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Confident that both his assailants were immobilized, he whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and made a quick call.
He waited only until he heard sirens very close by before turning to B.J., who had been standing quietly nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the sullen men they had subdued. “Let's get out of here.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Before the police arrive?”
“They'll be here in less than a minute. These two aren't in any shape to get away before that.”
“But don't we need to—”
He settled the argument by the simple measure of taking her arm and giving a slight tug. “Let's go.”
It was hard to believe this was the same man she had been with less than a month earlier. B.J. studied Daniel appraisingly. At the resort he had been tailored, groomed, styled and immaculate. This man was un-shaven, grubby, disheveled and dripping blood on the dirty carpet of the dingy apartment to which he had led her.
The only thing the two images had in common was that they both looked dangerous. Yet she was no more afraid of this one than she had been of the other.
“You should probably do something about that arm,” she advised him, keeping all emotion out of her voice—which wasn't easy. “You're bleeding all over your new tattoos.”
He glanced down at his bloody ink-embellished arm and scowled. “They're fake.”
“I figured. But the blood is real.”
“It'll keep. What are you doing here?”
She looked at her slightly raw right fist. She'd known better than to use her knuckles in a fight. “Saving your butt again, apparently.”
That made his scowl deepen. “I didn't need your help.”
“Against two men and a knife? The odds weren't exactly in your favor.”
“They were amateurs. I could have handled them.”
“Maybe. But I wasn't going to stand by and watch.”
“You shouldn't have been there at all. How the hell did you find me again?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I'm sorry, Daniel, but I can't talk to you while you're standing there bleeding. Since I don't suppose you'd be willing to see a doctor, is there any chance you have a first-aid kit?”
He hesitated a minute, then turned on one heel and disappeared into the bathroom. B.J. took a minute to look around the apartment. It was only one room, with a kitchenette against one wall and a sitting room/sleeping room taking up the rest of the space. There was no dining area; she supposed Daniel ate off the rickety coffee table that sat in front of a tattered sleeper sofa.
All in all, it was a far cry from the luxury suite in which they had stayed at Drake's resort.
Looking just like a man one would expect to find in a place like this, Daniel returned then, carrying a small plastic case. He tossed it on the coffee table.
“Just slap a bandage on it, if you must,” he said grudgingly. “Then I want some answers.”
“Sit down. I'm getting a washcloth. I'm not putting a bandage on a dirty wound.”
His sigh was a gusty, impatient exhale. Ignoring him, she walked into the bathroom, pulled a threadbare white washcloth from a cabinet and held it under the faucet. Carrying the dripping cloth, a matching towel and a bar of soap back into the other room, she noted that he sat on the couch, as she had suggested.
His face was just a bit pale beneath the beard and the grime. Apparently he was feeling the injury more than he allowed himself to let on. Stubborn man.
Perching beside him, she cleaned the wound as best as she could with soap and alcohol pads—smearing a tattoo of a coiled rattlesnake in the process. Keeping her opinion of that professional-looking artwork to herself, she focused on applying antibiotic ointment to the slice in his bicep, then covering it carefully with gauze and tape.
Daniel remained still during the process, his expression unrevealing. If she was hurting him, she couldn't tell. If he was affected in any way by her touch, she couldn't detect that either.
She hoped her own face was equally inscrutable. Because sitting next to him, treating the ugly wound on his arm, touching him was definitely affecting her.
Chapter Fifteen
