Hush (12 page)

The problem with jasmine, Zak thought, feeling savage and out of sorts and generally pissed off, was that the soft flowery scent smelled like innocence. Like things he didn't want to think of: joy, and hope. He efficiently ran the wet wipe across her shoulder blades and frowned at the stubborn, rust-colored flakes. “It's dried,” he muttered, voice gruff. “I have to scrub if you want it off.”

Oh, God, she wanted it off. Acadia felt each individual fleck and speck of blood as if it had stuck to her skin and fastened like some kind of grotesque tick. She shuddered. “As hard as you like. Please.”

Making a rough sound she couldn't identify—probably disgust that she was so squeamish under the circumstances—Zak did as she asked—a little more vigorously than Acadia was prepared for. His steadying hand tightened on her shoulder as she staggered under the sudden pressure, but she braced her feet, not saying a word as he briskly applied the wipe to her skin.

She'd rather be rubbed raw than carry that man's blood on her for a second longer.

“Done.” He yanked down her T-shirt to cover her, and she heard the scuff of his boots as he stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said with feeling as she slipped her arms into the armholes of the vest hurriedly. She turned
around. “Give me the … that.” She wiggled her fingers, and he handed her the blood-smeared wipe. “I can put it to good use.”

When he only cocked his head, scarred eyebrow twitching inquisitively, Acadia kneeled on the cement ledge and stuffed the cloth into the peephole.

His lips twitched, but he didn't smile as she returned to his side. “They can look in through the door.”

“Where I'll see them.” She went to stand next to him. The bump on his temple was a painful shade of purple. “I have more aspirin if you'd like some.” She reached up to touch the bruise, and he jerked away.

“Don't pet me. I don't do touchy-feely.”

“Really? I would never have guessed,” she told him tartly. “I love being petted.” She loved no such thing. No one had ever done it, and it wasn't something she was used to. But under the circumstances she felt the urge to needle him. “I don't suppose you'd consider giving me a hug—No? Okay. Never mind.” She disguised her smile at his annoyed expression by digging into her pocket for the aspirin. “You must have a terrible headache; here, take a couple of these.”

“I don't.” He gave her a brief glance, his eyes unreadable as she stuck the flat pack back in her pocket. A muscle jerked in his jaw as he held the severed ends of the plastic handcuffs. He had very large hands, which she'd noticed last night, but up close she saw that his fingers were long and almost elegant, like a piano player's.

Her gaze flickered to his face. “Do you play? I had
lessons when I was little, but my parents lost interest almost before I did. I was terrible—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” His head turned a few beats before he made eye contact.

“Do you have absolutely no social skills?” Acadia demanded crossly. “We're stuck in this confined space because of
you
, we're probably going to die because of
you
. You don't appear to have a viable plan to get us out of here, do you? No, apparently no—”

“What do you want from me?” His eyes glittered, and the skin was pulled taut over his cheekbones.

“The answer to that seems obvious. Get me out of here alive.”

“Do I
look
like a fucking hero to you?”

“Don't swear at me just because you're scared too,” Acadia said furiously. “You
look
like a man whose money and position got me where I am right now. You
look
like a man who doesn't have a plan. You also
look
like a big, strong guy who
should
be able to outsmart ten drunk guerrillas who are
half asleep
. I don't give a hoot if you're a hero or a freaking antihero. If nothing else, help me formulate a plan that'll work before we all
die
in here.” Acadia was stunned to realize that she was absolutely furious, and worse, she was yelling.

She lowered her voice with considerable effort. “And the very least you could do in our last hours on this earth is
talk
to me in complete sentences.” She punched him in the arm. His brow rose. No one was more shocked than she was. There wasn't a violent bone in her body. Or at least there never had been before she'd met Zakary Stark,
almost been raped, been kidnapped, and been thrown into isolation with a monosyllabic pacifist.

She punched him again.

He didn't blink. “Feel better?”

“How old are you?” she demanded, jaw aching because she was gritting her teeth so hard.

“Why?”

“I'm stunned that someone bigger and stronger than me hasn't killed you by now.”

Totally unconcerned, he was staring outside at the men drinking and playing cards in the shade. “Not for lack of trying.”

“My father taught me seventeen ways to kill a man that'll look like an accident. Why don't I give it a shot?” she offered sweetly. Her heart was manic, her palms damp with perspiration. She'd never lost her temper this way. Ever. The man was infuriating.

Still looking at the soldiers, he leaned a shoulder against the wall. “What happened to him?”

“He died three months ago. Early-onset Alzheimer's. Trust me, I've lived with an uncommunicative, socially awkward man for most of my life, and you take the prize.”

“That why you talk enough for two people?”

She was so scared she was afraid to blink, so hot she was sweating out every drop of moisture in her body, and so blindly furious with Zakary Stark she wanted to do some sort of atypical violence to his person until he begged for mercy.

“If I were you,” Acadia told him, brimming with
temper, “I'd talk to me nicely, and apologize a lot. I have things with me that can make you and your brother's last few hours a lot less unpleasant.” Her voice rose. “And things that will make your last few hours a living hell!”

