Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) (10 page)

Obviously.

Vanko searched her face for several seconds as if he could see into her mind. God, she hoped not. Then he nodded, made a sound halfway between a grunt and a hum, and walked to the bed.

She didn’t relax into the cushioned comfort of the chair, but remained perched on the edge of the seat. Her side and back had to be bloody now that the extra thickness of the raincoat was missing; Vanko had left the ruined coat in the Hummer. Bullet holes had a way of destroying perfectly good garments.

Without warning, she flashed back to the moment of the bullet’s impact. Her labored breathing as she ran for her life. Screams of innocent bystanders. Bodies falling around her. The sound of the guns. The sensation of the bullet ripping through her skin. It had been such a shock she’d almost fallen. If she had, she would’ve been dead. The men had been so close.

If Vanko hadn’t been there…At that thought, she began to shiver so violently she wasn’t sure she could remain upright. Detesting her neediness and weakness, she called out, “Vanko? Help—”

Vanko was by her side before she could even finish her plea. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

He dead-lifted her from the chair and carried her to the bed. The man might have the body structure and swiftness of a gazelle, but he had the strength of an ox. She wondered how many enemies had been fooled by his deceptive, fallen-angel looks.

After laying her gently on a rough, olive drab blanket he’d brought from the car, he rearranged the bed’s many pillows to elevate her head. For the most part, his touch was efficient and impersonal. But then he briefly cupped the back of her now messy French braid and caressed her head before lowering her fully to the pillows. Then he moved to her feet and removed her pumps and ripped off the bottoms of her shredded panty hose. He gently massaged the soles of her feet with strong but gentle thumbs. She groaned and closed her eyes at the pleasurable feelings his touch produced. After one last stroke of his thumb on each foot, he covered her legs with the bedspread.

In those few seconds, she forgot how to breathe. He’d remembered, out of everything that had happened today, that she’d complained about her feet hurting, and then done something about it.

Vanko was definitely not like Demidas, who’d been concerned with only his pleasures and others’ pain.

“Are you comfortable?” Vanko’s gray-green eyes glittered with an emotion she’d never seen from a man other than her uncles—and a very long time ago, her father. Then the look was gone. Maybe she’d imagined it.

Confused, breathless from his tender touches and whatever had been in his gaze, she let out a shaky breath. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

She relaxed into the pillows. “Why are you finding us another place to stay? How would the Boss or his men find us? You said no one followed us out of D.C.”

She needed to get a handle on this situation and at least some semblance of control even if it were only knowing what plans had been set in place for her protection.

“The vehicle we’re driving has a GPS tracker. SSI has multiple suspects and they all work for DIA.”

“Okay, I forgot for a moment. Ren and Keely mentioned something about that.” It seemed as if that conversation had occurred days ago instead of a few hours ago.

She sorted through her memory for the many alphabet agencies in the intelligence community. As a research librarian, she’d helped many a student locate government resource materials for term papers on the topic of U.S. intelligence agencies. “DIA―the Defense Intelligence Agency is responsible for intelligence gathering for the military, has liaisons to all the other U.S. intelligence agencies including NSA.”

She couldn’t stop the tremor of fear that reverberated through her voice. “So, you think the men who shot at me can get the Hummer’s GPS tracking device number from the Boss and locate us that way?”

Vanko moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hip barely touching her covered legs. “Yes, it would be very easy for him to do so.” His tone was deadly, but his gaze was gentle, almost tender as he looked her in the eyes. He was being very careful with her.

Elana shivered. Vanko’s all-out concentration on her and her needs seemed to call to something inside her that was unfamiliar, something scary, but exciting all the same. He was all man, and the odd sensation forced her to realize she was all woman despite her pain, exhaustion, and demons.

“You’re very smart…and in pain, though you hide it well.” Vanko’s now fierce regard held her prisoner. “No one will hurt you again. I promise.”

And she believed his vow because he did. But she was realistic enough to know he couldn’t control every instance. No one could. Her father hadn’t been able to and neither had her uncles. But still, Vanko’s promise touched her in a place that had been entangled and trapped for years within a web of thick metal threads.

