Chapter Eleven

Lena swayed, and the man called Rory O’Donnell cautiously reached out to steady her. She flinched at his touch but didn’t pull away. Instead, she struggled to put on the jacket.

Sure, she now knew he didn’t belong with Lopez and his cronies, but that didn’t change anything. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone. It was her against the world. Always had been.

Always would be.

“Okay?” he asked, looking down at her, his hand still cupping her elbow.

“Yeah,” she said, without inflection.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood in the shadows, finding comfort in the anonymity they offered. Around her shoulders, the jacket still held her captor’s—rescuer’s?—body heat. Her feet, still in hospital slippers, felt chilled. She used the sharp contrast to keep alert.

Eyeing her male companion, she studied his square face, the width of his shoulders, his strong hands and muscular thighs. He was leaning casually on the counter of a takeaway diner across the street from the motel he had checked them into for the night. A broad grin made a dimple appear in his cheek, giving him a roguish appearance as he flirted with the girl taking his order.

Handsome, yes. Utterly male. Lena pressed her lips together. Normally she would know exactly what to do with him and all that maleness. At the moment, however, withdrawal from her meds was wreaking such havoc in her system she could barely think straight, let alone appreciate such a fact.

Detox was a bitch.

With an unsteady hand, she closed the collar against the cool breeze. Hidden beneath the jacket, her palm rested on the butt of the Beretta 92F and absently petted the smooth steel.

Her thoughtful scrutiny alternated from her temporary escort to the cozily lit street around her. A young couple sauntered down the sidewalk on the other side. Off to the left, seated around a cluttered table was a family of five. A dog was wedged under the bench, looking up imploringly at one of the children who was sneaking it treats every now and then.

No one appeared to be paying her and O’Donnell any heed. Still, she was edgy to the point of wanting to hijack the first car that passed and drive until the niggling feeling in the nape of her neck disappeared.

Mr. Hotshot turned to face her, snatching her full attention. His elbow remained casually propped on the checkout counter. His blue-green eyes studied her with meditative intensity. She met his gaze in challenge.

His only reaction, a slow, sexy smile.

“I ordered a daily special for you,” he called, his nearly non-existent accent hinting at the Midwest. Wisconsin was her guess. He was in his early to mid-thirties, six foot two and in excellent physical shape…in a wholesome kind of way.

It wasn’t hard to imagine him as a country boy—before he’d buffed up, of course. There was a clear outline of his pectorals under the clean white shirt, and the loose slacks showed the rippling of his runner’s legs with every move he made.

She wasn’t fooled for one minute by his country boy innocence.

There was no doubt in her mind he was far more dangerous than his easygoing attitude let on. The way he moved hinted at some sort of power training combined with a serious martial arts routine. It all made him an opponent to reckon with.

Any other time, her competitive nature would thrill at the challenge, but now she cautioned herself.

“What?” His lips twitched.

Rather than answer, she let her gaze drift off. An approaching SUV caught her attention. Gleaming black metal reflected the passing buildings and cars rushing back and forth. Its tinted windows seamlessly completed the threatening air. It cruised leisurely along the street, as if the driver was looking for something—or someone.

Her hand tightened around the gun reflexively. Every nerve in her body coiled in preparation as one of the back windows began to roll down. Instinct screamed at her to dive for cover, but she kept herself still and waited.

There was a wooden fence around the corner. She calculated she could clear it in three seconds flat, if needed. Her eyes scanned a city map hanging by the bus stand a short distance away. The “You are here” arrow was a bright yellow. In that instant, she had plotted a course of escape—scale the fence, go three blocks east, one south, and a five-minute sprint along the highway to bring her to a residential area where she would hotwire a car.

All this flashed through her mind while the car’s window rolled down.

A sudden, delighted squeal came from the open window then, followed by a cherubic-faced toddler looking out. It clapped its hands excitedly, bouncing within the restraints of a child seat. The vehicle pulled into the parking lot of the diner.

Lena gave a mental grimace and forced her hand to relax its chokehold on the gun.

When she returned her gaze to Mr. Hotshot, she caught the knowing look in his eyes. He, too, had been watching the SUV, but rather than sharing her instant alarm, he’d remained calm. He quirked a questioning brow at her but was smart enough not to say anything. If he had, she might have done something drastic.

Somehow she knew he had effectively analyzed her every response to the cruising vehicle. A disconcerting thought, to say the least. She prided herself on being inscrutable. Yet, this stranger had detected her instinctive reactions without effort.

It had to be the drugs. They’d taken her edge away. And that was the scariest thing she could possibly imagine. Her edge was what kept her alive for so long. Getting back in shape was top priority.

For the time being, she was going to play along and use this guy who claimed to have rescued her from the nuthouse. At least until she was back at the top of her game. Of course, she would never make the mistake of trusting him. She might be crazy, but she was far from stupid. Her hand curled around the comforting, cold steel of the Beretta.

If he made one wrong move, she’d kill him.

For now she was going to use him. She needed time. Time to figure out who had done this to her. Time to recover, to become strong again.

And then she would kill the bastards. Kill them all.

But that was for later. Now the scent of fried food drifting from the diner demanded her attention. The aroma made her salivate, reminding her of how much she had hated the bland hospital food she’d been subsisting on. It had so disgusted her that whenever they brought her food, she had wanted to kill someone.

When their order arrived, she barely kept herself from ripping the bags of food from the man’s hands.

Thankfully, she was a patient woman…or could pretend she was.

His lips were moving, saying something about heading back to the motel across the street, but she wasn’t really listening. Her stomach growled indelicately at the scents seeping from the bags, and it was the food, more than anything, that made her follow him away from the curb.

Food first. Afterward she’d see about figuring him out.