Breaking Point (18 page)

Had Zach bought this hoping to see her in it?

Rather than making her angry, the thought made her breath catch, sent a trill of excitement into her belly. She found herself wanting to
let
him see her in it, wanting to see how he would react, wanting to see where that would take them. He was such an intense man. Kissing him had shaken her to her core. Making love with him would be . . .

Did she actually want it? Did she truly want to sleep with a man she’d known for all of three days, a man with secrets, a man who might be a criminal? Did she truly want to have sex with Zach?

Would it be so wrong if she did?

For six long years, she had grieved for Beau, missing him, holding on to his memory, hating herself for calling him from the hospital and asking him to come get her. That phone call had cost him his life. She’d wept for him until there was nothing left inside her, until the pain of losing him had left her numb, until she’d begun to think that she had died, too.

But Zach’s kiss had brought her back to life. He had awakened something inside her, made her feel things she hadn’t felt in years. She couldn’t help but want him.

Would it be so wrong if she let herself live again?

The question jabbed at her conscience, but her body had a very different response. Even the
idea
of sex with Zach aroused her, the wetness between her thighs having nothing to do with her shower. She couldn’t help but want him. Besides, hadn’t she promised herself that if she got away from the Zetas she would live her life to the fullest?

Yes, she had.

Who have you become, Natalie?

She met her own gaze, unable to answer. She didn’t appear any different, not on the outside. But something inside her had changed. During the course of these past few days, something had definitely changed.

Her gaze dropped to the nightgown.

No, of course, she couldn’t wear this. She couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.

But she couldn’t seem to get herself to take it off either.

 

ZACH READ OVER the list of supplies he’d just written, checking to make certain he hadn’t forgotten anything. Handheld GPS. Batteries. Compass for when the GPS fucked up. Wristwatch. Night vision goggles. Infrared binoculars. Night scope for the AK. Box of 115 grain +P jacketed hollow point rounds for the Glocks. Cartridges for the AKs. Double shoulder holster. Flashlight. Two backpacks. Sturdy trail shoes, athletic socks, BDU pants and jackets for both of them. Thick leather gloves. Bandanas. A heavy wool blanket. Duct tape. Sunscreen. Lip balm. Hats. Rope. Powdered electrolytes. Moleskin for blisters. Antihistamine. Insect repellant. Snakebite kit. Codeine-caffeine tablets. Hard candy. MREs if he could find them. Canned food and a can opener if he couldn’t. Hand wipes. And eight gallons of water—enough to last three or four days if they traveled at night.

As a supply town that served everyone from poor families planning to cross the border illegally in search of work to wealthy drug lords, Altar had pretty much everything on the list. To avoid attracting attention, Zach would pay in cash, wear sunglasses, speak only Spanish. Shopkeepers in Altar had long ago learned not to ask questions, and there was almost no chance that Zach would be recognized. There was only one Zeta still alive who knew what he looked like.

But Natalie was a different matter. Her photo had been in the papers and on the news. As striking as she was, she’d be recognized immediately. What was he going to do with her?

He stood, stretched, pain in his ribs stopping him short. He looked over at the bed, his body desperately in need of sleep. He was still in combat mode, exhaustion kept at a distance by adrenaline. But he’d had only one full night of sleep since being taken by the Zetas. Eventually, it was going to catch up with him.

He dragged one of the chairs over to the door, jammed it beneath the doorknob—an extra obstacle just in case—and had just started checking the weapons when the bathroom door opened and Natalie walked out. He glanced up—and his mouth went dry.

Sweet Jesus!

She was wearing it. She was wearing the nightgown.

And damned if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—virginal, achingly feminine, seductive as hell. The fabric seeming to slide over her skin like a whisper, breasts that had teased him all day from beneath her tank top now daring him to touch them, kiss them, suck their velvety tips. And that dark stripe where her thighs came together . . .

Not a triangle, a
stripe
.

She waxes.

