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“Please, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need help. I haven’t eaten and drank anything. Can you give me some food?” asked the man.
“Show yourself,” she said, finding her courage.
The man stood beside her steps, his nearly six-feet-five of muscle and tanned skin glistening in the gas lamps of her street. His black hair was cut neatly, his cheekbones and jaw chiseled from granite. But what caught her attention more than anything was the blood on his clothing.
“Are you injured? Do you need help?” she asked.
“No. No, please, just some food, and I can find my way to my family home. It’s not too far.”
Casey looked behind her to see if Otto and the others had followed, then just shook her head. This man wasn’t going to hurt her. She just knew it.
“Come inside,” she said. “You need to wash that blood off of you, and I’ll fix you some food. I can give you a ride to your family home.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said, following her inside the condo.
The space was small but beautifully maintained. She pointed to the bathroom, and he nodded, closing the door. Because it was small and old, she could hear him relieve himself then a fifteen-minute washing of his face, hands, neck, and arms. When he emerged, his skin was clean, but his clothing was still bloodied.
“I have to ask this,” she said, staring at him. “Did you hurt someone?”
He looked down at the beautiful woman, shaking his head. His lean, muscular hand threaded through his thick black hair, and he shook his head.
“I can’t remember. I’m being honest. I don’t think I would. It’s not who I am.”
“Are you injured anywhere?” she asked quietly.
“No. No, I’m fine, I think. I’m just really thirsty and hungry.”
She nodded at him, pointing at the seat at the table. She pulled out four bottles of water and set them in front of him, then sliced some lemons and oranges, placing them in a pitcher and filling the pitcher with water.
“Here, the citrus will help with your thirst,” she said. He gulped the third bottle and started on the fourth as she pulled a container from the refrigerator. “This is gumbo that I made last night. Are you okay with leftovers?”
“It sounds divine,” he said.
Casey heated the dish for him, setting it down in front of him. She watched as he devoured the plate of food, then fixed another. When that one was gone, she wasn’t sure what to do.
“I don’t have anything else already prepared. I’m happy to make you something else.” He shook his head, the exhaustion and uncertainty on his face.
“Listen, you can crash here for the night if you like. It’s awfully late. I know I’ve had a long day, and it looks like you have too. I own a gun. I should tell you that.” He smirked at her, admiring her feisty behavior.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “It’s not who I am.” She could only nod, bringing out extra sheets and a blanket for the sofa.
“I know it’s small, but my bed isn’t much bigger.”
“It will be just fine,” he said, closing his eyes as he lay back against the cool sheets. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Casey. What’s yours?” His eyes were already closed, his breathing deep and relaxed. Casey just smiled at the prone figure. Her guardians would have a fit if they knew she allowed a stranger into her home. But somehow, he seemed safe, and sad. Mostly sad.
When she woke the next morning, he was still sleeping on the sofa. She had to get to the restaurant but didn’t want to wake him. Leaving a note on the table, she asked that he close the door, securing the lock from the inside if he left. Otherwise, she’d be back around midnight.
Gathering her bag of knives and purse, she stared at the handsome man on her sofa, then shook her head.
“Get a grip, Casey.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
With the seven men secure on the ship, they waited, watching as the passengers began to board. In the comfort of the security room, they were able to see the faces of every passenger.
“What do you need from us, sir?” asked the chief of security.
