Taken With The Enemy Page 5

  "Steady,” the deep, familiar voice soothed. “I've got you."

  The sound reverberated in my ears. I was leaning into a sculpted chest, my cheek brushing against soft fabric. I inhaled slowly.

  Sandalwood.

  The numbing shock wore off and my body took inventory. Strong arms laced under mine held me up, my breasts crushed against a firm stomach, my back arched in, my legs were swept back behind me.

  "Are you okay?"

  I looked up. My captor appeared concerned, scared even. Oh God. I tripped and he caught me. Too embarrassing. Feeling heat rise to my cheeks, I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

  He pulled me onto unsteady feet, his arms drawing me closer until my length was pressed tightly against him. “Are you sure you're not hurt?” he asked.

  Unable to find my voice, I simply nodded again. My ankle was now throbbing, but it wasn't worth mentioning.

  He captured my gaze and held it, searching. Silent seconds passed. His warmth seeped into my chest and my stomach flip-flopped. The air grew heavy, intimate, like a moment shared between lovers. I almost expected him to lean in and kiss me.

  The grin he gave made me wonder if he read my thoughts.

  My cheeks went from hot to scalding.

  He unraveled his hold and slowly began stepping back, running his hands down my arms and lifting them up as he went. He didn't stop until his fingers intertwined with mine and a large circular gap stood between us.

  "Walk to me."

  Not knowing what else to do, I limped forward two paces.

  "You've hurt your ankle?"

  "I'm okay. I just need to walk more,” I replied.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I think I'd know. I'm a doctor. Remember?"

  He chuckled. “I'm glad to hear that.” He let go of one hand and turned, leading me away from the staircase.

  I looked around and saw that we were in a small lobby, the front entrance just a few feet away. Damn. We bypassed another elevator, two couches, an unmanned desk, and went through a set of engraved wood doors.

  My heart raced as we stepped outside into the chilled night.

  The door swung close behind us, casting the world in utter darkness. As the gentle sound of bubbling water reached my ears, my eyes adjusted, and the full moon's soft glow illuminated the small garden courtyard. Light reflected off the glass windows that surrounded us on all four sides. I realized that the area was enclosed by the building itself.

  "Come."

  He led me on the tiled path that meandered through a lush garden of date palms and other tropical flora. Soon, we came upon the center of the courtyard to where a little fountain stood. He guided me over to a stone bench. We sat and I found myself succumbing to the enchantment of the small oasis. Before me, the trickling water sparkled in the moonlight, tinkling softly in the cool desert breeze. A billion stars dotted the ink-colored sky like diamonds scattered across rich velvet, and I inhaled deeply, relishing the heady scent of jasmine mingling with that of sandalwood.

  Sandalwood. His scent.

  I looked over and met the glittering eyes of my captor. It was only then that I recognized how inappropriate our situation was. We sat so close together, our thighs touched, the heat from the contact contrasting with cool dampness that seeped through my clothing from the stone seat. His large fingers had somehow interlaced with mine, producing an intimate hold further emphasized as our joined hands rested lightly in his lap.

  "You know, you look beautiful tonight. The abaya flatters you.” His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist as he spoke.

  Oh, my God! Was he actually hitting on me?

  My stomach fluttered, but I willed myself to keep it casual. “Thank you,” I said, gently tugging my hand out of his. Suddenly fearing that he would be offended, I hid the reason for my withdrawal by moving my hem out of the way and lifting my foot to show him the embroidered shoes. “I was very lucky. The abaya was a perfect fit, as were the slippers."

  "I'm glad. We procured those items just for you."

  I didn't know what to say. Good manners dictated that I should show gratitude, but my suspicious side also surged, wanting to know how he knew my size at all.

  Duh! The guy knows everything about you.

  "Why am I here?” I blurted out. After I said it, I wondered which way I meant the question. Why here imprisoned, or why here with him now in this would-be romantic moment? Shit, I'd be satisfied if either of those questions were answered.

  "Why did you become a doctor?” he asked.

  I froze. “I ... um ... wanted to help people."

  "Very noble,” he replied. “But what prompted your decision? Tell me about the moment that started you on the road to your profession."

  No.

  "I don't know,” I said slowly. “It's just something I always wanted to do. Are you going to answer my question?"

  He nodded. “You're here because I need you to be."

  "That's a very vague explanation."

  Cocking his head to the left, his gaze scanned over my face. “And so was yours."

  I looked away. “I know what you want to hear, but that's very personal. I don't talk about it."

  "I understand,” he replied. “And I will not force you to."

  Swinging my head around, I glared at him accusingly. “Are you not? You're demanding a trade of information. I can't do that. You're my en—"

  "Don't say it,” he warned.

  My heart thudded at the acid in his tone.

  "I'm not asking you for government secrets,” he continued. “I'm just asking you to tell me about yourself."

  "I can't. A captive should never give her captor personal information. Why do you want to know anyway? To hold it over me later? To manipulate me? To play more mind games?"

  "Okay, discussion over."

  "No. Tell me why I'm here. Why do you need me? If not for government secrets or some kind of intelligence that will give you a tactical advantage, then what? Ransom?"

