Page 16 of Bad Rio

Becca groaned. She kicked her legs, got one free and tried to drive her foot into his groin. He captured her legs and held them to his body. On his back, she pounded her fists to no avail. His thick coat protected him.

Back at the cabin, he took her inside, bolted the door, and threw her on the bed without regard. She bounced on her hands and butt. Dread flowed through her. What would he do now? She only knew that no matter how futile, she would fight him.

With sharp movements, he took off his coat, pulled off his gloves, hung up his field glasses. His features appeared carved from the mountainside. Facing her, he set his hands on his hips. “Got a death wish?”

“What?”

“Do you want to die?” He wasn’t shouting, but the intensity in his voice sounded like it.

“Of course not. I just want to get away from you.”

His lips firmed and went flat. “You’re safer here with me. Out there, you’re like red meat to that big cat stalking you.” He shook out his snow-dampened hair, and glowered at her. “Worse, to the cartel, you’re a million bucks sitting on a scooter.”

“How do I know I’m safer with you?” Despite her fear, she flared at him. Still on the mattress, she got up onto hands and knees. She shook with cold and adrenalin. “I don’t know you. You won’t tell me anything. You said you’d make more money off me from those men than whoever’s paying you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Frowning, he said, “I would, but I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got some integrity. It’s not my style.”

“How do I know that?”

“I’ll show you.” On a low growl, Rio hunted around the small room until his glance fell on the cold fireplace. On the small mantle, which held an old tin coffee percolator and two chipped ceramic mugs, he pushed aside a box of matches and a rusted screwdriver to find a piece of soapstone. Dropping to the wooden floorboards on one knee, in angry movements he quickly sketched out the mountain, their cabin, the nearby roads. “See this? Here is where we are.” He tapped the cabin.

“So?”

He made the mark of an “X” to the south of their position. Then, he drew another to the north, then more surrounding them. “These are the squads of cartel men, looking for you. Right now. Saw them with the field glasses. Out there, you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. You were about to drive right into them.”

Her mouth fell open. Her gaze dropped.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding disgusted. “I just hope they didn’t hear the Vespa’s engine.” He looked pained.

“Well, how could I know they were so close?”

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, “that they were out there. I said I’d protect you.” He grimaced as though she were a complete idiot. “God, lady, you never listen.”

“Well ... how do I know you’ll protect me?” Her voice fell to a whisper.

In exasperation, he flung the soapstone aside, got to his feet and gave her his back. He turned his head to the side, and she saw only his profile. His hands hung loose at his sides. Beneath his shirt, the muscles in his back shifted. “Have I hurt you?”

“Well ... no.”

“Did I get you away from men, to whom, despite the ransom, it might not matter whether you live or die?”

“I—I suppose.”

“Have I fed you, brought you your precious coffee, warmed you up?”

“You ... you did.”

He swung around, his chest rising. “Then why did you run?”

She didn’t know what to say. All at once her reasons didn’t sound as logical as they once seemed. She felt small. “I—I just want to live, to go home. Back to my normal life.” The ordeal had thoroughly tired her out. Between the cold, her sickness, and all her new bruises, she only wanted to get warm again, to lie down.

He was right. He’d treated her well, kept her safe.

“You have to trust me,” Rio insisted. “This is what I do. It’s all I do.” He looked away.

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