Crossfire Christmas (7 page)

Teresa pulled away from his gentle yet firm, callused touch, nodding. “I’ll get the tape.”

Chapter Five

Nash turned his face away from the ribbon of sunlight that squeezed between the wall and curtains and hit him in the eyes.

He rolled over onto his back, moaning at the stiffness that made every joint ache. He raised his forearm to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of sunlight off the snow outside. Yeah, there was a chill on the bare skin of his torso. And yeah, he was pretty beat up. He could tell from the throbbing in his shoulder that he was far from 100 percent.

But he must have slept through the night. As consciousness pushed away the dregs of sleep, he was able to remember the echoes of his nightmares—familiar faces, doors closing all around him, locking him out, keeping him from reaching Axel Torres and Jim Richter and Tommy Delvecchio. And blood. Way too much blood. At least, that was how he interpreted the wispy clouds of scarlet hanging around him like warm breath in the wintry air of his dreams.

Despite the disturbing images that clung to the fringes of his thoughts, he felt a little more rested, a little more like a normal person. As normal as the last surviving member of a team marked for death could feel, at any rate.

That sobering thought raised him to another level of consciousness. He blinked his eyes beneath his arm, slowly taking stock of his surroundings. Sore thigh. Shoulder that felt as if it had been through a meat grinder. Soft quilt beneath his back. Softer pillow beneath his head. The subtle scents of alcohol and soap and...garlic? teased his nose. His stomach grumbled in a visceral response to the enticing aroma. Right. Food hadn’t exactly been a priority for him these past two days. And whatever was cooking smelled mighty good.

Whatever was cooking?

No longer dreaming, no longer speculating, but wide-awake and suddenly aware of the keen gaze watching him, Nash opened his eyes and curled his fingers around the gun at his side before lowering his arm. He turned his head slightly to the right and saw that it was too late to go on the offensive.

“Ah, hell.”

Teresa Rodriguez, that sweet little bundle of curves and sass, sat in the kitchen chair beside the bed, where he’d left her bound and gagged last night.

Except the tape he’d stuck loosely over her mouth was gone.

Not only was she free of her bindings, but she’d changed her clothes and held his badge and a magazine of bullets in either fist. “Good morning, Agent Nash.”

Nash swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. Maybe a little too fast because her dark eyes and blue sweater swirled around in his vision. He shook off the dizziness, tossed aside the blanket she’d covered him with and spared the time to check his Smith & Wesson to confirm that the magazine she held came from his weapon. He was empty. At a distinct disadvantage. The captor was now the captive.

She bombarded him with questions before he could decide on his next plan of action. “Why did you make me afraid of you? Why did you kidnap me? Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

That clever little minx. She’d cut herself loose from the duct tape he’d bound her wrists and ankles with last night. And while he couldn’t stop the grin of admiration from hooking the corner of his mouth, he wasn’t about to get her more involved with the mess that was his life right now than she already was. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, I understand complicated. Why didn’t you tell me you were a cop?” She leaned with him to keep them face-to-face when he tucked his empty weapon into the back of his jeans. “I would have helped you. I wouldn’t have put up such a fuss. I thought you were a fugitive from the law—a drug dealer or a hit man. I was thinking of ways I could disable you long enough for me to get away. I almost sewed up a dirty wad of gauze in your wound to create a sepsis. If the pain and discomfort didn’t slow you down, the resulting blood infection would eventually kill you.”

She had plans to sabotage his injury? “Did you do that?”

“No. I took an oath to help people, not hurt them.” So she had the brains to think like a survivalist, but she lacked the killer instinct to ensure her freedom by whatever means were available to her. That still gave him a slight edge over her because she had a heart and a conscience that restricted her actions, while he was willing to do whatever was necessary to complete his mission. “You should have told me the truth instead of bullying me. I grew up with cops. I understand the dangers they face. My brother’s a cop. My sister Emilia is married to one.”

He’d snatch that magazine of bullets right now if he didn’t think the room would start spinning again at the sudden movement. Nash didn’t like feeling weak like this. He didn’t like having his secrets exposed. And as much as he appreciated her resourcefulness, he didn’t like that his hostage had turned the tables on him. He blinked her chocolate-brown eyes into clearer focus and let his gaze sweep down the clingy lines of her sweater and jeans. Nice. He’d been aware of those breasts and hips from the moment he’d pinned her body beneath his in the snow. But the rosy pink lips, adorned with nothing but accusation and shine, made him hungry for something more than food.

