It’s over. I’m alive. I’m going home.
The thought hit her, putting a lump in her throat—but close on its heels came another. So many peopleweren’tgoing home.
Joaquin.
Tears spilled down her face. How many had died on that bus? A dozen? Fifteen? All of them journalists, all of them there because they wanted to make the world a better place. Killed without mercy. Shot down.
Screams. Flying glass. Blood.
I am sorry, Miss Benoit.
The bathroom seemed to dissolve, and she was on the bus again. She didn’t hear Zach’s knock at the door, didn’t hear him call her name, didn’t know he was there until he turned off the water, wrapped a towel around her, and lifted her into his arms.
IGNORING HIS OWN exhaustion and the sharp pain in his ribs, Zach carried Natalie toward the bed, her body shaking, her heart beating so hard he could feel it against his chest. He sat, held her, stroking her wet hair, wishing to God he knew how to help her. He couldn’t tell her everything was okay, because it wasn’t. Her friend was dead, along with so many others. She was still in danger—and she had enough bad memories to feed a lifetime of nightmares.
“I’m sorry, Natalie.”
He’d seen that haunted look in her eyes all evening, and he’d known she would break sooner or later. It was the same haunted look he’d sometimes seen in the eyes of young SEALs back from their first taste of real combat.
He knew how to help his fellow seamen. He’d slap them on the back and tell them what a great job they’d done, welcoming them into the brotherhood of men who understood what it meant to fight and kill. Most snapped out of it quickly. But they had chosen that lifestyle. For whatever reason—patriotism, a thirst for adventure, family tradition—they hadchosento face the ugliness of war.
Natalie hadn’t chosen any of this.
Goddamn you, Cárdenas!
Her naked body covered only by the bath towel, she was huddled against him, her fists clenched around his filthy ganja T-shirt, her face buried against his chest, her body wracked with sobs. The soft scents of shampoo and clean female skin filled his head, both arousing and comforting, reminding him of a part of life he’d nearly forgotten. And as he held her, helpless to do anything for her, he realized that he hadn’t been this intimate with a woman in years.
Slowly, her tears subsided, and she seemed to realize where she was. She scooted off his lap onto the bed, drawing the towel tight around her. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
He handed her a tissue. “You have no reason to apologize.”
She sniffed, dabbed her eyes. “It was wrong of me to fall apart like that.”
“No.” He brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “It wasn’t. There aren’t many women who could’ve done what you did today, Natalie. For a sweet little magnolia from Louisiana, you’re pretty damned tough.”
She met his gaze, a look of doubt in her eyes. “You don’t mean that. I—”
“Yeah, I do.” He did.
She took his hand. “Thank you for getting me away from that place.”
“You played a pretty big role in that yourself.” He closed his fingers around hers, her hand so small compared to his, her skin soft.
Careful, McBride. You’re treading on thin ice here.
Oh, was he ever.
Then her lips curved in a shaky smile, dimples appearing in her cheeks, her vulnerability making something twist deep inside his chest. “I guess it was lucky for me that I ended up locked in a cell next to you.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “That was lucky for both of us.”
And for a moment, neither of them said anything.
She broke eye contact first, withdrawing her hand and hugging her arms around herself as if she suddenly felt exposed. “I . . . I suppose I should get dressed and call someone—the consulate, SPJ, the paper. They’ll want to know I’m safe.”
“No. Not yet. I don’t think what happened to you was random, and until we know for certain why Cárdenas wanted you, we need to lie low.”
She looked confused. “Why—”