‘that's nothing to concern your pretty head about’ expression.

There was another explosion, this one louder and stronger.

“Yeah, militants,” he rubbed his jaw. “Like them rockets...”

My eyes went wide.

“No, no,” he rushed. “Just the small ones. You know, RPGs.”

Rocket Propelled Grenades?

“You're safe here. We have plenty of men, and more that can come if we need their help,” he offered with a reassuring grin.

My gaze settled on the weapon in his hand. “You can't go out there. You shouldn't even be out of bed,” I said.

“I won't, doctor. This is just in case we run into problems. Hey, are you hungry?”

Was he serious?

“I can make you something to eat,” he offered. “I don't cook as well as your favorite hero, but it's decent.

Oh. My. God!

What was wrong with these people?!?

Why was everything always a joke to them? And why did they think everything could be made better with food? I had probably gained ten pounds since my arrival-despite my five day fast.

I cringed when gun fire rippled through the darkness.

Who could honestly eat at a time like this?

“Shouldn't we do something?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Like what?”

“I ... I don't know.”

“There's nothing we can do but wait. Let the others do what they do best. I'll make you some pancakes and coffee. Let's go in the dining room.”

“You should be resting,” I grumbled, crawling off the bed.

“I'm fine. You did a great job fixing me up.”

Wait a minute. “I thought you weren't supposed to talk to me.”

He chuckled. “I'm not. So don't tell anyone.”

I smiled and followed him out.

* * * *

Not five minutes after we finished eating, the phone rang. Coincidently, or not, the gunfire seemed to grow heavier.

My patient picked up, pressed it to his ear for a few moments, then hung up.

He turned to me. “Doctor, how fast can you change your clothes?”

Is someone hurt?

“Why?” I whispered.

“You have to leave in two minutes.” He smiled sadly. “You need to put your military uniform on, but no ACU top and no gear. Pocket all your important documents. Hurry.”

I sat stunned.

“Please, it's important.”

His appeal shook me out of my stupor. I rushed to my room.

Like I was back in basic training, I rushed to get dressed.

I had just finished tying my boots when I heard the front door crash open. Moment's later, my captor was in my room, armed up and ready to go.

He took my hand. “You good?”

When I nodded, he dragged me out, forcing me to jog to keep up with his long strides. My patient followed in tow, rifle in hand.

“Where are you taking me?”

“North wall. Back gate.”

Through the corridor, down the stairs, into the lobby, out the front doors. The battle had intensified and it seemed the very ground shook with the violence of it. I cringed when a thunderous blast reverberated through the air. Unaffected, he kept pace, skimming the wall and turning the corner, keeping the building between us and the concentration of gunfire. Black smoke rose into the dusky pink and orange sky, marring what might have been a beautiful sunrise.

We all stopped short at a small postern.

Pressing on his ear, my patient looked at his watch. “Confirm.”

My captor spun me around. “Brenna, will you wait for me?”

“I-I-Wait where? Where am I going?”

“Back home.”

“No. I—” I was cut off by deafening boom in the distance.

“It's not safe here,” he stated. “Listen. I'm just asking for you to give us a chance.”

“You want to be with me? How? I don't see how—”

“Forty seconds,” my patient stated, opening the gate's lock and stepping out just beyond the wall.

My captor placed his hands on the side of my face. “I'll make it happen. Just say yes.”

“I never let anyone in because I'm scared of losing them.” Rapid gunfire assaulted my ears and tears welled in my eyes. “I never want to go through that pain again. I've answered your five goddamn questions. Answer mine.”

“I love you. I always have. Will you wait?”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded. “Come back to me alive. Don't make me regret this.”

He pulled me close and kissed me hard.

“Twenty,” my patient hollered over the growing womp-womp-womp noise.

My captor abruptly pulled away. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. You know I do.”

“Good. I'm going to test you on that,” he said, pulling a syringe out of his pocket and uncapping the needle.

I shook my head. “No—”

“Trust me, Brenna.”

Fuck!

“You are so going to make this up to me,” I hissed, offering my arm. The moment I felt the pinch, I knew I had maybe ten seconds of consciousness left.

The air grew turbulent and dust began kicking up.

Wrapping his arms around me, he leaned in and pressed his lips against my ear. “I will. I promise, my love.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Hey, Doc Bee.”

I opened my eyes.

“Welcome back,” Corporal Mollina said, taking a seat on the end of my hospital bed.

“Yeah, Sergeant Mathews, we missed you,” PFC Michaels added, coming up beside the corporal.

God, I really wasn't in the mood for visitors. Though my stomach was much more settled now, the last bout of vomiting had done a number on me.

