Page 6 of Bad Rio
The men had kept on the go, traveling around the clock. They hadn’t hurt Becca, but neither had they pampered her. She’d been fed twice a day, yet she’d been so frightened she could barely eat. They’d given her a pallet and blankets in the locked back of the truck on which to sleep. As if she could. Beyond that, they refused to answer her questions, even though she entreated them for answers in near-perfect Spanish. The ordeal sapped her strength, exhausted her.
She simply didn’t know what was happening beyond guessing that they planned to exchange her for money. Her father was quite wealthy. Ergo, steal his daughter away while she was in another country and hold her for cash. It made sense. Holding her for days without any sort of communication did not. She wanted to ask if Rio was going to make a demand of his own. She had to fight him, to somehow get away, get free.
Rio pulled a small package from his bag. “I’ve got a first aid kit, but it’s basic. A bullet creased your leg. No stiches, but it needs cleaning.” He met her gaze steadily. “Your pants and shoes and socks are soaking. You’ll never warm up until they come off.”
He stood, holding the first aid pack, and waited for her answer. She got the idea that he didn’t really care which way she decided. He merely offered her a choice and let her decide.
Despite her strong misgivings, she knew he was right. Her slacks hung on her limbs in a sodden, muddy mess. If she removed them, she could slide beneath the heavy quilt and hopefully continue to get warm. She didn’t want to do it. Everything in her screamedno! Yet, she knew she’d be better off.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. Peeling off her wet shoes and socks, she said, “Turn your back.” Her hand went to her waistband.
He didn’t turn, just gave her his dispassionate perusal. “Listen here, Buttercup, you’re on my turf. I’ll give the orders, not you. I don’t turn my back on anyone.”
It was a Mexican standoff, Becca thought wildly. Her mind a jumbled mess, she knew her nerves were stretched to ragged ribbons. After being an unwilling captive, shot at, and actually struck in the leg, she was now expected to disrobe in front of this man she didn’t know.
Both from cold and from fright, her fingers shook uncontrollably. Some part of her whispered that if this Rio character wanted to rape her, given his size and bulk and their isolation from the rest of the world, she’d never be able to stop him, slacks or no. Her screams would go unheard, her cries for help unanswered.
She was still very cold. Cloaking her legs beneath the mountain of quilts beneath her sounded better and better. This guy seemed like a real asshole. However, frozen as she was, she wasn’t going anywhere right then. The logical thing would be to first get warm.
With great reluctance, she unbuttoned her waistband and slid down the zipper. Easing the pants off her hips and over her legs, she kicked them to the foot of the bed, and then hurried to lift the bedcovers. At least her modesty was still protected by her cotton panties.
“Not yet.” Rio stayed her movements with a hand on her bare thigh.
Becca stiffened.
He sat again on the edge of the bed and laid out his supplies: a thick stack of gauze, a tube of antiseptic, and a roll of white tape.
With his fingers curled over the skin of her thigh, Becca could hardly breathe. Shrieking alarms screamed throughout her system, shouted at her to leap up, to run, to get away. A new chill chased up her spine and the fight or flight response burst to life. “Move your hand,” she demanded. “Don’t touch me.”
“Easy, now,” Rio said in low, rumbling tones.
His fingers did not creep up her thigh, as she feared, nor did it caress her skin. His touch seemed ... somehow ... rather clinical.
He lifted his hand to open the gauze package. Carefully, he placed a clean towel beneath her calf, opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and held it over the wound. “This’ll sting,” was all the warning she got.
The pain flashed into a new, sudden burning. Becca jumped.
Quickly, he dabbed away blood and fluid, spread antiseptic cream over the graze, covered the area with new gauze, and taped it into place. Taking up his canvas bag, he withdrew thick woolen socks and impersonally pulled them onto her feet. “You can get under the covers now,” he said, capping the alcohol bottle.
Lifting her bottom, she slid her legs beneath the covers. Under the sheets, it was cool, but she knew it should warm within moments. Already she was feeling better. Exhausted, terrified, but better. She didn’t know if she should thank him or castigate him.
Getting up, he moved to the corner and came back with a thermos. “It won’t be hot anymore, but it’ll do.”
Hesitating, she accepted the offering and raised the thermos to her mouth. Warm black coffee slid down her throat and she groaned in pleasure. All her adult life she’d been a coffee lover. A coffee fiend. An addict. The blacker, the hotter, the better.
In the past harrowing days she’d had exactly none. Now, to have this manna from heaven seemed like pure bliss. She made no pretense at manners: she gulped.
Again he watched without emotion.
“Hungry?” he asked. A muffin materialized in his hands. A blueberry muffin: her favorite.
Even as she reached for the treat, suddenly ravenous, she wondered at the coincidence of how he’d magically produced her favorite snack, coffee and a blueberry muffin. Weird.
While he took her wet slacks and slung them over a rafter to dry, Becca drank her coffee. With care, he set her shoes side by side onto the floor and laid out her wet socks beside them. She took a large bite of the muffin, chewed it gratefully, and swallowed. As she watched him, he re-rolled the remainder of the gauze and put everything back in its original package. Again he went to the corner, to a large cooler, and when he opened it, he took out a water bottle.
He wore only a white t-shirt, brown cargo pants, and boots. Except for a hunk which refused to stay back and instead fell over his forehead, his full head of blond hair grew longish and heavy to his nape. As he worked, the muscles of his arms tightened and eased smoothly beneath his skin, and she wondered at his past. His chest was broad, his belly flat. Had he been some sort of body builder? Maybe he was ex-law enforcement. Maybe he’d been a Marine.
Perhaps her first guess was correct and a new villain had taken her from her original captors to muscle in on the money. A mercenary.