The thought of smooth, bare labia knocked the breath from his lungs, heat rushing to his groin, his cock already half-hard and getting harder, his jeans uncomfortably tight.

You are such a fucking idiot, McBride! Why did you buy the thing? Haven’t you been tortured enough lately?

Oh, but this was a completely different kind of torture, as sweet as it was unbearable—and much more likely to break him.

Through a testosterone fog, he realized she was watching him.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks glowed a delectable shade of pink. “It’s beautiful.”

He wanted to tell her that the gown was only beautiful because she was wearing it, but he was too caught up defending himself from the part of him that wanted to kick his own ass. “I was half-asleep when I grabbed it. I think it was all they had.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she turned away from him, her hands suddenly busy drawing down the covers and plumping pillows.

The sight of her hips and sweet ass swathed in silk shorted out his brain, so it took him a moment to realize that he’d hurt her. Well, it had been years since he’d spent any real time with a woman. Obviously, he’d forgotten everything he’d learned about dealing with females—which probably hadn’t been much in the first place.

Son of a bitch!

Sexually frustrated, irritated with himself, he went back to what he’d been doing. But there’d been a change of plans. Rather than setting the Glock on the nightstand, he carried it to the table together with the duffel bag of weapons and ammo. He drew one of the chairs into the corner beneath the AC and leaned an AK against the wall beside the chair. He told himself this position would enable him to look out the window and keep an eye on the parking lot. But the truth was that it would keep him from lying in bed beside Natalie.

You handled it last night, and she was only wearing a towel.

Yes, but last night he’d been half-dead. Tonight, he was half-hard.

He turned to face her, found her crawling beneath the covers. He grabbed one of the Glocks, and set it on the nightstand next to her. “At the first sign of trouble, run into the bathroom and lie down in the tub. And take this with you. Understand?”

“Yes.” Her face expressionless, she looked up at him, then glanced over at the chair. “Are you sleeping there? It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“I want to keep an eye on the parking lot.”

She propped herself up on an elbow, raised a graceful brow. “While you sleep?”

“I’ll catnap.” He took off his shirt, tossed it onto the table, then clicked off the light, neon from outside flickering red through white curtains. “Get some rest.”

He went and sat in the chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and kicked his feet up onto the table, settling in for the night. Overhead, the AC rattled.

It was going to be one long damned night.

CHAPTER 13

GRITTING HIS TEETH against agony, Zach switched his M4 into full auto mode and fired, spraying the hillside, trying to take out as many damned Taliban as he could before they could reach his element. He hoped the men would hear his shots and recognize the sharper retort of his M4 over the AK fire echoing through the canyon. Hopefully, they’d turn and see the fighters coming up behind them. If they didn’t . . .

Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat! Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat! Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat!

Sweat stinging his eyes, he emptied his magazine, the recoil making the pain in his back that much more unbearable. But he didn’t give a damn about pain, not when his team was depending on him for their survival. Across on the opposite hillside, bodies dropped, wounded men crying out, others running for cover as the Taliban fighters realized they were under fire. One walked in mindless circles, clutching the stump of his arm, as if looking for the rest of it.

Zach needed more ammo, but the spare ammunition was in his pack a good three feet away. He dragged himself inch by inch across the ground, the pain in his back tearing through him. He reached with bloody fingers, grabbed a full magazine and a fistful of stripper clips, then shoved the magazine into place and raised the weapon. But by then most of the Taliban fighters had already disappeared down the side of the hill, out of his sight. He opened fire again, taking down a handful of stragglers, including the man whose arm he’d shot off.

Then from down in the valley he heard it—the frenzy of metallic AK-47 fire as the Taliban who’d made it down the hill—the ones he hadn’t gotten—started shooting. Beneath it, he could just hear the steady fire of three M4s and Jimmy’s HK MP5.

And then . . .

The explosion of an IED and a cry.

Brian?

Fuck! Fuck, no!

His element, his team, his friends—they were dying.

