Captured in Croatia (7 page)

The vision before
me threatens to overload my brain. His chest is deeply tanned. A sensual trail of dark hair leads down his heavily muscled six-pack, disappearing below his beltline. From this angle I can’t see him from the neck up, but his chest and stomach are
stunning.
His thickly defined muscles flex and ripple in response to his controlled actions. He looks as if he spends all his free time doing full body pull-ups. With one arm. For fun.

Wait
… are those gunshot wounds?
Oh hell!
Now that I comprehend what they are, I count three of them. And those nasty scars are only the ones I can see in this dim light.

Just when I begin to panic,
wondering why he is undressing, he begins to put his dress shirt back on and buttons it up. Is he going to strangle me with the t-shirt? My brows draw together. I really don’t want to die, and I really don’t want to go out like this, cut up and murdered in a lonely parking lot on the fringes of Zagreb. My pride goes out the window and I’m fully prepared to plead with him. Few of my Aikido defenses are possible with an incapacitated wrist and a body weakened from blood loss.

He
lowers his frame back inside of the low-slung car. I cast my eyes down, not wanting to agitate him further. I’m seeping blood all over the cream-colored leather but there’s nothing I can do about it. My dress is already pretty much soaked with the stuff and I’m grateful that it’s black. I might be ill if I saw so much of my own blood smeared on me.

Quietly he
says, “Hold your arm out to me.”

I comply immediately.
It is shaking badly as he turns on the overhead light to inspect it. A huffed grunting sound emerges from his throat. I lean back a few inches in fear of the sound and my back presses against the door. I’m trapped in a car with a monster. Just lovely.
What a way for a girl to spend a Saturday night!

I gasp as he leans
away from me and rips the cotton t-shirt clean apart with one sure pull.

I start to
retract my arm in self-preservation, when he says in an annoyed voice, “Stay still. You should have stopped earlier when I told you to do so. You are going to learn to listen to me.”

What in the world?

Moody gray eyes bore into mine. My lips part and I suck in a breath. Not knowing what to say, I remain silent. I certainly don’t want to make this killer angry. He drops the two jagged pieces of cloth on to the center console and takes hold of my arm on the soft underside, just above my elbow.

He leans down
close to inspect the cuts on my left arm. My instinct is to pull away because he is huge and terror personified, but he has done nothing to harm me since he retrieved me from my car. Breathing hard, I remain as still as possible in this awkward scenario and hope for either release or at the very least a quick, painless death.

“Oh!” I can’t
suppress the strained cry as he tends to the deepest cut. It stings like a beast. He ignores my protests. After a close inspection, he begins to tightly wrap up my damaged arm with perplexing gentleness.

When he’s satisfied he lays
my arm back in my lap and says, “Keep it there.”

Am I really in a position to protest?

My injured wrist is badly swollen. It’s a heady pain only overshadowed by the deep, throbbing cut in my arm.

Why would
he kill me after bandaging my arm? He could have done that back at the accident site. This makes zero
sense. I want to ask more than anything, but who knows what it takes to set off a guy like this? I remain silent.

He pulls out a silver
thermos from the burl wood, center cup holder, opens it, and holds it out to me. “Drink this.”

I hesitate for a moment, more stunned than anything else
. Like a shot, his hand reaches out and pulls down on the back of my hair, essentially tilting my head back for him. It doesn’t hurt, it’s mostly just an acute pressure, but the overtly dominant gesture surprises me. He slowly pours the cold liquid into my mouth and I struggle to swallow.

Ice water?
Hydration? Bandages? This is ludicrous!

What, does he want me
to be in top form to make the interrogation process more of a participant sport? How cruel. I can see that with him. All his hardness and multi-layered stoicism.

I’ve heard that these Eastern European men can be wicked mean.
It’s no shocker. Twenty years ago, bloody warfare ripped their country, formerly Yugoslavia, apart. Pain like that can linger, filtering through generations. Passed down from angry fathers and traumatized mothers. Not to mention the seasoned soldiers that are still active, protecting their country from possible attack from disgruntled enemies.

Could Zoran
be one of those damaged soldiers? Heaven help me if he is. He would have been young during the war.

This is my up close and pe
rsonal view of just how dangerous the spy game can truly be.

Checkmate for now
, Zoran, but be warned that I’m prepping for our second psychological chess match. You just wait, big guy.

S
he’s a total mess. Bloody, dirty, and her hair is streaked with both. Yet she’s still unbelievably gorgeous. If she wasn’t so beautiful and arrogant I never would have bothered with her.

The reasons do
not matter. What does matter is that she is going to learn a new set of rules—mine. She will curb that insolence of hers and will behave properly for me. Even though she doesn’t know it yet or isn’t likely to admit it anytime soon, she will love every fucking minute of it. And dominating her will bring me exquisite pleasure as well. Besides, it would be a damn shame to kill such a beautiful, willful woman when I know she can be tamed.

I
hope by now she understands that I’m not going to murder her. If she’s as smart as I believe her to be then she should’ve figured this out back in the parking lot when I bandaged her cuts. We’ve already driven forty-five miles with heavy silence hanging between us and have nearly reached my home.

