A few were thin and white, as if made from a knife or a whip. Others were larger. Ugly.
He really was a mercenary, she realized. She’d known it before, but that was in her head. Now she knew—deep down knew—this man killed for a living. Or had.
Despite that, she longed to run her fingers over his battle scars. Test the texture of his skin and make the wicked lines disappear. To offer him the solace she craved.
Mesmerized, she stepped closer. A board squeaked beneath her feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I have a what?” he asked without a hint of body consciousness as he slid a black T-shirt over his head.
“Belt?” she asked, tugging at the pants and staring at her feet. “Got a belt?”
“In the drawer.” He grabbed a second set of black cargo pants and put them on, removing a few items from the pants on the floor and placing them in the various pockets. “Stuff your jeans and the other clothes under the covers.”
She did as she instructed, making two long lumps side by side as she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious decoy.
“It’s not supposed to,” Angel said. “If someone followed you, or if someone sells the info, Montoya will come in and shoot ‘us’ up.” He sat on the bed and put on his boots. “Consider it an early warning system.”
The goose bumps returned, and Fiona found herself speechless. A part of her mind wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but she knew the answer.
She’d crossed Ramon Montoya, and until she got the footage of Maria’s death out of Colombia, her life was in danger.
Hers, and anyone she spoke to.
Juan.
“Will they come after Juan?” she asked, panicked at the thought. “If someone saw me go into the bar, they might.”
Angel’s hands stilled, and there was something new in his hazel eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t sure how to interpret.
Angel went back to lacing his boots. “He’s already gone. He’ll be fine.” He finished and picked up his guns. “Take this,” he said, holding one out.
It was for her? She eyed it. She’d shot a rifle before but only a few times. She took the gun. It was lighter than she expected.
“Can you shoot it if you have to?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She put the weapon in a pocket then grabbed the small bag of food, the jacket and her hat.
Angel pressed a key into her hand. “End of the hallway. Last door on the left.”
Slowly, he opened the door and edged into the hallway. “All clear. Go!”
The sun sank below the horizon, casting shadows and gold light over Fiona’s sleeping body. She seemed much too innocent to be a reporter, Angel decided as he watched her sleep. She frowned, and her eyelids flickered, betraying the fact that she dreamed.
Bad dreams, he was sure.
He knew what those were like.
“Anthony,” she mumbled, the dead man’s name almost incoherent.
Yep, bad dreams. His back against the wall, a Glock on his lap and another tucked at the back of his waist, he touched a long, pale blond curl that had turned the color of honey in the setting sun.
Isabel’s opposite, he mused. Isabel with her black hair, chocolate eyes and olive skin. He shut his eyes. Though it was over two years since her death, she still haunted him.
Fiona mumbled again. Whimpered. Kicked. Angel opened his eyes and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”
Her whimper turned into a sigh, and she turned over, sticking a leg out from the unzipped side of the sleeping bag.
She slept in her clothes in case they had to bug out, but even seeing her in boots and pants, he didn’t miss the perfect curve of her thigh.
Looking at her, with her pale hair and a body that would make a monk question his vows, he knew he had nothing but trouble on his hands. Angel let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. When she’d asked for help, he should have told her to move on. To find someone else. But no, instead he had to play the hero.
Play being the operative word. He was a mercenary, dammit. Not a knight. And he would do well to remember that. He had a head full of memories to keep him in line. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always Isabel’s engagement ring to remind him about what happened to people who put themselves in situations better left alone. He touched the zippered pants pocket where he’d transferred it earlier.
“Crap, what a mistake,” he muttered.
“What is?” Fiona turned over, blinking at him and yawning.
He stared at her, irked that she’d overheard his comment but more irked at himself for not keeping his mouth shut.
“Well?” she asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say other than the truth. “You. Me. Running from the law.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
She looked sorry. And helpless.
She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “If it makes a difference, I’ve thought about what you said earlier. About me putting people in danger for a story.”
“And?” he asked, curious.
“I like to think that when it comes to humanity versus the story, I’d choose humanity. I’d save a life over getting a good story.” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.
“You’re not sure though, are you?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would have gone for the story every time. She couldn’t help herself, even when it meant putting herself in danger.
Fiona shook her head. “In this case? No. Montoya needs to be stopped. That’s not in question. Maria’s death gave me the means to do just that. It isn’t fair, but I’m glad I was there to capture it. And as for Tony…” Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”
“Me, too,” Angel said.
“But you need to know that despite what happened, I can’t start questioning the morality of my job. What I can do is make sure that Montoya pays for his actions. That he goes to jail.”
“I understand,” he replied.
She managed a weak smile then stood, letting the sleeping bag drop to her feet, and went to the bathroom.
Angel watched her walk away from him, and his mouth went dry. He’d thought her legs were good. Her ass was better.
“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, closing the door.
