LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      She rinsed off and left the stall, drying her tingling skin with a nubby towel. There was a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants in her messenger bag. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, and hung up her wet towel on the way out.

      Brandon looked a little more alert. He’d opened his soda and finished a bag of chips. His blue eyes traveled down her body, settling on her bare toes. Her mind flashed back to the days of four-star hotels with spa services and complimentary pedicures.

      “It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

      He rose from the bed, wincing, and picked up his pack. She moved aside as he passed by, noting that the top of his head barely cleared the doorway. At well over six feet tall, he’d have to duck down to shower.

      Stomach growling, she sat down to eat. The snack cakes didn’t taste very good, but the chips were okay. She devoured both, crunching noisily.

      Her Beverly Hills manners were long gone, too.

      When Brandon came out of the bathroom, wearing only trousers, she almost choked on the last mouthful of soda. She’d seen his bare chest at the beach. But now they were in a tiny room with a single bed, and his masculine presence seemed magnified. The smell of clean male skin permeated the space, assaulting her senses.

      He blotted his eyebrow, which was still seeping, with a small towel.

      Flushing, she set the empty can aside and rose to retrieve her first aid kit. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the edge of the mattress. He complied, taking the towel away from his brow as she stepped forward to treat him. She stood between his splayed thighs, her hands trembling as she cleaned the area around the cut with an alcohol square. It probably didn’t need stitches; head wounds just bled a lot. “This might scar.”

      “Who were those guys?”

      “Thugs,” she said vaguely, dabbing a bit of antibiotic ointment on the cut. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

      “‘Nam.”

      She ignored the sarcastic answer, realizing that he was annoyed with her evasiveness. It took all of her concentration to prepare a butterfly bandage without fumbling. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time. Her breasts were inches from his face. His gaze rose to meet hers, conveying a reluctant sexual interest and faint distrust.

      The feeling was mutual.

      “Hold still,” she said, pressing the edges of the cut together and securing it with the bandage. He sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth in discomfort. Then she was done, and the wound was closed up tight, almost as if she’d stitched it.

      “Those guys are with La Familia,” she said, sitting down next to him.

      He didn’t ask what that meant. The most powerful drug cartel in Mexico was infamous. “Why are they after me?”

      She hesitated to give him a straight answer. Being as honest as possible was the least she could do, after dragging him into this mess, but she had to look out for herself first. “They’re not after you.”

      His brows lifted. “They want you?”

      “They want something I have.”

      “What?”

      Isabel couldn’t tell him, so she reached for the antibiotic ointment again. Using a light touch, she applied the medicine to his bruised lower lip. After so many months of deprivation, the action seemed unbearably sensual. Her nipples tightened, poking against the soft fabric of her tank top in an all-too-obvious bid for attention.

      Flustered, she jerked her hand away from his mouth. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

      His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he’d thought of something amusing. Instead of sharing the joke, he made a fist, revealing swollen knuckles and a rash of small cuts. She put ointment on his knuckles and bandaged them lightly, trying to ignore the heat between them. “You don’t do manual labor,” she commented. His hands were strong, with ropy veins, but his palms weren’t heavily callused.

      A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No, but my job is physically demanding. And I teach self-defense classes on the weekends.”

      Self-defense classes. That explained his grappling prowess and swift reactions. “What’s your day job?”

      “I work for a risk management company. We test sports equipment, safety gear, anything that’s designed to reduce injuries. By the way, you really should wear a helmet if you’re going to surf alone at a crusher reef.”

      His belated advice made her feel numb. She’d probably never see that reef again. “I’m sorry for running away in the alley earlier,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I feel bad about leaving you with … the body.”

      “He wasn’t dead.”

      She perked up. “Really?”

      “They took him away in an ambulance, so he must have been alive. The police wouldn’t say how he was. In any case, I appreciate you coming back. I don’t think those guys had a friendly conversation in mind.”

      “No,” she agreed, warmed by his gratitude. She began putting away her first aid supplies, self-conscious.

      “Wait,” he said, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. He squeezed a small amount onto his thumb and brushed it over her cheek, soothing the scrape.

      Isabel’s skin tingled with sensation. She was heartened by the reminder that Carranza’s man had struck her first, and glad she’d been able to help Brandon fend off his attackers. She was also terrified by her response to him. Over the past two years, she’d relied only on herself. Staying away from people had kept her safe.

      He made her ache for all the things she’d been missing.

      His hand lingered on her jaw, framing it the way a man did before he stole a kiss. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and pulse throb. The temptation to part her lips and tilt her head back was almost irresistible.

      Somehow, she found the strength to pull away. When he dropped his hand, she shoved her first aid supplies into the case and rose to her feet.

      “What are your plans?” he asked.

      “Get some sleep.” No easy task, with him in the bed.

      “Tomorrow, I mean.”

      She shrugged, stashing the kit in her messenger bag. Her best recourse was probably to stay in Oaxaca, lying low.

      “Come to Guatemala with me.”

      Her gaze flew back to his, startled. “You’re going there?”

      “I was considering it, yeah.”

      “Since when?”

      “Yesterday. I saw an ad for a surfing tour.”

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