Page 40 of Holding His Hostage
Suddenly, bright light streamed in from windows on either side of the room. “Shit. Give me those.” He took the files from her hand and stuffed them into his pack.
“What do we do?”
“Come. Follow me.” He crouched down low and opened the door, the distant barking of a dog immediately catching his attention. He hadn’t heard a dog the whole time they’d been on the property. The paths that had been dark were now lit by bright sodium lights.
Shit.
Turning away, he raced for the fence. That dog definitely seemed to be getting closer. They’d obviously tripped some kind of alarm or had been otherwise discovered. He reached the fence, but here thick brush grew through it and over it, making it difficult to scale.
The train whistle blew again and the train passed by, the rumbling drowning out all other sounds, though he knew the animal was there. He cursed into the din, running along the back of the building toward a small clearing in the brush, looking over his shoulder to be sure Joanne was there. She was, but behind her, the shape of the charging dog could be seen heading straight toward them.
He ran as fast as he could, reaching the clearing and hopping the fence with his good arm, then turned to help Joanne over it as well. She had one foot up high in the chain links when the dog caught up to her, barking wildly and attaching to her other foot.
He saw the fear in her eyes and watched her mouth form his name, but he couldn’t hear her scream over the sound of the train. He was already reaching for her, desperate to pull her over the fence, but his prosthetic arm couldn’t lift her weight. He climbed onto the fence, bending over it to get a better grip around her body with his good arm, and heaved her over the top. They landed hard, him on his back and her on top of him, and scrambled to their feet as the train finally passed the warehouse and the sound waned.
Sloan’s prosthesis had been pulled off his body and was hanging from its strap. Without it, his rucksack shifted awkwardly from his other shoulder. “Come on!” he demanded, forcing her into action.
“Your arm!”
“It’s fine. Go!”
The sound of running footsteps followed them from inside as they raced along the fence back to the car. Sloan threw his prosthesis in the back and peeled away from the curb, taking off down the street.
21
Jo was shaking, blood streaming down her calf and onto her tennis shoe, but it was the image of Sloan’s arm dangling from its socket that terrorized her.
She knew it was a prosthesis, but with it on, at least he looked whole. Once it was off, she could no longer pretend he wasn’t broken, that everything about him was the same as it always had been.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “How bad did he get you?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see it.”
“I’ll pull over as soon as I can.” He was swerving through the wet streets, snow having changed to rain that now fell heavily as he passed slower cars and flew up an expressway ramp. “Just need to make sure we lost them. Thank God we got rid of the Winnebago.”
He accelerated on the highway, and she closed her eyes against a wave of nausea, keeping them that way for several minutes until she felt him descend on the curving exit ramp. “I think we’re safe,” he said. A hotel sign shone down the street, and he pulled into the parking lot. “No one followed us off the expressway.” He turned the interior light on. “Let me see your foot.”
She lifted her leg, bending it over the center console. “It’s more like my calf and ankle.”
He pulled it toward him, turning it slowly in the light, blood everywhere. “I have some first aid supplies in my pack, but I’d rather clean it out in the room so I can get a good look at the damage.”
She nodded, pulling her leg back to her side of the car as he drove to the hotel, parked, and went inside to check in. He emerged several minutes later, grabbed his rucksack and prosthetic, and nodded toward her bag. “I can’t carry any more right now.”
“Oh, right,” she said awkwardly, hyperconscious of his missing arm. “It’s no problem. I’ve got it.” She followed him through the hotel.
“I got adjoining rooms. Come in and let me take a look at that leg.” He opened the door and held it for her to enter. “Why don’t you sit on the edge of the bathtub?”
“Sure.” She sat down and peeled off her bloody tennis shoe. A moment later, Sloan entered, dropping his rucksack on the ground. He was shirtless, with his prosthetic arm now reattached and a leather strap holding it in place.
Sweet mother of God.
His chest was more muscular than it had been when they were kids, a light dusting of dark hair accentuating his defined pecs and abs before disappearing at the waistband of his jeans. He was stocky and solid; every inch of him was pure, strong man. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat as he grabbed a cup off the sink and sat beside her on the edge of the tub.
He smelled spicy and male, the scent instantly registering on her senses like an alarm piercing the air. He turned on the water, waited for it to warm up, then filled the cup and rinsed away the blood a little at a time. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
He reached for a towel and placed it over his thigh before picking up her leg and gently placing it across his lap. He patted it dry with the towel, several gashes and a deep gouge marring her skin. His thumb slid along the sensitive flesh beside her injuries, and she sucked in a breath at his touch.
