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What is the matter with me? Is it normal to have reactions all over the map when you’re a fugitive on the run who’s being held captive by a…whoever he is?
Then he moves, the bed shifting with his weight as he climbs off it. A rush of cold air fills the space between us, evaporating the warmth of his body.
I scramble to sit up. He stands by the bed, his hands loosely on his hips. The clouds must have broken because moonlight slants through the smudged window, allowing me to actually see him. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. As if his size wasn’t intimidating enough—I was right, he’s beefy and packed with thick muscle under his T-shirt—his features are powerful and rough-hewn, like they’re carved from a stone cliff.
Thick black eyebrows arch over hard, dark eyes, and a coating of stubble covers his square jaw. His mouth is compressed, bracketed by lines of disapproval. He’d look as cold and forbidding as a statue if it weren’t for his astonishingly thick eyelashes, which soften the hard edges of his features and make him marginally more human-like.
“Yes, I’m Hannah Clark.” I toss my hair back, trying to regain my badly shaken equilibrium. “And who, pray tell, the fuck are you?”
His mouth quirks up ever-so-slightly at the corner. “Dane Armstrong. I’m a fugitive recovery agent.”
“Oh my god.” I groan and press my hands to the sides of my head. “A bounty hunter? Shouldn’t you be going after much bigger fish, like South American warlords or cartel kingpins?”
“Maybe.” The other side of his mouth turns up. “But they wouldn’t be nearly as much fun to catch.”
“Look, I’m really thrilled to be the butt of your joke, but this is my life, okay? I’m on the run.”
“Not anymore, you’re not.” He frowns and steps closer, taking hold of my forearm. “When did this happen?”
I follow his gaze to the long gash on the side of my hand right under my thumb. Blood runs down to my wrist. I blink in surprise just as the pain hits me.
“I don’t know.” My body battles between resisting the sudden pain and appreciating the warm strength of his grip. “I must have cut it when I was trying to open the window.”
“Come here.” Still holding my arm, he urges me over to the sink.
“The water doesn’t work,” I tell him. “And I can deal with it myself.”
“I know you can, but you don’t have to.” He releases my hand and starts toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the trailer. A car door slams from outside. Before I can think about trying to make another break for it, he returns with a bottle of water, a first-aid kit, and a few paper napkins. He takes my hand and washes the cut over the sink, then pats it dry and applies antiseptic.
I’m so flummoxed by being taken care of that I can’t even move. If he weren’t a bounty hunter, I’d want to nudge closer and press up against his side. Hell, I want to do that anyway. He has such a reservoir of strength and security—two things I’ve had so little of in life.
He smooths a bandage over the cut. Though his hands are roughly calloused and his skin lined with cracks, his touch is gentle and efficient. He wears a silver medallion attached to a worn leather wristband around his right wrist, though I can’t make out the engraving in the darkness.
I glance at his face. A crease of concentration mars the space between his eyebrows. I’m seized with a sudden urge to reach up and smooth it away.
“Make sure you keep it clean.” He releases my hand and puts the supplies back in the box. “And get your stuff together.”
I retreat, unable to make sense of the whirlwind of sensations I’ve experienced since he barged into the trailer. Unable to make sense ofanything.
“Hannah.” He shoots me a glance, his deep voice engulfing my name. “We need to go.”
My breath shortens, and I sink back onto the bed. I can’t go with him. Not after what I went through—not to mention breaking the law—to get here in the first place.
I dart my eyes behind him to the door. He steps to the right, blocking my assessment of a potential escape route.
“Don’t try it,” he says evenly.
God. The man has an implacable calm. He’d probably hand out survival kits during the apocalypse.
“What happens now?” I twist my fingers together, causing my wound to throb.
“I take you back to San Francisco.” He rests his hands on his hips, his gaze penetrating. “You’ve got a pissed-off bondsman waiting for you, not to mention a new bail-jumping charge.”
No.
I’m not going back. I can’t. I’ll end up in jail for crimes I didn’t commit—bail jumping aside—and then what?