“What are you all doing here?” I croaked.

“Sergeant Jackson told us you were here,” Big M explained. “We'd thought we'd check up on ya and see how you were feeling. He said you were sick because of some adverse reaction to some medication you took.”

I guess you could say that...

“It's sweet of you to visit,” I mumbled. “And I'm glad to see your leg is better.”

He looked down. “Yeah, I am too.”

It was odd to be having a conversation with these soldiers. Though I had gotten to know them very well over the months I had spent here before my abduction, I might as well have not known them at all. The situation felt surreal to me. Like I had been thrown into someone else's life where I knew all the details, and just had to act the part until the real person returned.

“Where did you go?” Mollina asked. “You just up and disappeared one day.”

I was wide awake now.

“What do you mean?” My breath hitched. “Was I reported missing or something?”

He chuckled. “No, but you have been gone like a month and half.”

“So you all saw my orders for this mission?”

“Shit no,” he exclaimed. “Personnel said your paperwork was sealed up tight in an envelope with a big red stamp on it. All they could say was that you were forward deployed.”

“I heard a rumor that when they opened the envelope, everything on the order was blacked out,” Big M added.

“So give up the 4-1-1. Where did you go, Doc?”

“Um ... somewhere in Al Anbar,” I offered hesitantly.

Perhaps I shouldn't be saying...

“Fallujah? Ramadi? Abu Ghraib?” Big M listed.

“I—I don't know.” I tried to rub the tension out of my temples. “They never said.”

He never said.

My heart began aching again. I missed him so much.

“You didn't know where you were? Mollina laughed. “What unit were you with?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Were they Army?”

The conversation I had with my captor about why he couldn't tell me anything played in my mind. I smiled sadly at the recollection and how well he knew human nature.

“I don't know.”

“Damn, Bee. Don't you know anything?” Mollina exasperated.

“Watch yourself, Corporal,” Jackson rebuked as he entered and approached the bed. “You best remember who you're talking to. Last I recall, Mathews is a sergeant who outranks your ass.”

Mollina nodded. “Sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

The squad leader sat beside me. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

I don't know if it was the time I spent away, or how much I had changed as a person during that time, but I saw Sergeant Jackson in a whole new light. I used to find him an annoying necessary evil, someone I had to deal with to do my job, a job that he gave me hell about because I was a woman in a combat zone. But as he stared at me now with something akin to relief in his eyes, I realized that he was sincerely worried about me, and always had been. It was his responsibility to keep me safe and he took that task very seriously. Though I would never say I agreed with all his views, or his lectures, what mattered was that he cared.

I awarded him with a smile. “I'm good. Thanks.”

He grinned “Did you miss us?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” You played the voice of reason during my adventure.

“I guess we missed you too,” he admitted, looking at the other two soldiers before turning back to me. “And we'll miss you still when you leave us again.”

“What do you mean?”

He placed a large envelope in my hands. “I thought I'd drop these off to you personally.”

“What is it,” I asked, running my nail under the seam.

“Orders.”

My heart leapt in excitement. “I'm going on another, um, mission?”

Jackson shook his head. “You're going home. Once you're released from the hospital, you're on the first plane out.”

I glanced at the official documents.

“No, I don't want to leave.” I tried to hand him back the envelope. He wouldn't take it.

“It's not up to you, or me. Orders are orders. We go when and where they say.”

No. I couldn't leave Iraq. That was a whole ocean away. At least if I stayed here, there was the small chance I might see him again.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. It would do no good breaking into tears. Anyway, my captor wouldn't have asked me to wait if he didn't intend to see me again. It's not like he wouldn't know where to find me if I did return home. The man knew everything about me.

“I have no clothes,” I whispered. I had left everything back at the flat.

“You're bags arrived,” Jackson said. “Came this morning.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

Ha. They must have won the battle.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Epilogue

Three Months Later...

I had worked an extra long shift at the hospital and was exhausted, but I forced myself to walk toward the small pub anyway. It had become a habit of mine, a tradition of sorts. Something I did every night before I went back to my lonely apartment and crawled into an empty bed.

Though it was only one drink, I needed it, couldn't cope without it, couldn't sleep without it, couldn't dull the pain without it.

The ritual had come along because I refused to take medicine for my mild depression, which was the result of a broken heart that would not heal, which was brought on by meeting and falling for him.

Three months. Not one phone call, not one letter, not even a postcard.

Bastard.

I hoped he'd rot in hell.

I had to stay angry. I had to force myself to think these things—to hate him. If I didn't, I would succumb to the constant threat of tears that resided just behind my eyes. They had been there every day since I boarded the plane home. And if I let those tears out, I would be forced to acknowledge the weak person I had truly become. One month with one person, and I was left in utter emotional ruin.