Priorities, Nash.
He corrected the errant thought that warmed his blood. A man in survival mode didn’t have time for fantasies like wondering what a woman would taste like beneath his kiss. At least she hadn’t taken his gun or stolen another one from his go bag to aim at him. And he’d just have to take her word that she hadn’t booby-trapped his wound to hasten his death. “What are you, a pickpocket?”

“I’ve developed certain skills over the years,” she explained. “I’m the youngest of five children. I never could outmuscle AJ or outsmart Emilia and my sisters. So I developed a knack for being sneaky. I’d pocket a piece of a jigsaw puzzle or steal a couple of Mama’s cookies so I could make sure I had my share of whatever they were doing before they were done.”

Nash tapped his left front pocket, still trying to get his brain up to speed on the shifting situation. The cell phone was still there, nestled right next to the promised land. Could he have slept through her taking it off him? Had she already called 911 or turned him in to the brother or brother-in-law at KCPD she kept throwing at him? “How long have you been loose?”

“I waited a couple of hours until I was sure you were in a deep sleep. Then I crawled to the bathroom, got the scissors out of my sewing kit and cut myself free.” She lifted her hand to the tiny pink welts and bruising that dotted her cheek. “I didn’t realize how bad it would hurt to pull tape off my skin. The rest were easier.”

“I tried to tape it to your clothes, not your skin.” Feeling a pang of remorse for her getting hurt interfering with his annoyance, Nash instinctively reached out to touch his fingertips to the spot. A muscle quivered beneath the brush of his fingers, and her cool skin warmed. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t exactly cooperating when you were restraining me.”

“It’s my fault, Peewee. Don’t apologize or make excuses.” What was it about good people getting hurt when he was around? Snatching his hand away, Nash pushed to his feet. And wobbled. Teresa immediately stood up to help him. He savored a moment of her steadying strength tucked to his side, then took advantage of her switching the badge and bullets to one hand by grabbing the magazine from her loose grip.

“Hey!”

He stepped away and pulled the gun from his belt, reloading it. Reclaiming a little more advantage. “I need my bag.”

But turning around to survey the room forced him to grab the nearest bedpost as everything swayed.

“What am I going to do with you? Sometimes you really piss me off. Sometimes I feel sorry for you, and sometimes I even kind of like you. I don’t understand you.”

She’d get over it. “Where’s my bag?”

Despite a sotto voce curse, her hand was at his elbow again. “The dizziness is probably from blood loss and the fact that you haven’t eaten anything for at least fourteen hours. I heated up some soup. It’s my mama’s chicken soup recipe—the best thing you can put in your stomach when you’re not feeling a hundred percent.”

“You made soup?” Now the smell of herbs and garlic made sense. His mouth watered at the deliciously homey aroma drifting through the apartment. Embarrassed by the answering grumble in his stomach when he was trying to be the tough guy and throw a little intimidation around, he searched the room for a clock. “How long have I been out?”

“About twelve hours.” He pushed away her helping hand and staggered toward his bag near her dresser. “If you sit back down or come to the kitchen, I’ll fix you a bowl.”

“I need to get dressed.”

She hurried past him and planted herself between him and the go bag. “You’re running a low-grade fever. It may be your body’s reaction to the hypothermia and trauma you went through yesterday. But it could also mean there’s an infection setting in.”

“I thought you said you didn’t tamper with my wound.”

“I didn’t.” She tipped her face up to his, her eyes flashing with temper. “You’re managing that side effect all by yourself.”

“I’m not going to any hospital.” He watched her open those bow-shaped lips to argue. The desire to bend his head and silence that sassy mouth with his hit him like a punch to the gut. He must have a fever to forget for one moment the urgency of his mission. Instead of listening to his body, Nash snatched his badge from her hand and ignored both her arguments and that sirenlike pull she had on him. He tucked the wallet with his badge into the pocket beside his phone and reached down to pick up the bag.