  "Brenna, I'm not going to argue with you. We've done enough of that tonight."

  I exhaled my frustration, but let the subject drop. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with him.

  "Look, I don't have a lot of time left,” he said. “I want to make a deal with you before I go."

  "You're leaving again? Go figure,” I muttered.

  Inwardly, I cringed. Why should I care either way? I shouldn't ... I didn't.

  "I don't have much of a choice. I wasn't supposed to come back for another three days."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I was worried about you. I heard you weren't eating, that you rarely left your room...” he trailed off.

  My insides heated and I melted like a teenage girl getting the team captain's jacket on a cold night. No—I would not be swayed again by his sweet words of concern. If he hadn't brought me here in the first place, I wouldn't have fasted in protest.

  He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “But, I am flattered to know that you will miss me when I'm gone."

  I smirked, then put my hand in his, letting him help me off the bench. He weaved my arm through his and we started down the paved path.

  "What makes you think I'll miss you?"

  "Because you always have the most engaging responses when I tell you I am leaving. The first time you were sad, this time, you were angry."

  "Don't take my responses to heart,” I said, annoyed by his observation. “My caring is just a symptom of Stockholm Syndrome."

  He held open the door for me. “If you say so,” he replied, guiding me over the threshold.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  He led me toward the stairwell. “So, you're not attracted to me at all?"

  What? What!?!

  "Not in the least,” I assured him.

  "You're lying."

  "The hell I am.” Fuck! I was. In a sick, demented way, I was. I was attracted to him. God help me...

  "Did I mention how easy you are to read?” he asked.


  "Yes,” I growled. “This is the third time you've said it tonight."

  He laughed. “I'm sure it's just the Stockholm Syndrome making you feel that way."

  Before I could agree with his statement, he swept me in to his arms and carried me up the steps. But instead of putting me down when we reached the top, he continued to my room. Still reeling from the ‘attraction’ comment, I didn't fight against his display of chivalry.

  When we got to the door, still open the way I'd left it, he stepped inside and set me on my feet. I took a couple of steps back to put some distance between us.

  "Here's the deal,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “As long as you eat three square meals a day, you can go into the courtyard. Whenever you want to walk outside, just pick up the phone and leave a message. Someone will come to escort you out."

  "What? Is this to be my reward for being a good girl who eats all her food?"

  "You can say that."

  I scoffed. “Oh, and if I don't, what are you going to do? Spank me?"

  A mischievous grin spread across his face.

  Realizing what I'd just said, my cheeks ignited. Worse, erotic images popped into my head, which intensified the blush until it burned my hairline.

  "You know what I mean,” I rushed. “Being treated like a child and such."

  He nodded and reached for the door handle. “Good night, Brenna. I'll see you in a couple of days."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to bid him a safe trip, but I caught myself before it slipped out. For all I knew, he was leaving to plan another attack on my comrades.

  My captor shut the door and keys jingled as the lock slid into place.

  I rubbed my eyes and scolded myself for being the fool. My fatigue had to be the reason for my utter lost of common sense. I went to my room and threw myself on the bed, replaying all the humiliating moments I'd endured this night.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb...

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  I strolled through the garden, my thoughts drifting back to him. Four days had passed and he hadn't returned. I glanced over my shoulder at my armed escort, walking a few paces behind me, his rifle in hand. He wasn't much company. The strong, silent type I guessed.

  Looking at the ground, I resumed my useless task of counting tiles.

  On the morning after my captor left, I ate a light breakfast, dressed, and picked up the phone, hesitantly requesting to go outside. I wasn't sure what would happen, but minutes later, the deadbolt was unlocked and a knock sounded. Surprised by my escort's manners, I answered the door. Before me stood a brutish looking man, big, brawny, with a full beard covering most of his face. He had a weapon slung over his shoulder. Though I was scared shitless, I went with him, hoping that my captor spoke the truth when he had promised that no harm would come to me.

  He had. My escort and I spent a half an hour outside, and then we went back in. Lunch and dinner brought the same routine.

  Three times a day, for four days now, my escort and I had taken walks together. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get the man to say anything to me. I'd talk, he'd listen. If I asked a yes or no question, he'd nod, shake his head, or shrug. Sometimes, when I made a sarcastic joke, usually regarding his stoic personality, he'd smile. Otherwise, nothing.

  The lack of interaction was starting to grate on my nerves. In a way, I really did miss my captor. At least he talked to me.

  Behind me, my escort cleared his throat. It was the signal he gave when it was time to go back inside. However, this time, I ignored him. He cleared his throat again. I pretended not to hear, as if I was lost in deep thought, too busy counting the stupid tiles.

  "Yalla."

  I spun around, surprised all to hell. “Did you just speak?"

  He smiled, and cocked his head toward the door.

  I went to his side. “What does that mean?” I asked as we started walking back.

  He regarded me, but said nothing.

  "Is it like saying, ‘Hey you?’”

  He shook his head.

  "Look at me?"

  He shook his head again.

  "Time to leave?"

