men won’t give up,” she warned. “Staying with me will be dangerous.”
He didn’t seem worried. “I assess risk for a living.”
She pegged him as a controlled adrenaline junkie—and knew she could do worse. “You have a head injury.”
He fingered the bandage by his left eye, deliberating. “We don’t need to decide now. Let’s sleep on it.”
Making a tacit agreement to revisit the topic in the morning, Isabel killed the lights, settling in beside him. He didn’t try to touch her again, which only increased her frustration. She was lying next to a hot gentleman, her body humming with desire. Sex was out of the question, of course, no matter how badly she wanted it. He was nursing a possible concussion, and she had to stay focused on survival.
They couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.
Tomorrow night, if she decided to accompany him to Guatemala, she’d try to secure a room with two beds.
After a few minutes, his breaths came deep and even, signaling that he was asleep. Isabel relaxed slightly, her thoughts drifting. She felt safe with Brandon. Not comfortable, exactly. Their physical chemistry kept her nerves on edge, but she didn’t think he’d harm her.
She also wondered why he’d offer his assistance, beyond chivalry. A man like him could have his pick of women. Those two European girls had given him the go-signal. Why would he trouble himself with a knife-wielding fugitive instead? Some guys had a thing for surfer girls; others enjoyed the chase. Many extreme sports enthusiasts were addicted to risk. Maybe Brandon was a thrill-seeker and an “exotic” female was icing on his cake.
It didn’t matter, as long as he kept his distance.
She was still pondering his motives, and replaying the feel of his hand on her cheek, when exhaustion took over.
Brandon waited until Isabel fell asleep and rose from the bed, moving to the single window to stand guard.
Through the bars, he watched the dark, empty street. In a few hours, the sun would peek over the edge of the horizon, and most of the city’s residents would rise for another long workday. Now, the night was quiet and peaceful.
His head didn’t ache as much as it had earlier, and the nausea had passed. Judging by his blurred vision, motion sickness and general disorientation, he’d suffered a mild concussion. He should take care not to reinjure himself in the next few weeks—getting knocked out again could be disastrous. Although he didn’t really assess risk for a living, he’d played enough football to know that brain damage was no joke.
He glanced back at Isabel, acknowledging that this assignment was rife with risk. Even from across the room, she tempted him. Her figure was a shadowy outline on the bed, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, chest rising with soft, even breaths. His fingers itched to sink into her hair, to skim along her slender curves. Worse, a strange tenderness welled up inside him at the sight of her peaceful slumber.
He tore his gaze away, clenching his bandaged hand into a fist. Seducing her wasn’t one of his objectives. Inappropriate contact with a target was grounds for dismissal, in fact. All of his previous assignments had involved men, so that hadn’t been a problem before. It shouldn’t be a problem now. He’d never had trouble abstaining from sex on the job, or finding an appropriate partner during his downtime. Right now, he had no patience for abstinence and zero interest in other women. For whatever reason, he felt a very specific, intensely focused desire for Isabel. Maybe he wanted her because he couldn’t have her. Or maybe he just wanted her.
Either way, he needed to get a grip.
This was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. Sure, he’d admired her sexy photos—and he didn’t dare conjure a mental image of the more explicit ones now, when he was feeling vulnerable—but he wasn’t a horny teenager anymore. A beautiful woman with a bad personality didn’t appeal to him. As far as he knew, Izzy Sanborn was a hot mess. He avoided spoiled brats and drama queens like the plague.
Isabel “Sanchez” was a far cry from the hard-partying socialite he’d researched, however. She was smart, and resourceful, and … he liked her.
He’d been trained to feel nothing for his targets, positive or negative. Hate could be as great a liability as sympathy, and he wasn’t supposed to damage the merchandise. It didn’t matter if they were innocent or guilty, just that they were fugitives. He didn’t evaluate evidence. His instructions were to make contact, plan and execute a capture, and deliver the target unharmed.
What happened after that was none of his business.
Perhaps because Isabel was a woman, he worried about her fate. He considered the punishment she would face, and whether or not she deserved it. Questioning an assignment wasn’t like him. Usually, he felt good about what he did and proud of the services rendered. He’d caught sexual predators, ruthless drug dealers, hard-core criminals. None of these men had inspired tender feelings.
Isabel wasn’t a typical target, not by a long shot. Her behavior was flighty and irresponsible, but she didn’t seem cruel. There were two sides to every story, and he wanted to know hers. He could tell she hadn’t enjoyed stabbing a stranger, or braining a man with a brick. She wasn’t a sociopath.
For the first time, he felt conflicted about his job. He should be going after those bastards in La Familia, not Isabel.
Frowning, he tested the bars on the window, which were impenetrable. The security measure was a fire hazard, and it cut off this avenue of escape. The bathroom window, facing the alleyway, was small but would do in a pinch. He wouldn’t have chosen this hotel, or this particular room, if there had been others available. It was too confined.
Turning, he leaned his back against the wall, watching Isabel sleep. He studied her relaxed face, the soft sweep of her eyelashes, her slightly parted lips. Maybe he was romanticizing her situation, proscribing motives that didn’t exist.
What if his instincts were off?
He’d promised his boss that an assignment was an assignment. He had no qualms about taking down a dangerous female. The deadlier the better. And backing out at this stage of the game wasn’t an option.
Determined to steel himself against her allure, he vowed to collect as much information about her as possible. She was fiercely independent, a capable warrior. Although he got the impression that she didn’t let anyone touch her these days, she’d seemed tempted by him tonight. If the attraction between them wasn’t one-sided, he could use it to his advantage—as long as he stayed strong. He couldn’t sleep with her, under any circumstances, but if he feigned disinterest, he might lose her altogether.
Walking that tightrope would be tricky, possibly torturous.
He stared at her for a long time, praying he’d be able to maintain a professional distance, wondering if she’d been wrongly accused.
She didn’t look like a murderer.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