But the moment he gritted his teeth and struggled to sling its heavy weight onto his shoulder, Teresa was there to help. She plucked the straps from his hand and carried it to the bed, where she set it on the rumpled blanket and unzipped it.

Nash had to slowly switch course to follow her. “Did you call anyone?”

She scooted away when he stepped up beside her to pull out a white T-shirt. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she was keeping her distance as he retrieved a snap-front Western shirt and gingerly started to dress in the clean clothes.

“You need a winter coat if you’re going out,” she groused, turning her head when he dropped his pants to pull on a fresh pair of briefs.

“I’m not staying here.”

Nash pulled out his socks and sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you call anyone?” he repeated. He needed to know exactly how much lead time, if any, he had before this place would be swarming with KCPD officers or something worse.

“You conveniently destroyed all my phones, remember?” Her gaze lifted from the cord sticking out of the pocket of the jeans he wore, where he’d stashed the burner phone. “And I didn’t want to get that close to you.”

“You didn’t call 911 on me? Didn’t call big brother?” Bending over made him dizzy. Pulling his knee up to his chest to tug on one stupid sock nearly wore him out. Talk about being a sitting duck.

“No, Charlie. Charles? Agent Nash? What should I call you? Let me.” With a noisy sigh, she dropped to her knees in front of him to help him push up his pant legs and put on his socks.

Hell. In addition to escaping and cooking and going through his things, she’d washed and dried her long hair. The long ponytail that fell down the middle of her back was dark and shiny like a bay horse’s well-brushed coat. Double hell. He should be worried about the fact he hadn’t heard the water running in the next room or awakened when she’d pulled those jeans and that figure-hugging sweater from a drawer or closet in here—not wondering if her hair was as soft to the touch as her skin had been.

And he damn sure shouldn’t be wondering if she’d bumped those compact yet decadent curves against him when she’d been robbing him of his ammunition. Even though she’d drawn the line at rummaging through his pockets, she had to have practically lain on top of him to reach over him to get the gun his fingers had been touching all night. At least, he thought he’d kept his weapon beside him. But he was quickly learning there was little he could predict about this woman.

Again he wondered why he couldn’t have stuck himself with a meeker, more amenable captive to stitch him up and hide him for a few hours. Stupid luck. Nurse Teresa wasn’t like any woman he’d been involved with before. A man in his position should have minded his misfortune a little more than he did.

“Nash. Everybody calls me Nash.” He pointed to the end of the bed, reminding them both who had the upper hand—and the loaded gun—now. “Boots.”

“You’re in no shape to walk out of here. And you don’t have a car.” She picked up his Justin boots and helped him pull them onto his feet. But she stopped in the middle of tugging his jeans over the shaft of his left boot. “Unless you plan to steal mine?” She tilted her face to his, her cheeks flooding with heat. “You’re stealing my car?” Then she was standing up, backing away. “I
am
reporting you. I was dumb to think you needed a second chance. I unloaded the electronics from my armoire, so I can go anytime I want to. I think I can outrun you in the shape you’re in.”

“Wait.” She spun toward the door, but Nash grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. She landed on his lap.

“Let go of me.” He grunted when she put her hand against his bandaged thigh and tried to push away. “Sorry.”

But his pain didn’t stop her from scrambling to get away. She just changed tactics, swatting a fist at his good shoulder but avoiding doing the damage she should have by going after his injuries and freeing herself. Still, she was enough of a handful that Nash caught her flailing arms at her sides and pulled her against his chest. Anchoring her in place sapped his strength, but he refused to let her go. If she got away from him and made it to Mrs. Walker’s apartment or some other neighbor’s phone and brought the local cops down on him...

“Please, darlin’, I need you to stop.”

Please?
Now who was lacking the killer instinct? Now her boots were aiming for his shins and the side of her hip kept brushing against his groin.
You don’t have time for this. Tie her up again. Make her cooperate. You owe it to Tommy and Richter and Torres.
“How much is your car worth?”

“What?” Curiosity made the twisting stop. She settled on top of his thighs and looked up at him as if this was some kind of embrace instead of a snare. “I don’t know. My brother’s the car nut. I bought it for a few thousand dollars when I graduated from nursing school and he put a new engine in it for me. I don’t know what he paid. It was a gift.”