He patted her lower leg. “Now, I’ll retrieve the medical kit and then care for your wound. While I’m out, I’ll also arrange for our transportation to a far safer place than this motel.”

“Is a safer place even possible?” She grabbed his arm as if holding onto him might transfer some of his strength and courage to her. He was hot to the touch; she hadn’t realized how cold she’d been until then.

He covered the hand on his arm with his and squeezed gently. This was a man totally aware of his own strength and was careful in its use. When he picked up her hand and placed a kiss on her palm, she felt the feather-light touch all the way to her toes and back, causing her to forget where she was and why for several seconds.

God, the man’s lethal. He needs a warning label.

“As for the safe place, trust me. Even if they follow us there—we’ll be safe.”

Safe…with Vanko.

Th-wang. Th-wang.
The all-encasing web of horror which had bound her to the past for twelve long years began to fray.

Vanko stood and stretched. The movement reminded her of a very large, predatory cat. She’d always liked cats.

“Now, lie there and rest.” His order was softened by his smile. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can. I just hope the medical kit has what I need to care for you properly. If not, I’ll make do.”

She grabbed his arm again. Each time she touched him was easier than the last. “What kind of medical kit?”

He quirked one dark blonde eyebrow. “Army, I believe. Why?”

She closed her eyes and searched her eidetic memory. “There’ll be two suturing kits, wound sealant, assorted wide-spectrum antibiotics in prepackaged syringes, local anesthetics and pain medications, also in prepackaged syringes, sterile draping, and there should be a field set up for emergency IVs. There will also be one to two bags of saline and possibly platelets.”

Elana opened her eyes and frowned. “Since I’m capable of drinking water and probably didn’t lose that much blood—I won’t need an IV or the platelets. I can replenish any fluid volume the old-fashioned way. And even I know you don’t suture bullet wounds. You just clean, stop the bleeding, use wound sealant, if required, smooth on some wide-spectrum antibiotic ointment, and cover with sterile gauze to allow the wound to seep and get oxygen so no anaerobic bacteria can grow in the wound track.”

She paused, assessed how she felt now that she was safe, and then added, “The pain seems to be bearable as long as I don’t zig instead of zag. So you can forget the stronger pain medications also. Ibuprofen will do.”

Vanko leaned over, caging her body between two highly muscled arms. His face was so close to her, she had to fight the impulse to retreat. It helped that she sensed no menace from him, only determination.

In fact, his closeness drew another reaction from her, one not even her infrequent sexual partners could draw—a burgeoning desire. Vanko’s nearness made her pussy ache and her clit throb.

When he spoke, his lips were so close to hers she felt his breath whisper over her mouth. “We’ll discuss all this military intelligence and field medical knowledge you have and how you obtained it—later.” He straightened and then strode to the door, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “For now,
I’ll
make the determination of what care you need and don’t need.
You’ll
be a good patient and accept it.”

Then he left the room, shutting the door quietly. The firm snick of the lock seemed to emphasize the determination and finality in his voice.

“Jesus H. Christ, Ellie, my girl.” She winced as she took in too deep of a breath. “You’re in big-time trouble. That’s one dominant male.”

Just like her uncles.

The thought made her smile.

Vanko was nothing like the men she’d allowed herself to associate with since she’d moved to D.C. Thank God for that, or she’d have been dead already. At the first sign of real trouble, most of the men of her acquaintance would’ve screamed like little girls and run for cover. Vanko drove into it—literally.

She yawned and remembered just in time not to stretch. She didn’t want to jar her wound, which was behaving itself for once at a low, but bearable, throb. The sleepless night, the stress, the run for her life, and the gouge in her side once again ganged up on her, and she closed her too-heavy eyelids and fell into a not-quite-awake, but not-quite-asleep state.

