Page 11 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

With a sigh, she retrieved a blanket and draped it over him, being careful not to disturb the wound. Then she poured him a glass of water and set it beside his head. Lost blood took an enormous amount of fluid intake to replace. She turned toward the stairs and then, on second thought, retrieved an apple and set it beside the water.An apple a day keeps the assassin away.

Maybe he had some hidden injury that would kill him, but as far as she knew she’d done the best she could to fix him. The rest was up to him. As for her, she was going back to bed.

With renewed exhaustion, she climbed the stairs and fell into her bed in her own unconscious heap.

Chapter 9

The next morning Celeste woke with a stretch and a yawn, feeling strangely at ease for someone who may or may not have a dead terrorist in her kitchen. Such was her life that she was calmer over the thought that he might have expired than that he might still be alive. If he was dead, a lot of her problems would solve themselves before they could begin.

She went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, smoothed her hair, then scowled at herself in the mirror.It’s not a date; it’s a custody arrangement.She was on babysitting duty until The Colonel figured out what to do with the guy. If The Colonel was out of options, things must really be a mess. The man knew people all over the world. If Paradise, Montana was his last resort, it was truly his last resort.

Rounding away from the mirror, she went down the stairs, pausing momentarily when the spot on the kitchen floor was empty. She’d brought her gun because, again, one could never be too careful, especially with an unknown man in the house.

“I’m positive you won’t have to use that,” a quiet, polite voice said. She eased farther into the room and saw him sitting on the floor, his back propped against the outside wall of thekitchen. Beside him, the glass of water was empty, the apple core tucked neatly inside it. “Thank you for the food and water and, I assume, the cleanup.” He motioned lethargically to his shoulder.

“You’re welcome.” In contrast to his surprisingly gentle tone, hers sounded rough and forced, which it was. She was used to bawdy conversations with fellow soldiers, the more ridiculous, the better. Civil discourse escaped her. They stared at each other a few beats. Celeste had the idea she should probably do something, but she had no idea what. She had never taken care of anything or anyone before, not a plant, not a pet, and certainly not a person. Five minutes in and she was already failing.

More water,her brain told her. He must be thirsty and probably hungry. She edged forward, keeping a wary eye on him, as she bent over and picked up the water, carrying it to the sink. She retrieved a clean glass, filled it, and set it on the floor beside him.

“Thank you,” he said. He had watched her actions as intently as she watched his, each not a hundred percent certain they trusted the other but left with no other option than to do so, at least for the moment.

“Food?” she asked.

“If you’d be so kind,” he said.

Kindhad never been a word people used in reference to her. “I only have cereal,” she warned, wincing inwardly when she felt the need to add, “It’s pretty much all I know how to make.”

“Cereal would be fine though, I must confess, anything would be fine at this point.”

She prepared a bowl of cereal and milk for each of them and dallied, not certain where to put his. “Do you want me to help you to the table?”

“It seemed to take all of my energy to crawl to this spot, so I think I’ll remain for now. Perhaps after I eat things will look brighter.”

With a nod, she sat at the table and ate, trying to ignore the stranger in the room who watched her between bites. He finished his cereal and set the bowl aside.

“You must have questions,” he declared.

“Only one,” she said.

One side of his mouth quirked. “Only one? Miraculous. Please,” he motioned feebly for her to proceed.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam,” he said.

She blinked at him, waiting for more.

His mouth ticked again. “You don’t think I look like a Sam? Do you think it’s a nickname for some unpronounceable foreign name?”

She said nothing.

He gave a tiny shrug and winced with remembered regret. “It’s Din Chatti. I prefer Sam. And what shall I call you?”

A thousand saucy replies ran through her mind. She disregarded them all. “Celeste.”

“How very heavenly,” he said.

“You have no idea,” she replied. She carried both their bowls to the sink and returned to him, hands on hips. “Let’s get you set up on the couch. It came with the house, but I think it will be a lot more comfortable than the floor.” When he didn’t argue, she came along his good side, levered him up, and took as much of his weight as she could on the short journey to the living room. Still, the trip exhausted them both. Celeste dabbed her forearm on her sweaty head. “You’re heavier than you look.”

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