of relief fill her eyes, and she inhaled deeply through her nose. There was a small catch in her throat as if she’d hiccupped. To her horror she was going to cry.
“Don’t start crying,” came a hissed order.
She nodded.
His arm and shoulder were across her. He was heavy. She could feel his warm breath as she lay there listening to see if anyone had heard.
From his stillness, she could tell he was listening, too.
No footsteps came down the hallway or up the stairs. There was nothing but silence. He hardly made a sound; his breathing was shallow, very evenly controlled. As she lay there on the cot in the room that had been her prison for seventeen days, she took short, sharp breaths that gave her little oxygen and wished he would take away his hand. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to make a sound.
He smelled of the desert, an odor of dry sand and even drier dust, mixed with musky male sweat, like he’d been running.
She moved her right hand slightly and touched his chest. There were metal zippers on his clothes and thick seams on a flap pocket that snapped closed.
He pinned her hand back onto the cot.
She could feel him shake his head at her before he turned to look back toward the door. She lay there on the cot, him half-crouched next to her, his upper body pinning her where she was.
Time crawled by.
“Okay,” he whispered into her ear. “I don’t think they heard anything. I’m U.S. Army Captain James Cassidy, and I’m here to get you out of here. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. I’m going to take my hand away. Do not talk...”
She nodded again.
He took his hand away.
She took a good long breath. It was the small hours of the morning. She could tell by the temperature of the air.
“Get dressed.”
She’d slept in her slip, so she swung her legs over the side of the iron cot and grabbed her dress from the end of the bed. She slid her feet into it and stood, shimmied into it, then reached under the hem and jerked down her bunched-up slip. She started with the top buttons and worked her way down. The belt hung loosely from the belt loops at the waist, and she pulled it together and buckled it, then reached for her cotton stockings and girdle.
She wiggled into the girdle, sat down and rolled the stockings into her hands, then slid them over her foot and up her leg. She attached the garters, front and back. Less than a minute later she was done.
He was standing next to her the whole time, watching her.
She didn’t care. She just wanted out of here. She bent down over the edge of the cot and grabbed her scarf, then stuffed it down the neckline of her dress into her brassiere.
“Let’s go,” he whispered, then grabbed her upper arm in his hand and took a step. “Quietly.”
She froze, pulled her arm back, and shook her head. “My shoes.”
He stopped moving.
“Get them. Hurry!”
They were under the table at
two o’clock
, seven steps from the bed. She took two steps, then another. Her foot hit something soft. A cloth duffel or pack.
She stumbled forward.
He grabbed her shoulders from behind in a hard grip, then pulled her upright and steadied her, her back against his chest.
Her breath came fast. It scared her, almost falling like that. It made her feel lost and out of control when that happened.
He spun her around so she faced him.
She could feel him looking at her.
He released one shoulder. She heard his pocket flap snap; then he was digging around inside it.
A moment later a lighter clicked.
He held it up between them.
She could smell the lighter fluid before she saw the blurred light from its flame pass in front of her eyes.
For just a moment there was nothing in the air but a sense of dawning realization.
He swore viciously under his breath and said, “You’re blind.”
“I KNOW
NOW
”
J.R. flicked the lighter closed with a snap. He had the sudden urge to bust the chops of a certain colonel. There was no way HQ would not have informed him that
“Don’t start crying,” came a hissed order.
She nodded.
His arm and shoulder were across her. He was heavy. She could feel his warm breath as she lay there listening to see if anyone had heard.
From his stillness, she could tell he was listening, too.
No footsteps came down the hallway or up the stairs. There was nothing but silence. He hardly made a sound; his breathing was shallow, very evenly controlled. As she lay there on the cot in the room that had been her prison for seventeen days, she took short, sharp breaths that gave her little oxygen and wished he would take away his hand. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to make a sound.
He smelled of the desert, an odor of dry sand and even drier dust, mixed with musky male sweat, like he’d been running.
She moved her right hand slightly and touched his chest. There were metal zippers on his clothes and thick seams on a flap pocket that snapped closed.
He pinned her hand back onto the cot.
She could feel him shake his head at her before he turned to look back toward the door. She lay there on the cot, him half-crouched next to her, his upper body pinning her where she was.
Time crawled by.
“Okay,” he whispered into her ear. “I don’t think they heard anything. I’m U.S. Army Captain James Cassidy, and I’m here to get you out of here. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. I’m going to take my hand away. Do not talk...”
She nodded again.
He took his hand away.
She took a good long breath. It was the small hours of the morning. She could tell by the temperature of the air.
“Get dressed.”
She’d slept in her slip, so she swung her legs over the side of the iron cot and grabbed her dress from the end of the bed. She slid her feet into it and stood, shimmied into it, then reached under the hem and jerked down her bunched-up slip. She started with the top buttons and worked her way down. The belt hung loosely from the belt loops at the waist, and she pulled it together and buckled it, then reached for her cotton stockings and girdle.
She wiggled into the girdle, sat down and rolled the stockings into her hands, then slid them over her foot and up her leg. She attached the garters, front and back. Less than a minute later she was done.
He was standing next to her the whole time, watching her.
She didn’t care. She just wanted out of here. She bent down over the edge of the cot and grabbed her scarf, then stuffed it down the neckline of her dress into her brassiere.
“Let’s go,” he whispered, then grabbed her upper arm in his hand and took a step. “Quietly.”
She froze, pulled her arm back, and shook her head. “My shoes.”
He stopped moving.
“Get them. Hurry!”
They were under the table at
two o’clock
, seven steps from the bed. She took two steps, then another. Her foot hit something soft. A cloth duffel or pack.
She stumbled forward.
He grabbed her shoulders from behind in a hard grip, then pulled her upright and steadied her, her back against his chest.
Her breath came fast. It scared her, almost falling like that. It made her feel lost and out of control when that happened.
He spun her around so she faced him.
She could feel him looking at her.
He released one shoulder. She heard his pocket flap snap; then he was digging around inside it.
A moment later a lighter clicked.
He held it up between them.
She could smell the lighter fluid before she saw the blurred light from its flame pass in front of her eyes.
For just a moment there was nothing in the air but a sense of dawning realization.
He swore viciously under his breath and said, “You’re blind.”
“I KNOW
NOW
”
J.R. flicked the lighter closed with a snap. He had the sudden urge to bust the chops of a certain colonel. There was no way HQ would not have informed him that
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