on choking the man underneath him into submission. Blood from his brow dripped into his left eye, blinding him. Finally, Gaucho’s body went slack. Brandon released his grip, exhausted.
Isabel wore the same expression he’d seen in the alleyway. Fear, horror, guilt.
Sweating profusely, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the man she’d brained. There was no blood, and his chest was moving with shallow breaths.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked, nibbling a fingertip.
“I don’t know,” he said, rolling away from the man underneath him. “This one will wake up soon, I guarantee it.”
Her eyes darted toward the street. “Let’s get out of here before the police come back.”
Brandon’s brain felt like a scrambled egg. He was dizzy and fatigued, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood. There was no time to ask questions. Mute, he retrieved his backpack from the vehicle and they left the carport together.
She had a beat-up motorcycle parked nearby. It wasn’t built for two but Brandon figured it would hold their weight. He mounted the bike first, trying to make room for her. She ended up sitting on him.
“Do you know how to drive this thing?”
“Sort of,” she said, starting the engine.
The situation was surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Brandon might be able to process it in a few hours. For now, he was on autopilot, his head spinning. A minute ago, he’d been participating in a violent fistfight. Now he had a deadly female in his lap.
“I owe you one,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
She glanced around to make sure the road was clear before pressing on the gas. “We’re even.”
Chapter 4
The highway from Puerto Escondido to Oaxaca City wasn’t for the faint of heart.
During the day, the hairpin turns, deep potholes and absent road signs kept even the most experienced drivers on their toes. At night, the journey was extremely dangerous, almost impassable.
The good news was that they were all alone.
Isabel went as fast as she dared, watching out for headlights and herd animals, feeling safer with every mile gained. Brandon voiced no complaints but she sensed his discomfort. Every time they went over a hard bump or around a sharp curve, his arm tightened around her waist and his shoulders tensed, as if he was steeling himself from the pain. He’d taken some hard knocks to the head.
She’d been surprised by the skill and ferocity of his counterattack. He’d shown no hesitation in taking on a much larger man. She still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to break free. One moment he was getting pummeled, the next he was choking his opponent into submission. Isabel had watched the brutish display with a mixture of awe and unease, mesmerized by the corded muscles in his neck.
Although she’d known he was fast, she’d underestimated his strength. His lean elegance was deceptive. He fought like a professional.
She shivered at the thought. Even now, after hours on the road, she was aware of the hard thighs beneath her bottom, the locked forearm around her waist and the solid wall of his chest against her back. Well-built surfers were the rule, rather than the exception, but they didn’t typically excel at ultra violence. Her mind raced with questions, and she had to force herself not to squirm on his lap.
Who the hell was he?
The noise of the engine and the speed of travel inhibited conversation. By the time the city lights of Oaxaca were visible, it was well past midnight, and Isabel was exhausted. “I’m going to find a hotel,” she said as soon as they exited the highway.
Brandon made a sound of agreement. His injuries needed attention, and he had to be as tired as she was. If he wanted to take his chances at the airport, or split up, he was welcome to hail a cab from the hotel.
Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy at this hour. She spotted a run-down three-story building, well off the main drag, with a private parking garage and a back exit. Luckily, there was an employee at the gate.
“Pretend you’re drunk,” she murmured to Brandon.
He slumped against her back, compliant.
After a brief exchange with the guard, who was happy to accept cash in exchange for a room key, she parked her motorcycle and helped Brandon up the stairs. He leaned on her, either playing drunk or because he was really hurting.
The room was cramped but clean. She flipped on the light, relieved when a ceiling fan whirred into motion. It was hot in here. At least there was a private bath, as promised. She urged Brandon toward the bed, sweat trickling between her breasts.
He sat down on the mattress, groaning as he touched his temple. Blood had matted his left eyebrow and dried in dark rivulets along his jaw. His mouth was swollen, his shirt torn. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.
She wondered if he had a concussion, though he’d never lost consciousness. “Is anything broken?”
He rested his head against the pillows. “Just my skull.”
Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. “I’ll try to get you some ice,” she said, grabbing the bucket from the nightstand. Ice was a luxury amenity in a dive hotel like this, so she was pleased to find a functional ice maker on the bottom floor. There was also a vending machine. After returning to the room, she emptied a pillowcase and filled it with a few handfuls of ice. “Here,” she said, pressing the makeshift pack to his temple.
“Thanks,” he said, holding it in place.
She rummaged through her messenger bag, which had a first aid kit, complete with bandages and over-the-counter painkillers. Ripping open the square package, she offered him the two pills in her upturned palm. He washed them down with water and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His cuts needed to be cleaned, but that could wait until the pills kicked in. “Are you hungry? The vending machine has snacks.”
He didn’t say no, so she returned to the bottom floor to buy cold sodas, snack cakes and tortilla chips. She carried the items upstairs and set them on the nightstand. “If you want to shower, you should do it now, before I fix you up.”
“You go first,” he said, his lips barely moving.
She took her bag into the bathroom, eager to wash and change. The mirror was small and scratched but it reflected her unsightly appearance all too well. There was an ugly scrape on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes.
“Ugh,” she said, pulling off her soiled clothes. They stank of sweat and blood and vehicle exhaust. She stepped into the shower stall and stood under the weak, lukewarm spray, her heart pounding with anxiety.
She’d stabbed a man. Killed him, maybe. Reliving the sensation of his blood gushing over her hands, she scrubbed them with a little too much vigor. Using the harsh soap, she lathered every inch of her body, trying to remove the taint of death.
Murderer, the hissing showerhead whispered. Murderer, criminal, thief.
