Where the hell was he? He was always around when you wanted him gone. Where was he now that she needed him?
She rolled over, burying her face in the mattress that smelled of sweat and plaster, her fists clutching the iron bed frame. She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear the stealthy footsteps cross the floor, until it was too late. A hand snaked around her, covering her mouth, as a body pressed her against the sagging bed. She tried to scream, but a hand pressed against her throat, shutting off the sound, and another, deeper blackness began to descend.
“So you’re back.” Holly sat up in bed, facing a rumpled and furious Ian Andrews without a trace of her almost-dizzy relief showing. The silk nightgown had tiny straps that had slipped down her arms, but she made no effort to pull them up again, nor to cover herself with the threadbare blanket. She knew perfectly well they were back—she’d heard their voices in the bombed-out courtyard of Mabib’s house and high-tailed it out of Maggie’s room in time to arrange herself as artfully as possible in her sexiest nightgown. It had been a close thing—she was still breathing heavily from her exertions.
“I’m back,” Ian said grimly, tossing the electric lantern down on the twin bed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” she said in an airy tone of voice. “I wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars of my hard-earned money to retrieve you. That’s almost half an hour of modeling work. I figured you were worth it.”
“What?”
She smiled her most enchanting smile, wishing she had dimples to further infuriate him. “Didn’t Randall tell you? I paid your ransom.”
“No, he didn’t tell me. And he didn’t tell me how much. Or should I say, how little?”
“Now, don’t be offended, Ian. They were asking for five million. They were just willing to bargain when they realized what cut-rate merchandise they’d captured.”
“I’m not in the mood for this,” Ian warned, stripping off his khaki jacket. There were streaks of dried blood on it, and some impressive scrapes and bruises on his face. Apparently he hadn’t been captured without a struggle, and for a moment Holly softened. She was about to slide from the bed, offer to bind his wounds, and even, if he managed to smile that devastating smile just one more time, provide a little more in the way of comfort, when Ian eyed her open suitcase.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” she echoed, momentarily nonplussed.
“This?” He held up a piece of neon plastic.
“My hair dryer. And that’s my curling iron, and my eyelash curler, and my—What the hell are you doing?”
Ian had dropped the fuchsia plastic blow dryer on the floor and stomped on it with his size-eleven boot. The plastic shattered with a muffled crunch. He took the matching curling iron and broke it in half like a pretzel rod, grabbed the eyelash curler and crushed it in one large fist. And then he reached for her suitcase full of silks and satins, strode to the shuttered window, and threw it out in the streets.
Holly just sat there, staring, as an estimated ten thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothes took the plunge. Then she leaned
back against the plaster wall with deceptive calm. “Make you feel any better?” she inquired. “Or would you like to toss me after my suitcase?”
“Don’t tempt me.” He sneered.
“Would you mind telling me what I’m supposed to wear?”
“I don’t give a damn. I’m just not going to lug another damned purple suitcase around the trouble spots of the world.”
“It’s not my fault you got kidnapped, Ian.”
“The hell it isn’t. They were warned. I was set up, damn it. They were told to look for someone with a tall lady with a dozen lavender suitcases.”
“I only have three … correction, two.”
“It doesn’t matter. No one else flew into Beirut airport in the last week with purple suitcases. They got me before I’d gone half a mile, thanks to you.”
“Listen, it’s not my fault I’m distinctive—”
“Shut up, Holly,” he said, his voice low and furious as he kicked off his shoes. “Just close that pretty mouth of yours and keep it closed, or I’ll find ways to do it for you.”
She considered him for a moment. Normally she wouldn’t have backed down, but he’d been through a hell of a lot. He pulled off his shirt, and she could see a large welt purpling his torso. She also noticed what an extremely nice torso it was, broad and muscled and tanned, with just the right amount of hair tapering into his pants. Pants he was in the midst of taking off.
She flipped over, turning her back on him. “Pleasant dreams, Ian.”
“Don’t count on it.”
* * *