Read Online Mackenzie's Pleasure by Linda Howard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Howard
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in their position, too. They would
check in with each other at set intervals, but for the most part they would spend the day resting.
Relieved, Zane turned his mind to other matters.
"Sit down and let me see your foot," he ordered. The last thing he needed was for her
to be hobbled, though from what he'd seen of her so far, she wouldn't breathe a word of
complaint, merely limp along as fast as she could.
There was nothing to sit on except the broken stones of the floor, so that was where she
sat, carefully keeping the blanket wrapped around her waist. Her feet were filthy, caked with
the same mess that caked his boots. Blood oozed sullenly from a cut on the instep of her left
foot.
Zane shucked off his black hood and headset, took off his web vest and removed his
gloves; then he unpacked his survival gear, which included a small and very basic first-aid kit. He
sat cross-legged in front of her and lifted her foot to rest on his thigh. After tearing open a
small packet containing a premoistened antiseptic pad, he thoroughly cleaned the cut and the
area around it, pretending not to notice her involuntary flinches of pain, which she quickly tried
to control.
The cut was deep enough that it probably needed a couple of stitches. He took out
another antiseptic pad and pressed it hard over the wound until the bleeding stopped. "How long
has it been since your last tetanus vaccination?" he asked.
Barrie thought that she had never heard anything as calm as his voice. She could see
him clearly now; it was probably a good thing she hadn't been able to do so before, because
her nerves likely couldn't have stood the pressure. She cleared her throat and managed to say,
"I don't remember. Years," but her mind wasn't on what she was saying.
His thick black hair was matted with sweat, and his face was streaked with black and
green paint. The black T-shirt he wore was grimy with mingled dust and sweat, not that the
shirt she had on was in much better shape. The material strained over shoulders that looked a
yard wide, clung to a broad chest and flat stomach, stretched over powerful biceps. His arms
were corded with long, steely muscles, his wrists almost twice as thick as hers; his long-fingered
hands were well-shaped, callused, harder than any human hands should be—and immensely
gentle as he cleansed the wound on her foot.
His head was bent over the task. She saw the dense black eyelashes, the bold sweep of
his eyebrows, the thin and arrogantly high bridge of bis nose, the chiseled plane of his
cheekbones. She saw his mouth, so clear-cut and stern, as if he seldom smiled. Beard
stubble darkened his jaw beneath the camouflage paint. Then his gaze flicked up to her for a
moment, cool and assessing, as if he was gauging her reaction to the sting of the antiseptic, and
she was stunned by the clear, pale beauty of his blue gray eyes. He had silently and efficiently
killed that guard, then stepped over the body as if it didn't exist. A wicked, ten-inch black blade
rode in a scabbard strapped to his thigh, and he handled both pistol and rifle with an ease that
bespoke a familiarity that went far beyond the normal. He was the most savage, dangerous,
lethal thing, man or beast, that she had ever seen—and she felt utterly safe with him.
He had given her the shirt off his back, treating her with a courtesy and tenderness that
had eased her shock, calmed her fears. He had seen her naked; she had been able to ignore that
while they were still trapped in the same building with her kidnappers, but now they were relatively safe, and alone, and she was burningly aware of both his intense masculinity and of her
nakedness beneath his shirt. Her skin felt unusually sensitive, as if it was too hot and tight,
and the rasp of the fabric against her nipples was almost painfully acute.
Her foot looked small and fragile in his big hands. He frowned in concentration as he
applied an antibiotic ointment to the cut, then
check in with each other at set intervals, but for the most part they would spend the day resting.
Relieved, Zane turned his mind to other matters.
"Sit down and let me see your foot," he ordered. The last thing he needed was for her
to be hobbled, though from what he'd seen of her so far, she wouldn't breathe a word of
complaint, merely limp along as fast as she could.
There was nothing to sit on except the broken stones of the floor, so that was where she
sat, carefully keeping the blanket wrapped around her waist. Her feet were filthy, caked with
the same mess that caked his boots. Blood oozed sullenly from a cut on the instep of her left
foot.
Zane shucked off his black hood and headset, took off his web vest and removed his
gloves; then he unpacked his survival gear, which included a small and very basic first-aid kit. He
sat cross-legged in front of her and lifted her foot to rest on his thigh. After tearing open a
small packet containing a premoistened antiseptic pad, he thoroughly cleaned the cut and the
area around it, pretending not to notice her involuntary flinches of pain, which she quickly tried
to control.
The cut was deep enough that it probably needed a couple of stitches. He took out
another antiseptic pad and pressed it hard over the wound until the bleeding stopped. "How long
has it been since your last tetanus vaccination?" he asked.
Barrie thought that she had never heard anything as calm as his voice. She could see
him clearly now; it was probably a good thing she hadn't been able to do so before, because
her nerves likely couldn't have stood the pressure. She cleared her throat and managed to say,
"I don't remember. Years," but her mind wasn't on what she was saying.
His thick black hair was matted with sweat, and his face was streaked with black and
green paint. The black T-shirt he wore was grimy with mingled dust and sweat, not that the
shirt she had on was in much better shape. The material strained over shoulders that looked a
yard wide, clung to a broad chest and flat stomach, stretched over powerful biceps. His arms
were corded with long, steely muscles, his wrists almost twice as thick as hers; his long-fingered
hands were well-shaped, callused, harder than any human hands should be—and immensely
gentle as he cleansed the wound on her foot.
His head was bent over the task. She saw the dense black eyelashes, the bold sweep of
his eyebrows, the thin and arrogantly high bridge of bis nose, the chiseled plane of his
cheekbones. She saw his mouth, so clear-cut and stern, as if he seldom smiled. Beard
stubble darkened his jaw beneath the camouflage paint. Then his gaze flicked up to her for a
moment, cool and assessing, as if he was gauging her reaction to the sting of the antiseptic, and
she was stunned by the clear, pale beauty of his blue gray eyes. He had silently and efficiently
killed that guard, then stepped over the body as if it didn't exist. A wicked, ten-inch black blade
rode in a scabbard strapped to his thigh, and he handled both pistol and rifle with an ease that
bespoke a familiarity that went far beyond the normal. He was the most savage, dangerous,
lethal thing, man or beast, that she had ever seen—and she felt utterly safe with him.
He had given her the shirt off his back, treating her with a courtesy and tenderness that
had eased her shock, calmed her fears. He had seen her naked; she had been able to ignore that
while they were still trapped in the same building with her kidnappers, but now they were relatively safe, and alone, and she was burningly aware of both his intense masculinity and of her
nakedness beneath his shirt. Her skin felt unusually sensitive, as if it was too hot and tight,
and the rasp of the fabric against her nipples was almost painfully acute.
Her foot looked small and fragile in his big hands. He frowned in concentration as he
applied an antibiotic ointment to the cut, then
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