Page 15 of Her Reluctant Hero
“I need to stuff the toes or something so your feet won’t have room to slide around.”
“I don’t have anything.”
He tugged the pack free, frowning at her determination to hang on to it. What was she hiding? “I already saw the vibrator. Not that you’re likely to be embarrassed by something like that.” He unzipped the pack and pulled out a brightly colored silk dress, something fine and expensive, something Rebecca would never wear. No, she liked soft colors and cotton, and had probably never paid more than fifty dollars for a dress. This garment was probably worth four times that, at least.
The goddess whimpered, her gaze focused on it.
He grabbed the garment by the shoulders, took just a moment to imagine how the fabric would mold to her body, and ripped it in two.
You would have thought he’d stabbed her in the heart, the way she cried out and reached for it, trying to pull it from his grasp, too late.
“What the hell?” he demanded, holding it away. “It’s a dress.”
But the woman who’d refused to cry when she was in a truck on fire, or hanging off the side of a mountain, was sobbing over a dress. Jesus.
He snatched up her boots, one at a time, and shoved the fabric inside, wadding it in the toes. Then he held out each boot expectantly. Lower lip trembling, she took them, eased her sore feet inside and laced them up.
He stood, backing away and grabbing his pack, not taking his gaze off her. Goddamn, he’d never understand women.
She didn’t speak as they trudged through the jungle. Pissed about the dress, no doubt. She’d stopped crying, though. She was making an effort to keep up. After seeing the state her feet were in, he knew what an effort that was. He couldn’t quite make himself admire her for it, though.
“Are you going to sulk about the dress till we get to the extraction point?”
She didn’t respond.
“Saldana bought you that dress? That why you’re so upset?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Her tone was dull, different than before.
“I bet. I don’t get women who sell their bodies to scum of the earth for pretty things.”
That put her back up and her tone sharpened. “I’m not going to explain myself to you.”
“Explain this to me.” He fell back to walk beside her. “How did you end up in Central America?”
“Studying.”
Right. “Studying drug lords? Terrorists?”
She tossed her ponytail, strands of hair coming loose every which way. “Spanish. Immersion.”
Shepard turned, incredulous. “Yeah, I hear Saldana has a real thing for linguists.”
“I danced to pay my tuition.”
She didn’t even blush at the admission.
“Stripped, you mean.” Why was he surprised? Maybe he was just surprised she was so open about it. And surprised that the image of her in a G-string hanging on a pole came so easily.
Goddammit.
Isabella knew they were approaching a village because the trees cleared out. The path in front of them was wide enough for a vehicle. In fact, she could see wheel ruts. Not a car, but four wheels.
Amazing what you could see on the ground when you didn’t have the energy to lift your head.
The pain was constant now, each step sending shocks of it through her system. Each time she lifted her foot, the weight of the boot pulled it downward, rubbing the boot across her raw toes. The insides of the boots were soggy. She didn’t think it was from the rain. The wetness only added to the friction.
When she got home, she would only wear flip-flops, no matter how mangled her feet looked.