A typical
American would hit me with a barrage of questions and demands, but she is an enigma and surprises me by remaining silent. However, I can see that she’s wary and as alert as circumstances have allowed her to be. After I stemmed the bleeding from her arm and forced water down her throat, she seemed to come back around.

It’s early
dawn and she stares nervously out the window at the vast forest that surrounds my home. I’ve visited Germany’s Black Forest, and it’s similar to the lush, dense trees surrounding my ancestral land. The twelve acres have been in my family for eight generations, and that’s only what’s recorded on paper. Most likely it goes back much further than that.

Now
my younger brother, Balthazar, and myself are the only ones left. We are the last of the Vranic legacy. Everyone else was slaughtered twenty years ago, shedding their blood in defense of this land. They died for our independence as well as the freedom of our family. That dark memory weighs on me whenever I return to my property. So much was sacrificed for this piece of heaven, for the lives of both my brother and myself.

I
wish it had been me instead of them. I would step into any one of their places in a heartbeat if it could just bring one of my beloved relatives back.

I
push the ever-present thought aside and focus on the matter at hand. My captive. I don’t know her real name. But I will. She will tell me everything soon enough.

If she doesn’
t, I will be left with no choice but to play rough.

***

I know that we’ve traveled South. I hope that he isn’t taking me across a border into another country. I really don’t want to be caught in war-torn Bosnia or Herzegovina. That would further complicate an already dire situation.

I try to distract myself and take note of the
forest we are traveling through. It is, in a word, breathtaking. The dawn light filters down through magnificent trees that are so tall, they seem to tickle the clouds. The Maserati will definitely need a strut adjustment after traveling on this uneven, dirt-packed forest road.

We’ve gone several miles into the dense labyrinth and I’ve yet to see another home or
any sign of a town.
This really would be the ideal place to dump a body … damn!

My
adrenaline spikes yet again and I shift around nervously in the plush seat. For the first time in our hour-long journey together, I sense him looking at me. I’m desperate to know where this is leading but stay silent as I inspect my throbbing wrist for the twentieth time.

The pain is a constant
, gnawing ache. What I wouldn’t give for Tylenol-Codeine right now! I breathe deeply and try to keep it together, to focus. I need to be on point in the unlikely event that he should slip up and make a mistake.

Though the windows are close
d, I can still hear the gurgling, rushing sounds of water. A lot of it. The noise steadily grows louder. There must be a waterfall close by. In a forest like this? How unusual.

I finally look
at Zoran. Without taking his eyes from the road, he announces, “We’re here.”

We make our way slowly down a long, unpaved tree-lined drive.
Three oversized, ominous-looking black and tan Doberman Pinchers bound toward us from the side of a beautiful manor house. Their growls are so frightening that I bet they hunt down rodents for breakfast and maybe the occasional child. I plaster my back against the seat as their barks and snarls rise in a horrific cacophony.

Zoran lowers the driver
’s window and sternly shouts out, “
Dole
!”
Down.

I flinch at his command.

Seeing that it’s their master, the intimidating dogs immediately comply without hesitation. They lower into a crouch and disappear from my view.
There is no way I’m getting out of this car! The Cujo trio will certainly see me as a Scooby Snack
… no way in hell!

He
gets out of the car and walks around to my side. I stare at him through the glass a second before he opens my door. I shudder and hesitate, clutching my arms against myself. Being inside of a bloody automobile feels almost safe compared to the uncertainty of an unfamiliar house.
His
house
.
The gruesome possibilities of what he could do to me inside are limitless.

“No, please
,” I whisper, fear lacing my voice.

Without a word he bends and scoops me up into his arms
, clearly in a rush. He cuts across the green lawn of the sprawling, rustic country house. The sound of water drums in my ears, so close that I think the house must be built nearly on top of it. It’s looks very old.

I crane
my neck to make sense of the imposing two-story structure. It is constructed mostly of smooth, grayish-white, oblong stones, interspersed with a cream-colored mortar. There are several small A-framed dormer windows on the roof that are topped with rounded, deep red terracotta tiles. It is charming, in a romantic country-chic sort of way. Is this Zoran’s home? I wouldn’t have pegged him as its owner. It’s far too lovely.

The wide
, heavy front door has to be at least nine feet high. Obviously custom–made, long ago.

Do
other people live here?

If the
y do, maybe I could convince them to help me escape. Although I can’t imagine anyone defying Zoran.

I want to fight him. I don’t want to be taken inside
, but I know if I run, those crazy ass dogs would be on me in a heartbeat. My team will be scouring Zagreb for me, following every scrap of a lead until I turn up. There is absolutely no way they would find me here. Not in a million years. Not without the GPS they installed in my car.

Unlocking the front door
, he carries me into an airy foyer. The silence within hangs thick in the air. There is little in the way of décor, with the exception of a beautiful, oversized, carved cherry bench. Overstuffed deep red and black patterned pillows are nestled in each of its corners. A wide, antique silver mirror hangs above it. Once I’m set on my feet, he turns to disarm the shrill, beeping alarm system.