  He waved his palm and squinted, as if to say close, but not quite. He then pointed at his watch and shook his head.

  "No time? Out of time?"

  He shook his head, very adamantly, then rolled his hand as if signaling something backwards.

  I shrugged. “Time to go?"

  When he shook his head and tapped his watch yet again, I realized that he was trying to tell me not to say ‘time'.

  Remembering the guess that he had signaled as so-so, I revisited it. “It's not time to leave, but close to that, without the word time."

  He nodded.

  ...to leave ... to go...

  "Let us leave?"

  He rolled his hand forward, nodding.

  What was another way of saying ‘let us leave?'

  "Follow me, we go now?"

  I was on the right track. He was nodding and rolling more.

  All of a sudden, a memory flashed inside my head, one of a battle torn neighborhood and a young Iraqi boy tugging on his little brother's arm, urging him to move faster while he chanted that word.

  ...follow me, let's leave ... hurry, move it ... come on, come on ... let's go...

  "Come on, let's go?"

  My escort smiled big and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I couldn't help but laugh. Despite my escort's gruff appearance, he was actually kind of nice, reminding me once again about the lesson on how looks can be deceiving.

  When we got back to my apartment, he opened my door and let me walk in. Then, dipping his head as if to say goodbye, he started to close it.

  "Wait."

  He stilled.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Will I ever find out why you can't—or won't—talk to me?"

  Grinning broadly, as if my question amused him, he winked at me, closing the door behind him and locking it.

  "Thanks. I guess I'll get ready for another quiet evening."

  I was very bored, and lonely. Even though I was not much of a social person, I guess I always took for granted the power of conversation, even if it was just with a patient or a coworker.

  Moving into the living room, I dropped onto the couch and turned on the news. I watched for a while, my hopes for rescue slowly fading. I had been monitoring the English speaking news channels for days, looking for some small tidbit about my disappearance. I sometimes flipped over to the foreign language news channels.

  But there was nothing. I thought that was really shitty. There was so much news about the war, from casualties, to insurgent activity, even news about kidnapped civilians, but there was not one mention of a female soldier missing in action.

  It was as if no one even realized I was gone.

  I have no friends, no family, so who would miss me?

  Self pity overwhelmed me to the point that my stomach cramped. I struggled hard to keep the emotions under control.

  He had said ... showing emotion does not make you weak.

  Grabbing a throw pillow, I hugged it close and poured my sadness into it, wondering how I had ended up with such an empty life. He'd also said I had locked myself up tight and hidden the key. Maybe I did have a tendency to shut people out.

  The thought made me cry harder.

  As the minutes passed, and the torrent of tears went on, I tried to find comfort in the possibility that the military was trying to find me, but was just keeping it all hush-hush. I mean, after all, someone had to report that I wasn't at work. Someone had to miss me there, like Jackson, or Mollina.

  Yet, even that sliver of hope did little to make me feel better

  Suddenly, the front door opened. Something was placed on the floor, and the door closed again. Swiping the moisture from my cheeks, I rose and went to see what was going on.

  When I reached the door, I leaned down to pick up the items on the floor. It was another ice cream sundae a
nd ... a sheet of paper? I looked over the typed-out note, but didn't have the slightest idea what it said. Unfortunately, I didn't read Arabic.

  Oh well, it was the thought that counted.

  As I headed back, I stopped by the wall phone and picked up the receiver.

  Beep. “Thanks. I really appreciate the ice cream,” I sniffled and giggled at the same time. “Hey, if you happen to have any champagne and caramel-filled chocolates, feel free to drop those off as well."

  With that, I hung up and took my gift to the living room.

  Turning off the depressing news, I searched through the music collection. Finding Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits, I stuck it in the CD player. I turned up the volume then went and lay on the couch.

  I ate ice cream as I stared numbly at the ceiling.

  Only about ten minutes had passed before I heard three loud knocks. I jumped up, waiting for whomever to barge in.

  Moments passed. Nothing happened.

  Intrigued, I put aside my desert and approached cautiously. More gifts from the enemy? Sitting on the floor in front of the door were three packages of Rolos and a half filled bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Oh, my request. Close enough for me.

  After grabbing a small glass and a couple of cans of cola from the kitchen, I picked up my new gifts and went back to the couch. Though I wasn't a drinker, and definitely not a hard-liquor kind of gal, I poured myself a good amount of the golden liquid and opened one of the cans, topping the drink off. Settling back into the cushions, I lifted my glass high, toasted the hidden cameras, then downed the drink in two gulps, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down my throat.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Nine

  It occurred to me that I might have had a tad too much alcohol when I finally succumbed to the overwhelming urge to dance to Copacabana.

  My drink sloshed around as I swayed my hips and sambaed around the living room. I was not drunk enough to fall on my ass, but I had a good buzz going, which allowed me not to care about the hidden cameras anymore. If anything, I hoped they were all enjoying the show. It made all those years of dancing lessons my mother made me endure when I was a little girl worth while. Anyway, the samba was a sexy dance, and I was feeling incredibly sexy, even if I was dancing in my pajamas.