To her shock he shucked his worn jeans, and stood there, naked. She averted her gaze quickly, but not quite quickly enough, and she was suddenly furious. It didn’t matter that he was trying to save her life, that this was a play. The damned man was turned on, and that was betrayal enough.
He sank down on the mattress. “Spread you legs, gringa, and get ready for the bull!” he said.
She slapped him. She had no idea where it came from, maybe just the fury that she was so vulnerable and he had an erection. An impressive one. She hated him, hated him so much that it would have been better if it had been the monstrous Alcista. Then it wouldn’t be such a betrayal.
“Ooooh,” one of the men called out. “You won’t get away with that, will she, Teo?”
He was kneeling on the bed, an unreadable expression on his face. “Bitch,” he said in Spanish, and slapped one hand against his palm, hard.
She didn’t have the wits to say anything, and he frowned at her. “Not hard enough, bitch. See if you like this?” He hit his hand again, and this time she shrieked in simulated pain.
He nodded. “That’s the way,” he said in coded approval. He caught her ankles and yanked her down on the bed so that she lay flat, and he pushed her legs apart. Her panties, plain cotton ones made for practicality rather than seduction, were still in place, even though her smallish breasts were exposed. He didn’t seem to notice, but she wasn’t going to look at him again, not when he was naked.
He picked up a piece of the discarded habit and ripped it noisily. “When I grunt loudly you shriek,” he said with barely a breath of a sound.
That wouldn’t be hard, she thought, keeping her eyes closed as he moved between her legs. A moment later he was lying on top of her, emitting a loud, groaning noise, and she belatedly remembered to squeak.
“Is she tight, jefe? I bet she’s tight.”
“Shut up!” he called out in Spanish. And then she felt a vicious pinch on her arm and she let out a really good cry. “You like that, don’t you, bitch?” he called out, making another guttural moan.
She opened her eyes, looking up at him. She could feel him against her, between her legs, iron-hard, and for some reason she felt her fury ebb. It was MacGowan, who had saved her time and again, and he was saving her once more.
He put his head down again, against her ear. “I’m going to move, and make a lot of noise. You need to play your part or we’re not getting out of this. Don’t be a baby – your virtue will still be intact.”
He didn’t even seem to notice that his hard chest was against her breasts. She hadn’t realized he had a light dusting of hair, and it pushed against her nipples in unspeakable, unmistakable arousal.
“If you’re being so damned noble why do you have an erection?” she said in an icy whisper.
She saw his grin in the shadows. “Three years, babe.” And he began to move.
She shrieked obediently. She hated this, hated the parody of rape, and yet she clutched his arms, wanting to assure herself he was there. Her fingers moved up his biceps as he thrust against her with loud, ferocious grunts, like a pig in heat, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to giggle or weep. She caught his shoulders in her hands and held on, the force of him shaking her, and she realized with sudden shock that she wanted him inside her. Despite everything, this hideous parody was bringing an atavistic longing, and she lifted her knees, cradling his hips.
He turned his head to look at her, and for a moment they stared at each other. “Bitch,” he called out in Spanish. And then he kissed her.
Her response was instant. She arched up against him as a shiver of desire started deep within her, and she kissed him back, touching him with her tongue, mating with him, wanting him, wanting him so badly, his safety, his strength, his fierce power that had become sexual, and she wanted to throw herself into it, to melt and die . . .
“Shit,” he whispered. And then louder. “Shit, shit, shit,” in Spanish, and she felt the wet heat of him on her stomach, as he sank his head on her shoulder, shaking.
For a long time he didn’t move. To her surprise she realized she was cradling him, her arms around him, her hands stroking his smooth back, a soothing aftermath. She had done this for her other lovers, but to her overwhelming shame these twisted minutes, when he hadn’t even been inside her, were still more sexually charged than any intercourse she’d ever endured.
A shadow filled the door. “My turn, jefe?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” His voice was rough, and the man moved away without argument. MacGowan looked down at her, a rueful expression on his face. “You can scream at me later,” he said, rolling off her, taking the torn piece of cloth and wiping her stomach. She knew a moment’s shock at the indecent use of a nun’s habit, and then realized he was looking at her breasts.
“Stay here,” he said, unnecessarily as he pulled on his jeans. He reached down and picked up the gun. It was large and black in the shadows, oddly elongated, and she’d seen enough TV to know it had a silencer. It was now, she thought. Whether they were going to live or die.
She should have ripped her panties off herself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He had no choice, MacGowan thought. The feigned rape had distracted the men – they never saw what was coming. He did what he had to do, quickly, efficiently, and one of the men cried out before he died, and he wanted to kick him. That sound would distress Beth, who had already been through enough. He’d come in hoping to spare her, and then he’d come all over her like the animal he was. She had every right to be disgusted with him.
He dragged the bodies into the kitchen, dumping them on top of each other. They’d left a smear of blood behind, and he cursed beneath his breath. He didn’t want her to see it, but there wasn’t time to clean it up.
He went back into the tiny room. She was sitting up again, huddled into the corner, hugging herself. He’d ripped the clothes off her, and she had nothing to wear.
“Stay there,” he said in his normal voice.