Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,82
Bed. Now.”
Persia led him to the first room down the hall and pointed him toward the double bed against the opposite wall. “My room’s next to yours, so if you need help, holler. Izza’s is across from mine. We’re here to get you out of the country and back home.”
Like most TEAM safe houses, this one had no windows except for the bullet-proof, darkly tinted, four-paned one alongside the front door. But what it lacked in see-through glass, this home made up for in security cameras and a wealth of other failsafe measures. Like a steel-walled safe room, which seemed redundant to Persia. A safe room in a safe house? That was Alex for you.
Hotrod muttered something as he fell face down across the bed. Sounded like, “Good night.”
Man, he was a long drink of water, as her father would’ve said.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Out of those clothes first,” Persia ordered as she undid the Velcro on his ridiculous shoes and let them drop to the hardwood floor. How embarrassing to outfit an adult man like a clown. “Let’s get you undressed, so I can see what we’re dealing with.”
She’d meant if he had any other injuries, but that might not have been the best way to have said it. She already knew what she’d dealt with in Florida, and it was f-f-fine with a capital F.
Persia shook the delicious memory out of her head. Now was not the time for daydreams. She needed to take stock of whatever antibiotics Alex kept in this safe house. She’d brought her own first-aid kit, but he was a bugger for details. Surely, he’d provided plenty of first-rate supplies and, hopefully, stronger antibiotics than those she always carried.
The second Hotrod rolled to his back, she tackled getting him out of his pants, which were simple orange pajamas with an elastic waistband. Would’ve been easy, but he decided to help. With a growl, he lifted his backside and scraped those britches over his hips and off. Wayyyy off.
The orange pajama top flew next, and there he was, sitting on the edge of the bed in his all-over tanned, very manly birthday suit. All of him. With his hands on his knees and his legs spread like every other guy on the planet. Totally unashamed of his nudity. Bleary-eyed and sick and smiling up at her like the bad, bad boy he was.
“Hey, Persia Coltrane,” he murmured. “Sure is good to see you again.”
Man, he was adorable. He’d shaved since she’d last seen him. His scruff was gone, but his light brown hair was longer and mussed, sticking up at odd angles. He’d been in the sun; strands of his hair now streaked with light gold highlights. His chest seemed wider. But those poor eyes were not only black and blue, the whites were red with blood. Two of the four butterfly stitches over that same puffy eye were half off. He needed a doctor, but he was only going to get her and Izza, when she returned.
Drawing the sheet over his lap before she acted on the feminine impulse to straddle him, Persia knelt trembling like an idiot at his knee. “Who… who did this to you, Hotrod? Who beat you?”
His shoulders lifted. “Not sure. Might’ve happened when they boarded the yacht. Or maybe in jail on São Miguel. Hell, I don’t know.”
“São Miguel? You were in the Azores? What yacht?”
“My yacht. Yeah. The Azores. Now the Netherlands.” He cocked one arm behind his sweaty head, then ran a hand over his hair, his face pressed against his bicep. This man was one ripped badass, and that bicep was a taut bulge of bronze tanned skin over deeply-veined muscles. His chest was the same kind of tempting. “Some asshat got the drop on us. I honestly don’t know who smacked my skull. Don’t know much of anything.”
Which meant he’d been beaten while he’d been unconscious. Which fit what Mr. Koning had insinuated that ICC guard might do to Walker again. “How long have you been in ICC detention?”
Hotrod squinted, his one good eye staring her down. “Two days, I think. Not sure. No clocks in there, and lights stay on twenty-four-seven. Jesus, my brain’s killing me. Can I just sleep?”
“Not until I’m sure you don’t have a concussion.” She reached for that amazing hard head, threading her fingers through his wet hair for— “My hell. You’ve got a knot back here the size of a grapefruit.”
Persia tugged his forehead against her collarbone, needing to