A loud noise startled Elana from her uneasy slumber. She swallowed a scream and automatically felt under the pillow for the knife she always kept there. Panic struck her as she couldn’t find the switchblade. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly as she wondered what she could use as a weapon when she heard “Elana” spoken in a soft, non-threatening tone. Then she recalled where she was. She stilled and forced herself to breathe. She was in Virginia, not D.C. The noise which had awakened her too-short nap was the sound of the lock on the motel room door. Her knife was at home—where she’d left it on Friday before going to work.

What would Vanko say if she were to ask for a knife?

“What were you searching for under the pillow, Elana?” Vanko stood by the side of the bed, a glint of curiosity flickered in his eyes.

The eagle-eyed man missed nothing. He also read her better than anyone she’d ever met, so lying was not an option. Plus, there was no good reason to lie; she wanted a weapon. Now was the time to ask for one—before she really needed it.

“My knife. I sleep with a knife under my pillow.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” The warm approval in Vanko’s gaze eased her mind. She didn’t want him to think she was a freak for wanting a knife. “I’ll find you a knife as soon as we’re settled. Okay?”

“Okay.” Elana exhaled the word as yet another one of the fraying tethers to her past broke.

Vanko placed the bulky kit on the bed. He nudged his hips onto the bed until he touched the side of her leg. His body heat chased away the coldness in her bones. “Time to lose the rest of the blouse,
devochka.
”

And just that quickly, unreasonable fear drowned out the ease she’d begun to develop with this man.

Jesus, Ellie, not again. Get a hold of yourself.

“No,” she whispered, her voice strained as her throat threatened to close up on her. Whether she responded to Vanko or her inner self, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was being partially unclothed made her more vulnerable. She struggled to sit up so as to better defend herself, but a razor-sharp pain had her falling back against the mound of pillows.

“Oh, God.” She swallowed hard and panted through waves of nausea. She’d forgotten the wound for several minutes. She’d always been good at compartmentalizing when necessary, and running for one’s life made compartmentalization very necessary. The burning and throbbing had become almost normal, a background scatter reminding her she was alive. But when she moved abruptly, well, ouch was too mild a term.

Pulling together the scraps of her dignity and what little courage she could muster from her ragged psyche, she spoke in her return-the-materials-or-else librarian voice, “You can uncover what you need and leave the rest covered.”

Chill. This is Vanko. Not the devil.

She knew that, but it was more than memories of Demidas ripping away her clothing that troubled her. She was afraid to expose too much skin to this man…too much of herself in any way, shape, or form. While she trusted him to keep her physically safe, Vanko was dangerous in other ways—far more so than any man she’d ever met.

Vanko snorted and shook his head. A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead, making him look all mussed like a little boy. She fought the pressing itch in her fingers to smooth it back. He was
not
an innocent little boy; he was a man. All man.

“The blouse must come off,” he said in his no-nonsense, I’m-the-boss tone. “It’s a rag as it is and blood-covered. I have a very nice, clean, black T-shirt you can wear when I’m through bandaging you. You’ll be much more comfortable in it.”

Now he was humoring the crazy injured lady. That pissed her off.

Before she could even marshal further arguments or utter a cutting retort, Vanko lifted her away from the pillows with one arm behind her back and stripped the remnants of her blouse off. The two temporary pads covering the wound, front and back, came off with the garment, leaving her in a sheer demi-cup bra and her skirt which was still unzipped from when he’d first treated the wound in the Hummer.

Embarrassment would have to wait until later. Right now pain ruled.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as hot tears streaked down her cold cheeks. The makeshift pads
had
stuck somewhat to the open wound, the dried blood acting like Superglue. Even though Vanko had pulled everything away quickly, the pain was indescribable and made her queasy. She swallowed hard and then cursed under her breath in a mixture of English and Russian.

“Had to be done. Sorry.” Vanko gently lowered her back to the bed. He wiped away the tears streaming down her face with his thumbs. “Your use of Russian curse words is admirable. We must compare favorites…once you’re feeling better.”

His words and matter-of-fact tone struck her as funny. Elana half-chuckled, half-sobbed, and finally sniffed loudly in an attempt to master her out-of-control emotions. “I’m sure you have a more comprehensive list than mine.”