He had ruined me.

I tried to volunteer for another tour in Iraq, but for some unknown reason, I had been flagged as non-deployable. And it was a status that went across the board. I couldn't even get orders to Afghanistan.

I was sure he had something to do with that.

Asshole.

Strangely enough, no one could tell me why my records showed this status. Some special identifier, its meaning unknown, but locked in. It was just there, and no one seemed to have the authority to change it. Not from lack of trying. Personnel even tried to delete my records and put the information back in. But once they hit the ‘save’ button, the code popped back up.

Computer glitch, they tried to say. We'll call you when it's resolved, they assured me.

I didn't know why my captor felt the need to do that. If he didn't want to risk the possibility of running into me again, he should just make sure I didn't end up wherever he was. Why fuck me over so thoroughly? Why would he care if I went to another part of Iraq? Or deployed to Afghanistan—a whole different fucking country!

The little sliver of traitorous hope deep inside always answered that, though he couldn't contact me, he was still looking out for me, that he loved me and didn't want me risking my life in a combat zone.

Fuck that.

Fuck him.

Sometimes, I thought about putting my wealth to some use, quitting my job and moving my ass permanently to Iraq, just to spite him.

But even if I did set my willful plan in motion, I had a feeling I'd never make it past the US airport customs to board the plane.

He knew me well. And I knew him well enough to know he had covered all the bases. I probably wouldn't even be able to obtain a visa.

Pissed at the interference, albeit indirect and well intentioned, I swung open the door to the small pub and ran smack into a hard chest.

Strong hands caught me before I fell back on my ass.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “My bad.”

The bear of the man nodded and released my arms.

He was handsome in an all-American football hero sort of way with his cropped hair, clean-shaven face and gentle eyes.

Familiarity tugged at me.

“Have we met before?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Are you sure? Maybe you've been to the emergency room at Northside Hospital. I work there.”

He smiled and shook his head again, then walked out onto the sidewalk, holding the entrance door open so that I could go in.

How thoughtful. “Thanks,” I offered over my shoulder as I passed over the threshold.

He winked.

Damn, I swear I knew him from somewhere.

“Doctor!” Abe called out.

I looked over at the old bar keeper. “Hey.”

“You want the usual?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll be there in a moment.”

I turned back, but found nothing but a closing door. The man was gone.

Oh well, I wasn't interested in making new friends anyway.

I took my regular seat at the bar just as Abe placed the glass of Jack and Coke in front of me.

“Kind of empty tonight,” I remarked, noting only a few people scattered here and there.

“Yeah, Monday, the end of the month,” Abe muttered. “And a bad economy to boot. Everyone saves their money for the weekends.”

I raised my glass and took a sip. “No matter how bad the economy gets, I'll still come here.” I had no choice. He was the closest bar in walking distance to my apartment.

“I know, doc. You're a real loyal patron, and the prettiest I have.”

I was just about to thank him for the compliment when Barry Manilow's Mandy came on the Jukebox.

I froze as the lyrics assaulted me.

No, no, no.

“What's wrong?”

I looked at the bartender “This song...”

“What about it?”

At the launch of the chorus, I downed my drink in one swallow, slammed the glass down and dug in my purse to pull out my wallet.

“No need,” Abe waved off.

I had to leave. I had no time to argue with him. “I want to and I can more than afford it,” I assured him.

Someone called out to him at the end of the bar.

“Please just take it,” I urged.

“Don't worry, hon, it's already been paid for,” he explained as he walked toward the waiting customers.

I frowned in confusion. “By who?”

“Me.”

Sandalwood danced in the air.

I didn't turn toward the deep, familiar voice. There was no need. It was all a figment of my imagination. I drank my liquor too fast and it went straight to my head.

“Brenna, look at me.”

Tears formed in my eyes. Tomorrow, when I got to work, I would get one of the other doctors to prescribe me the drugs I had been avoiding. Obviously, my depression was worse than I thought. I was hearing things. Hearing people who weren't’ there. I'd just have to get over my denial and take the damn medication.

The imaginary person gently tugged my purse from my grasp and laid it on top of the bar. Strong fingers wrapped around my empty hand.

Not only was I hearing things, now I was seeing them.

I closed my eyes.

I refused to leave my self-imposed darkness even as I was pulled off the bar stool and onto my feet. I still didn't open my eyes even when my chin was gently tilted up and the imaginary person rubbed his thumb over my lower lip.

“Look at me.”

Tears leaked past my lashes and scalded my face. I would not—could not look. If I did, he would disappear and the fantasy would end.