He reached out, gripped her wrist, and a second later had her arm twisted painfully behind her back. “I can take whatever the fuck I want from you,
and
I won't have to listen to your inane chatter afterward. How's
that
for a give-and-take conversation, Miss Gray?”

He held on to her for another second or two, then shoved her not so gently out of reach. Acadia rubbed her wrist, even though he hadn't hurt her. Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest, and her breathing was erratic. “Bastard.”

“Bitch,” he returned without heat, his attention on the scene outside. Suddenly, he straightened. “Gideon just gave me the signal. We're going to take the men now. The combo of this heat and all the booze … While we deal with the situation, stay right here, where I know how to find you.”

Like she'd just sit here waiting for him to do his thing. “I'll be halfway to Caracas the second your Neanderthal back is turned,” she told him furiously.

“As soon as we're done, I'll come and get you,” he said, as if she hadn't said a word. “We'll head back the way we came. Follow the track we made coming in.”

He was an infuriating dictator. Weighing the odds, Acadia glanced through the bars and assessed what was happening outside. The place was crawling with
uniformed, armed guerrillas. She scowled at him. “Three of us are going to take out ten armed men?”

“Two of us,” he corrected. “The alternative is,
they
decide the when and the how of whatever they have planned for us. Gideon's ribs are cracked, if not broken. We can't wait.”

“I agree. But I'd feel a lot more confident if we had a cohesive plan before you raced out of here unprepared.”
Come on, Acadia, think
. He might've gotten her into this mess, but she wasn't willing to bet her life that he could or would get them out safely. She had to participate in this escape plan if it had a hope in hell of working.

She'd kill for pen and paper so she could write down her thoughts and see if there was some sort of escape plan that didn't involve people getting shot in the back as they ran.

She went through her mental inventory of the pockets, then she felt down to the calf of her left leg, opened the pocket there, and took out a bottle of Visine.
Thank you, boring Saturday nights with the Internet
. She held the tiny bottle out to Zak. “Use this.”

Zak gave her one of those looks men had perfected since they'd clubbed their dinner, the I-have-important-business-don't-bother me-little-lady look, and said impatiently, “I don't need eyedrops.”

“How would you like to take out those men, and keep them incapacitated for at least six or seven hours, without even one shot being fired?”

“Obviously the answer to that is, hell yeah.”

“Put this in that brandnew bottle of whatever they just opened,” she told him with exaggerated patience. Really, didn't the man read? “It doesn't really cause diarrhea. That's an urban myth. But the active ingredient, tetrahydrozoline, has much more serious consequences when ingested.”

He gave the small bottle a dubious glance. “You sure it works?”

“Difficulty breathing will incapacitate them plenty,” Acadia assured him. “But it also causes severe headaches, muscle weakness, seizures, and possibly coma.”

“Jesus. You are one dangerous woman, Acadia Gray.”

She gave him a wicked smile. “I've been trying to tell you that all day.”

FIVE

L
ie down like you're about to pass out.”

“That's not far from the truth.” Acadia crossed the tiny cell to stretch out obediently on the filthy slab, repositioning the plastic handcuffs to look as though she was still restrained. Heart pounding with both fear and anticipation, she tried to unclench her muscles.

“Okay. Just alerted Gid. Relax. You look like you've been embalmed,” Zak said dryly, adjusting the plastic cuffs over his own wrists. “I just want you to look faint, not dead.”

For several beats she felt a prickle of awareness travel through her body like an electrical current as his hot gaze swept over her like the caress of possessive hands.

Was he remembering last night? Apparently not. From his grim expression, she could tell sex with her was the last thing on his mind.
Get a grip, Acadia.

She shut her eyes and went limp. “Better?” It was hard to regulate her erratic breathing. Fear. It was fear. And the images of … She held her breath until she thought
maybe, just maybe, she could inhale without getting a potent rush of memories of exactly what those hands could do.

Unaffected by the tangible sexual current she felt between them, Zak yelled through the bars. “Hey! Get over here. The woman passed out, she needs water! Hurry!” The panic in his voice was startling; the man was a good actor. “She's not moving!” Then under his breath. “Five. Four. Three. Two.”

Her lips twitched. He was so damn cocky and confident, utterly convinced everything would go according to his plans. Except they were
her
plans. She'd remind him of that. If they made it out alive.

The sound of voices got closer, Spanish too fast to translate. Resisting the urge to stiffen, she remained wilted, mentally bracing herself for a confrontation.

It was obvious from the way Zak and Gideon were able to come up with a diversion without a single spoken word between them that they'd been in tight places before. And survived. Being brothers was part of it, but Acadia sensed a deeper bond than that. They trusted one another implicitly.

She couldn't fathom what that would be like. There'd never been anyone but herself to rely on.

Zak shouted for the guards again, urging them to hurry. Acadia heard their slightly slurred comments as they neared the shack. They were already tipsy. But even so, they suspected a trap.