Apparently, she’d stumbled onto a motel used by more than the occasional weary traveler. An ominous internal voice had questioned whether the sheets were even changed between their hourly clients.
Which was so disgusting, she’d almost turned and left…
But the desk clerk had promised her—promised—that the room he’d assigned her hadn’t been used all week. All week. The sheets must have been changed by now…right?
Under normal circumstances she would never have booked herself a room in a motel this cheap. But there was nothing normal about her current situation. So she’d take what was offered and get used to it. She couldn’t afford to leave a digital footprint, and a higher quality hotel would require a credit card and personal I.D. While she had both, using them would expose her whereabouts. And not just to Mitch’s criminal associates, but to the police as well.
While she hadn’t done anything wrong, the police still had questions. If they had enough questions, they might use her credit cards to track her down. Eventually, she’d fill them in on everything. But until then, until she’d found Sean and didn’t have to worry how an investigation would affect his safety, she’d stick with cash and crappy motels.
Mitch killed him. Or had it done.
She flinched, forcing the kidnapper’s words from her mind. Sean had to be alive. He had to be. She would know if he’d been killed. Mitch wouldn’t keep something so awful from her…would he? She grimaced, shaking her head. Of course he would. The man had no morals. No sense of empathy. If he admitted to her brother’s death he’d lose his leverage over her and implicate himself in the murder.
But she just didn’t have the mental energy to deal with that possibility right now. She’d tackle the doubts in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.
It took the last of her strength to roll the suitcase up over the curb and across the sidewalk to the room she’d rented. Blowing out a tired breath, she slipped the old-fashioned metal key into the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door.
She barely had time for relief before a whisper of sound warned her that she wasn’t alone. It happened so fast she didn’t have a chance to react—to protect herself. Hands clamped over her shoulders and forced her forward. Off balance, she stumbled into the dark room. With an ominous click, the door closed behind her, sealing her in shadows and fear.
The scream that climbed her throat was muffled beneath a broad, hard, masculine hand. Dread flooded her—hot, chaotic, stomach-churning terror. Every muscle in her body clenched.
She forced the fear down. Reached for cool calm and logic.
Think, Sarah, think.
A cool male voice suddenly swelled in her mind. She seized the memory and dragged it front and center.
Grab…slam…duck…twist…lift…slide…twist…
The instructions were as clear and concise as if Brett were standing beside her.
Energized, she grabbed the hand covering her mouth and then slammed her head backwards as hard as she could. The impact of her skull colliding with something bony and hard shoved slivers of pain through her head and neck. She ignored the discomfort and ducked, simultaneously pushing her attacker’s hand from her shoulders.
A tantalizing scent drifted to her as she ducked beneath her assailant’s arm pit. Behind him now and slightly to the side, she crunched his fingers and twisted his arm to the side.
Kick…run…
Her foot was already headed for his crotch when that familiar scent drifted over her again.
Spice and heat and earthy musk.
She knew that smell.
He twisted, catching her kick on the edge of his thigh, and shifted to face her. Masculine swearing ruptured the thick silence.
She recognized the voice too. Knew it intimately.
Brett!
Her focus fractured. There was one moment of pure relief and then anger swept in. The bastard. He’d scared her to death. She aimed another kick for his crotch.
“Damn it, Sarah,” he roared, shifting his body so he took the blow on his upper thigh. “It’s me.”
“I know,” she snapped back, stepping to the side and aiming another kick toward his crotch.
Punching him would accomplish nothing. He’d simply absorb the impact or shake it off. But a good kick in the nuts might make him think twice before accosting a terrified woman in the middle of the night.
He jumped back, avoiding her last kick, and settled into a cautious stance. She couldn’t see his expression in the murky darkness, but his wariness was clearly illustrated through his low, tense body posture. He was in self-defense mode.