“Please,” he offered, wiping the moisture off my cheeks.

“No, you're not real,” I whispered.

He placed my hand on his chest. His heartbeat thumped beneath my palm. “I am.”

“No, you're not. Not to me. We don't know each other.”

“I know who you are. I have since the day we met.”

The familiar comment produced memories that flashed across the darkened screen of my eyelids.

No. It was just déjà vu.

I shook my head. “I don't know you. You remind me of someone I met once, but that was a long time ago, in another life, in another place far away from here.”

“Then let me introduce myself,” he said softly. “My name is Nickolas.”

My eyes flew open.

He smiled.

“Is that really your name?” I whispered.

He chuckled. “No, it's Francis. But don't tell anyone.”

I just stared blankly.

“I'm kidding, Brenna. It's Nick.”

I caressed his check. He looked almost how I remembered him. Perhaps not as wild or dangerous. He'd traded his insurgent wear for stylish clothing. His hair was now neater, maybe a little longer. His face was clean shaven...

Shaven...

It suddenly hit me. The guy I ran into when I came in was ... My escort.

Oh, my God. This was really happening.

I gazed up into the dark eyes of my captor, Nick, and lost it. He caught me when my legs gave out. As he held me up, I covered my mouth with my hand to keep my sobbing muted.

“Brenna, breathe.”

I couldn't.

He pulled me into his arms and hugged me tight, rocking me back and forth. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

“I ... I-I never thought I'd see you again.” I choked into his chest.

“I'm sorry. I didn't intend to make you wait so long. As you know, with our location ... we had to move. I stayed to help set up the new residence.”

“I would have waited ... forever.”

“I know,” he sighed. “One of the many reasons why I love you so much.”

“You're really here.”

“Yes, I am.” He nudged me back. “Did you think I'd let you go so easily? After all the work it took to convince you to stick around?”

I giggled and swiped at my eyes. “How long until you have to go back?”

“I'm not.”

I gasped. “Really?”

He nodded. “In Iraq, a very beautiful doctor once told me I should explore my other talents. That's what I plan to do.”

“Which talents are you planning to explore?”

“I don't want to worry about that now. There's only one talent I want to focus on tonight. I was hoping you would help me brush up on it.”

Did he mean...

Just incase he meant something else, I played it cool. “Really? What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I'll answer your question only after you have answered mine.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Okay, hurry up and ask.”

“That same beautiful doctor also told me that I needed to rest more. I had assured her that I would take a long vacation when I returned. I was thinking Greece. Will you come with me?”

“Yes. Yes,” I rushed. “Now answer my question.”

“Wait, about that vacation. I need to let you know that it's an exclusive Santorini honeymoon package. I can only go with my wife.”

In my excitement to have my questioned answered, I opened my mouth to say, ‘Yeah, sure, no problem.’ But his hint registered just as the words were about to roll off my tongue. I clamped my mouth shut, telling myself not to get my hopes up until he actually asked.

“Are you asking me what I think you're asking?” I whispered.

He held out a ring. “Have me forever?”

I bit my bottom lip as tears of joy filled my eyes. Finally, after taking a couple of breaths, I was able to loosen the knot in my throat. “Yes. I love you ... Yes!”

“I love you, Brenna,” he said, slipping the ring on my finger. He then gave me a searing kiss that had my body tingling in the most of naughty places.

I pulled back. “Hey, my question. You still have to answer my question. What talent do you want to brush up on?”

“Well, it's a talent that I used to be—and I quote—'amazing’ and ‘awesome’ at, but it's been a while...”

As usual, I blushed. “I'd be more than happy to help you brush up on your skills. After all, they say that practice makes perfect.”

His heated gaze slowly roamed up and down my body. “I intend to do a lot of practicing.”

Grabbing my purse off the bar, I dragged him toward the exit. “We should start immediately. My apartment is just around the corner.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed the first installment of my new series, Desert Phantoms. You will be learning more about these heroes in future books to come.

To enjoy some more sizzling reads, be sure to check out www.resplendencepublishing.com for other fabulous books written by my fellow RP authors.

Happy Reading!

~Tia Fanning

“Fanning the Flames of Romance”

[Back to Table of Contents]

About the Author

When Tia Fanning is not lost somewhere in the exciting world of fantasy and romance, you might find her residing in Illinois with her husband, Warren, and two dogs, Drew and Jack.

However, according to her husband, she is usually lost ... even the dogs can't find her.

To learn more about Tia and her adventures, visit her at www.tiafanning.com or befriend her on www.myspace.com/tiafanning.

Visit www.resplendencepublishing.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.