I can’t help but take
two steps away from him. In the daylight he is a giant of a man. His tailored suit is merely a polite disguise to help him blend into society. He’s clearly living in the wrong time period, I think, because anyone can see that he is a fierce warrior sprung to life in the twenty-first century.

His
chiseled jaw lifts ever so slightly. “Up the stairs.”

Will I ever grow accustomed to his
husky, growling voice? In a daze, I turn and climb the wide flight of stairs. My small feet pad silently as I make my ascent to God-knows-where. The wood on the floors is ancient and weathered but immaculately clean and quite pretty
. How old is this place?

I
come to a dead stop at the top of the staircase and stare in awe. Unless it was built with this sprawling, open design in mind, it seems as if all the interior walls on the second floor were demolished to create one vast space. It’s the size of at least four large bedrooms rolled into one. Two sets of enormous windows allow for sunlight to spill in, blanketing the distressed wood floors. There’s a large boxy structure built in the center of the space. Through the glass, I can see that it’s a freestanding, oversized shower; the frosted glass wall behind it must hide the rest of the bathroom.

In the right corner of the room
rests a massive king-sized bed set in a beautifully carved, dark walnut four-post frame. Stark white sheets and a matching comforter neatly cover the high mattress. Behind the bed, the interior stone wall is at least fifteen feet in height.
Stunning.
Wood rafters painted a light gray crisscross the ceiling. They give the room a clean, loft-like feel.

This
space must be close to fifteen-hundred square feet. As I look around, I note that aside from the bed and the wood floor, just about everything is either white, gray, or glass. Even the wide fireplace mantle is a pale hue, maybe a birch or pine. Cut logs rest neatly in a brown leather sling on the striated marble hearth.

“Follow me.”

He steps around me and strides toward the far side of the vast room. We round the corner to the modern shower that features a foot-wide rainforest showerhead and two limestone benches. Smooth pebbles in shades of soft cream and tan make up the floor of the cavernous space. There is no door, just a six inch tiled step.

As I’m taking everythin
g in, he addresses me in his commanding voice. “Take everything off and shower. You need to clean those cuts. You have exactly five minutes.”

With that
curt command he turns and disappears around the corner. I’m relieved to hear his heavy footfalls move back across the room, soon becoming imperceptible.

I’m
hesitant to get naked, but he’s right. Who knows what type of infection could be setting in? I gently unravel the stained remnants of his t-shirt and place them in the small steel wastebasket that rests between two square, white sinks suspended by mahogany bases. According to Mr. Bossy, I only have five minutes, so I purposefully avert my eyes from the gore until I’m inside the shower. There I can assess and tend to my wounds.

It takes me a minute to undo the tie on my dress with
only one hand but I manage. It pools at my feet. Next I shimmy out of my lace Tanga panties and drape them across one of the sinks.

It takes a second to figure out the foreign dials and levers
, but soon a steaming cascade of water pours down from the fabulous showerhead. I cringe as the water hits my scrapes and bruises and I watch, detached, as swirls of blood disappear into the steel grate. As I inspect everything, I see that there is really only one cut that could use stitches, but my wrist is my biggest concern. It is quite swollen and feels very warm as I gingerly touch the joint. The sprain most likely needs to be tended to by a physician, but I can’t imagine that Mr. Cordial will be taking me to an ER anytime soon.

I reach for
a bar of white soap that smells like ocean air. It’s a daunting task to lather but I manage and gently clean the myriad of cuts to the best of my ability. Next I tip a bottle of what I believe is shampoo onto my damp hair and go to town, doing my best to remove the dirt and matted blood.

Several times
I catch myself swaying like a drunken freshman, clearly exhausted and low on fluids. Bracing a hand against the glass, I try to steady myself because I need to be quick. I really don’t want to give him any incentive to seeing me stark naked, so fainting isn’t an option.

Turning
off the water, I peek out and spy a carved wooden ledge embedded in the stone wall nearby. Helping myself to the stack of fluffy white towels, I do my best to wrap up my torso. I hear movement in the room through the constant sound of rushing water, which must be coming from a river or waterfall. I go motionless as he rounds the corner and stares at me.

I watch him warily
, fighting the urge to slink away. I’m in no position to throw sass or even to flee … just yet. So I wait as his scorching gaze rakes over me, traveling down to my bare feet and back up. The towel provides little protection, but I clutch it as if it’s my last lifeline.

His
gravelly voice cuts through the air. “Come to the bed.”

Noooooo!

I refuse to see where this might be leading. Is
this
why he wanted me to shower? To be clean for him? Could he be so ruthless as to have his way with me hours after a car crash? What a sick bastard!

When I remain
still, clearly defying him, he takes one large step into my personal space. With a firm downward tug, he rips the towel clean off me. I gasp and grab for it, but he’s faster and flings it behind him. I let out a single, shocked cry as his thick fingers harshly pinch my left nipple.

The pain is so
searing and unexpected that it causes me to immediately yell, “Oh, okaaaay!”

I step forward quickly, right into him,
trying to show that I’ll listen. He’s watching me with a displeased frown on his painfully handsome face, yet he says not a word. Only when I fully comply, blinking rapidly to fight the tears, does he release my throbbing little bud.