Zach tried to crawl to the edge of the cliff, inching his way forward, but he’d lost too much blood, black spots swimming before his eyes. He looked skyward, hoping to hear the sound of a Blackhawk. “Come on, goddamn it!”

Another cry.

A woman’s high-pitched scream of terror.

Natalie?

How in the hell had she gotten here?

Jesus, no!

He clawed at the dirt, trying to pull himself forward, trying to reach her, calling for her, AK fire drowning out his voice, only one M4 firing now.

“Zach, wake up!”

Zach jerked upright, choking on terror, his eyes flying open to find Natalie kneeling beside him. Still lost in his nightmare, he reached for her, his fingers sliding through her thick hair, feeling their way over her face and down her neck to her shoulders, searching for injuries.

She caught one of his hands, held it. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”

Just a dream.

He stood, pushed past her, his heart hammering, his lungs hurting for breath. But there was nowhere to go. He crossed the small room, turned, walked to the other side of the bed, then back to the table again. He slammed it with a closed fist, making Natalie jump, a strangled cry working its way loose from his throat. He turned, crossed to the other side of the bed again, and, adrenaline finally spent, sat on the corner of the bed, his back to her, no sound in the room but his own rapid breathing and the rattle of the AC. He closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing, his insides shredded, his stomach churning, the taste of death fresh in his mouth.

It had seemed so real, so goddamned real. It always did.

You are such a fuckup, McBride.

He sensed her behind him, felt her hand rest against the nape of his neck, her cool fingers caressing his hair in soothing strokes. A part of him wanted to shout at her to get the hell away from him. He didn’t want her compassion. He didn’t need her compassion.

Oh, but he did. Jesus, yes, he did.

Her touch was a lifeline, the only one he had. A light in the darkness, it called him back from the abyss. She started to pull away, but he couldn’t let her go.

He caught her hand with his, drawing her around the corner of the bed to stand in front of him, needing . . . Needing what? Hell, even he didn’t know.

He felt empty, broken, defeated.

He wrapped his arms around her, refusing to let go, his head dropping to rest against her chest.

Without a word, she enfolded him in her embrace, holding him to her breast like a mother comforting a child, her fingers curling in his hair, her heartbeat steady in his ear. And he clung to her.

Natalie felt the tension roiling inside Zach, and wished she knew what to do for him. She’d heard him cry out and had been out of bed and on her way to the bathtub before she’d realized that they weren’t being attacked, that he was asleep and caught in a nightmare. Covered in sweat, his face had been a tormented mask, red neon spilling across his features like blood. She’d never seen such anguish on a human face before.

The nightmare had clearly shaken him to his soul. And although she didn’t know him well, she knew without a doubt that he rarely asked for help or accepted comfort from others. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself be vulnerable.

But he was vulnerable now.

She pressed her cheek against the crown of his head, offering him what solace she could. And for a while they stayed that way.

Then something began to change. Zach’s breathing deepened, his head coming up just enough that his lips touched her skin. He slowly turned his face, one big hand feeling its way up her spine as he kissed first her breastbone, then the swell of her left breast, the unexpected contact making her shiver.

Confused at the shift in him, she said nothing. But her hands had ideas of their own. Hungry for the feel of him, they slid through his hair, working their way to his nape then on to his bare shoulders, hard muscle shifting beneath her palms, his skin soft.

He pulled back, and for a moment she thought it was over. She bit her lip, torn between relief and disappointment.

Then she felt his fingertips skimming their way up her arms, his touch raising bumps on her skin. Only when his thumbs caught the slender straps of the nightgown did she realize what he meant to do. She tensed, anticipation twined with nervousness inside her, making it hard to breathe.

With agonizing slowness, he drew the straps over her shoulders and down her arms, baring her to her waist. She looked down to find his gaze fixed on her breasts, a strained expression on his face. She felt—and saw—her nipples tighten under the heat of his perusal, heard the breath leave his lungs in a long, slow exhale. Then he reached up with both hands and cupped her.