Forbidden Captor

Drying her nervous palms on the legs of her jeans, Tasiya asked. “You said black?”

“Yes.”

She picked up the mug and the steaming pot. As she poured, her gaze strayed to the words on the page that had been discarded, then reclaimed. It looked like some sort of press release. The wire he’d mentioned to Ike? Is this what had Fowler so upset?

“Cameron Murphy released from Montana hospital. Bounty hunter expected to make full, if lengthy, recovery. Timing critical.”

Bounty hunter? Like Bryce Martin and the other three prisoners she’d heard the militiamen talking about?

Who was Cameron Murphy? The timing for what?

“Can you read that?”

Tasiya gasped, startled by Boone Fowler’s voice behind her. She quickly set down the coffeepot and gripped the mug with both hands before she spilled something. But the warmth that seeped into her fingers couldn’t dissipate the chill of being caught poking her nose in where it wasn’t welcome.

She uttered the first lie she could think of. “It helps my English to read.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He breathed his suspicion against the back of her neck.

The coffee in the mug splashed up the sides as she started to shake. His brand of intimidation was even more frightening than Marcus’s ranting threats. “I can read the words, but they do not all make sense.”

She had to get out of here. She spun toward him. “Here’s your coff—”

But he was already stepping around her. “Maybe if you stuck to your own—”

Her hands smacked against his chest. The coffee sloshed over her fingers, scalding them. Her grip popped open and the mug crashed to the floor, splintering on contact. The hot liquid splashed Fowler’s jeans and spilled over his boots.

Tasiya gaped at the spreading stain, soaking into suede and denim. “I’m sorry. I’ll get another cup. A towel.” The man was too still. This was too dangerous. She looked up into the cold void of his eyes and knew she was in trouble. “I am sorry.”

“You…stupid…” She tried to retreat, but her hips hit the desk. She turned, grabbed the paper napkin off the tray and squatted at his feet to sop up what she could. He never touched her, but his words were like a slap across the face. “Get up. Get away from me.”

Tasiya lurched to her feet, but he cornered her against the desk, preventing her from doing the very thing he asked. “Please.”

“Please what?” She squinted her eyes against the foul words he slung at her. “I don’t owe you any favors. You’re a clumsy foreigner poisoning the land I love. Your incompetence reminds me of every foul, stinking reason I have to do what I do.” He snatched the napkin from her fingers. “Now get out of my face! Go! Get out!”

Shuffling to the side, Tasiya scooted away. As soon as she was clear of the desk, she turned and ran.

His threats chased her out the door. “That’s right, you witch. Run. Run!”

“Hey, sugar. What’s your hurry?”

She didn’t bother sliding to a halt as Marcus Smith emerged at the top of the stairs in front of her. She shifted directions to run right past him. “Leave me alone.”

But his bear-size paw latched on to her wrist and hauled her up to his level. “Now that ain’t nice—”

“Don’t touch me!”

Tasiya jerked her arm away. Her hand flew back and hit the wall, scraping knuckles against stone and shooting a jolt of pain straight up to her elbow.

The sharp ache cleared the fog of panic that had consumed her long enough to shove Marcus aside and dart down the spiral staircase.

“Hey—”

“Marcus!”

Boone Fowler’s summons kept Marcus from pursuing her. But Tasiya didn’t stop running until she reached the relative security of her tiny room off the kitchen. She unfurled the blanket she’d hung across the opening, sank onto her bed and hugged her pillow to her stomach. Burying her face in the pillow’s muffling softness, she screamed until her throat was raw and her energy was spent.

She was less than a human being in this place. Without kindness. Without security. Without respect.

By the time she could think clearly again, she looked at the clock. It was going on eight o’clock. She had seventeen hungry prisoners to feed.

Men who’d been chained, caged, tortured, beaten. Men who might be executed on Marcus Smith’s whim.

It was empathy, more than duty, compassion or even fear, that finally prompted her to rise to her feet and dry her eyes. Tasiya straightened her bed, repinned her hair and walked into the kitchen with a determined stride. She fixed an unsmiling mask on her lips and buried her emotions in the deepest hole she could find.

She was a prisoner, too.

Only, her chains were the greed and lust of powerful men. Her cage was the deal she’d made with the devil to save her father’s life.

Chapter Four

Bryce’s hands stopped their diligent work as he tipped his head to listen to the food cart clanking over the uneven stones in the passageway.

She was coming.

That better not be his pulse rate kickin’ into a higher gear. Bryce’s sigh of self-disgust ached against his tenderized rib muscles and stirred the plaster dust at the base of the window. He had to move past this fascination with the woman. He had to focus.