She struggled against him, and worried he would hurt her further, he let her go. In two seconds flat, she jumped off the counter and made a break for her bottle of Grey Goose. Yanking it free from her backpack, she twisted off the cap and put the bottle to her lips. Head tipped back, she downed the clear liquid like a seasoned pro.
“Gray—”
“No,” she said again between long swallows, retreating as he advanced.
He reached her in two strides. Too late. She finished the last ounce as he twisted the bottle from her grasp.“What the hell are you doing?”
“Self-medicating.”
“Normal people take acetaminophen.” He reached for her, and she slapped his hand away before taking a couple of steps back.
“Who said I was fucking normal?” The force of her anger was impressive, considering she stood there wearing nothing but a men’s Rolex and her underwear.
Lamplight licked at the shadows on her skin, and quick as the flip of a switch, the slow burn he’d been fanning turned into a raging inferno. Body slammed by a surge of high-octane testosterone, Chase wanted nothing more than to close the space she’d put between them, cover her bruises with his flesh, crush her lips against his, and fuck her good and hard—repeatedly.
Instead, he tossed the bottle onto the bed in the corner. It bounced, sounding out a hollow thunk as it hit the floor. “No what?” His heart pounding against his rib cage, he balled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.
“No fucking hospitals. No fucking doctors. No fucking anything. I can see what you’re thinking. I’m fine.” She gestured at her hip. “It doesn’t even hurt. I don’t need you, and I don’t need your help.”
Exhausted, her words carried no weight. Her eyes slammed shut, and she shook her head. She was running out of juice as the vodka jacked her system, adding its drowsing effects to her already extreme fatigue.
“Listen, Gray—” He caught her as her knees let go, and lifting her to his chest, he cradled her in his arms.
Tucking her face into his neck, she snuggled closer and whispered, “Fuck you, Chase.”
Then between one breath and the next, she fell asleep, and he was left holding the most exasperating and intriguing woman he’d ever met.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Chase droppedGray’s shoes next to his boots by the fire. Her fabric runners would be dry by morning. His thick leather soles—not so much. Tired but unable to rest, he retrieved her bags and made for the only chair in the cabin. The cracked vinyl squeaked as he settled his frame in an attempt to find a position that didn’t result in an anal probe courtesy of a rusty spring.
A sigh drew his gaze to the corner, and he had to squash the urge to get right back up and go to her. When he’d covered Gray with the blanket, she’d been lying facedown on the small cot, the pillow angled under her head, an arm tucked around it.
Now on her side facing the wall, he couldn’t imagine she was any more comfortable, given the number and variety of bruises she sported. Then again, chugging Grey Goose straight from the bottle had probably gone a long way to mask her aches and pains.
He frowned and shook his head. Her alcohol consumption worried him.
Not because she could drink her body weight in vodka and still complete a five-hour trek across the border, but because she seemed to use it as a coping mechanism. Yeah. Safe to say, she had his brain turning in circles.
Tough, stubborn, and unwilling to share personal information, Gray hid behind a prickly facade, and it pissed him off. At the same time, he’d never met anyone he wanted to get to know more. It was a problem.
He had commitments, including a mission that took priority over everything else. The JTT’s orders were clear, they still needed to uncover Wright’s identity, and the clock kept ticking.
By virtue of same time, same place, same target, Gray had become a valuable asset.
Hisasset.
Without question, he’d lay down his life to protect her if necessary, and not just because she might be the link to Wright the JTT desperately needed. He liked her fiery spirit. Her complexity. Layer after layer, he wanted to slide behind her defenses and get to know her—intimately.
Learning her full name seemed like a good place to begin, and pulling her backpack into his lap, he searched the outside pockets first. Passport located, he flipped to the information page.
Grace Emerson. Jesus. Her name registered, and he knew who she was before the travel stamps to multiple conflict zones confirmed it. A freelance photographer and a damn good one, she had the pictures to prove it.
Her photographs were graphic and unforgiving, nanoseconds frozen in time when most people didn’t want time to stop. And guaranteed, they didn’t want digital reminders on the front page of theNew York Times.
With a full name to go with her face, a few puzzle pieces clicked into place. Usually, her pictures accompanied breaking news headlines. Too tired to visualize the byline, he couldn’t remember the name of the investigative reporter she worked with. John? Jason? Jackson something?
Shit. Chase needed to get to an area with cellular reception. ASAP.
