glad. Light-headed with gratitude. Or maybe that was
fatigue and fear.
As he worked at unwinding her bonds, she noticed
a long, deep scratch on his wrist. Marcie or Jerry—one
of them had fought hard enough to score him. His
blood mixed with theirs.
He bled. She thought that was important, but she had
no idea why. The shudders that racked her were making
her fuzzy. That, and more than twenty-four hours without food or water or sleep.
Again he rubbed his palm against his denim-clad
38
SINS OF THE HEART
thigh. Then he fished through his pocket and pulled
something out. She glanced at his offering and felt the
world tip and tilt. A lollipop. He was offering her a yellow lollipop.
“Sugar,” he said. “You need it.”
Vaguely, she realized he was right. But she thought
there was something wrong with this plan.
“No…c-c-can—” Not taking candy from a stranger.
He didn’t seem inclined to chat. He carefully removed the wrapper, folded it in half, then in half again,
tucked the paper in his pocket and ordered, “Open your
mouth.”
And she did. Maybe that was stupid. Or maybe it
was the smartest thing she’d ever done, she thought a
moment later as the first hint of sugar rush amped
through her. He rocked back on his heels and shrugged
out of his battered leather jacket, then leaned in to
drape it over her. It was warm. Deliciously, tearwrenchingly warm. And she wanted to howl with gratitude.
Right after she got her hands on the knife in the
corner. Just in case.
