Eye of the Beholder

“Escape.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something, princess.”

She was silent for a moment. “Glenna.”

“What?”

“Glenna Hastings. That’s my name.”

It suited her, he thought. It was classy and feminine, just like the woman. “Master Sergeant Rafal Marek,” he replied.

“Sergeant? Are you with the police?”

“Army Special Forces,” he said.

“You mean like SEALs?”

“They’re navy. Special Ops Delta is army.”

Another silence. “You’re from Delta Force?”

He heard the note of awe in her voice. He had Hollywood to thank for that. They had built Delta into a legend, even though the government still didn’t officially admit the force existed. “I’m from Eagle Squadron. And most people call me Rafe.”

“Okay. Rafe?”

“Yes?”

“Could you get off me, please?”

Rafe knew he should have let her up as soon as he had realized she wasn’t a threat. Sure, he’d wanted to learn the details of their situation as quickly as possible, and he hadn’t wanted their conversation to be overheard, but those weren’t the only reasons he had delayed.

He liked Glenna where she was. Her body was warm and firm and very, very comfortable stretched out underneath him. Now that she had brought it to his attention, he was aware of every inch of her. Her long legs rubbed alongside his. Her breasts pressed into his chest with each breath she drew and the pulse in her wrists was fluttering hard against his fingers.

She was a good fit. He didn’t want to let her go. It was the same possessive urge he’d had when he’d first seen her through his binoculars. And despite the ache in his head and the throbbing in his thigh, he felt a quick stirring of masculine interest.

Adrenaline, that’s all it was. Battlefield lust. It was nothing more than his body affirming that it was alive, a natural albeit primitive reaction to a brush with death and a tense situation.

Concentrate, he told himself. He had to think of the mission, not the woman. They were on the floor in an unknown location, surrounded by an undetermined number of enemies. He should be investigating their prison, assessing their options and forming a strategy.

And he should get the hell off Glenna before she felt the physical evidence of the reaction he was having no success controlling.

“Sorry,” he said, releasing her wrists. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me.”

Yeah, right, Rafe thought, rolling to his side. If his face hadn’t been covered with a mask when they’d met, she probably would have gone screaming off in the opposite direction, bad ankle and all. Lucky for him this place was so dark. He sat up, biting back a groan as he straightened his leg in front of him.

“Oh, be careful,” Glenna said. “The bleeding’s almost stopped. You have a wound in your left leg.”

“Right. Forty-five caliber from the feel of it.” He ran his hand over his thigh and found a twisted piece of fabric. Something was wrapped over the leg of his jumpsuit just above the knee. “What’s this? Did they bind it?”

“No, I did that. I used my jacket for a bandage. It’s all I could think of.”

Her jacket? She had used that elegant silk outfit to sop up his blood? For some reason, the image jarred him. “Thanks.”

“I turned it inside out before I used it.” There was a whisper of movement, the slide of skin on cement. Her voice came from a spot near his shoulder. “I know it’s not sterile, but it was the best I could do.”

He traced the edge of what he realized had to be a sleeve and found a knot. “Thanks again. Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a planner.”

“A planner?”

“For the Winston Hotel chain. I coordinate special events like conventions and fund-raisers. It’s…” Her voice became muffled, as if she rubbed her face. “It all seems so trivial now.”

Not trivial, he thought. Just a long way from here. A woman like her belonged in a different world, where men wore suits and drank bottled water at health clubs. The last man to touch her probably had manicured nails and wouldn’t know a bivouac from a bidet.

Still, she had done a good job binding his bullet wound, he realized as he loosened the knot. He eased back the torn edges of his jumpsuit and gingerly probed the area. Fresh waves of agony rolled over him. Despite the chill in the room, sweat dampened his upper lip, but he continued his exploration. He had to know the extent of the damage if he was going to plan an escape.

“Sergeant Marek? Rafe?”

It was more of a furrow than a hole. The bullet had tunneled into the fleshy part of his thigh and then passed through the other side. Messy, but good. He withdrew his hand and tipped back his head, steadying his breathing before he replied. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

Sure, he thought. She could press her body against his again and take his mind off this pain. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, using Flynn’s euphemism for anything that didn’t involve shattered bones. He repositioned the makeshift bandage.

“But—”

“I’ve had worse. It’ll heal on its own.” True enough, as long as it didn’t get infected, he thought grimly. Under these conditions, infection was extremely likely, and usually deadly. He’d have to make his move soon, before the infection set in, or he wouldn’t be able to move at all.

“Maybe we can ask for a doctor.”

He snorted. “We’re not going to stick around that long, Glenna. We’re only alive because they needed more hostages. They must still be hoping to negotiate.”

“Who are those people, anyway? Are they terrorists?”

“No. Just your garden variety drug smugglers with delusions of grandeur.” He gave her a summary of what he knew, including the demands the hijackers had originally made. But as he spoke he realized that the demand for the jet fuel must have been a sham meant to throw them off the trail—the hijackers had never intended to leave this island. This was where they were based. “I don’t think they’re going to release us, whatever happens. They have nothing to gain by showing mercy. That’s why it’s imperative that we escape as soon as possible.”

He braced his knuckles on the floor, got his feet under him and straightened up to stand. Pain knifed along his leg to his groin at the change in position, but he fought it back and limped toward the darkness that marked the nearest wall. He ran his hand across the surface. Cement block. If it had been wood, there might have been a chance of prying a board loose, but without tools, he couldn’t realistically consider this way an option. Moving cautiously, he made a circuit of the room, exploring their prison by touch, searching for any windows, any break in the mortar, but the only opening was the door. He got down on his stomach and laid his cheek against the floor to peer through the crack.

What he saw wasn’t encouraging. A long corridor, the legs of a chair, the butt of a rifle and three pairs of scuffed brown leather army boots. Three men. Armed. Probably paramilitary trained like the group at the airport.

Still, they wouldn’t be expecting an escape attempt so soon. He’d have the element of surprise on his side. If he got Glenna to provide a distraction, and if he managed to get a weapon away from one of those guards before they sounded the alarm, then they might be able to make a run for it. They would have to move fast, though. Otherwise…

He pushed off the floor and moved back to where he’d left Glenna. His leg would be good enough to carry his own weight for a short distance, but he wasn’t sure whether it would bear Glenna. “How’s your ankle?” he asked.