It was a long time before he slept again that night and when he did, pictures of an unknown enemy with a face in shadow and dark eyes filled with meanness, haunted his nightmares.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Harper stirred the soup with one of the plastic spoons she’d thrown in the bag with the canned items she’d brought to Lucas. A quick glance at the things on the table told her he had one of everything: a pot, a bowl, a spoon, and a fork. Things he’d traded Driscoll for? What did the fork cost him? How much did a pot go for? If it was a kindness Driscoll had been doing for him, why didn’t it feel that way to Harper?
Something was way off about this whole situation, and she hoped Agent Gallagher would find out what it was, though he wasn’t under any obligation to share it with her. But she could be a . . . she searched her mind for the most fitting description . . . friend? Contact? Yes, contact at least. She could be a contact to this man who had few options for obtaining needed items, after the way he’d lived his life thus far. So why didn’t that word . . . satisfy her?
As she stirred, she thought back to his expression as he’d licked the peanut butter off his finger, and a shiver went through her just as it had at the time. She was attracted to him, not only because of his looks, but for the way his gaze sharpened with intelligence when he was curious about something, for that shy expression when he was worried he was saying the wrong thing or using the wrong word, for the way his voice sounded, and the way his body moved. He appealed to her in a deeply sexual way no man ever had, and it scared her, but it also came with an edge of excitement.
Maybe the rules and social structures she’d grown up with didn’t apply here. Maybe it was easier to acknowledge your base instincts in a place with no grocery stores or electricity, nothing to keep you warm except the heat of a flame and another’s body. He was a caveman of sorts, but maybe they all were if put in the right environment and forced to live on instinct and prowess alone.
She snuck a glance at him. She knew he was attracted to her too. She saw the way he watched her, the way his smile was innocent but the heat in his eyes primal, the way he studied her body when he thought she couldn’t see. She’d learned to watch men for unwelcomed interest, for a warning of impending danger, a red, flashing caution sign that told her to run and hide.
And yet she didn’t want to run from him.
And that should scare her too. But it didn’t.
The soup was bubbling and so she dished it into his one bowl and his one mug, setting each on the table and sitting on the tree trunks that acted as stools. Had Lucas made them? No, how could he? He didn’t seem to have tools. Did he? She didn’t want to ask and make him feel like everything in his world was weird and questionable, but it felt like there were a hundred small things she wanted to know. How had he gotten by without everyday items she took for granted?
Did he really hunt with nothing more than a knife and his bare hands?
How had he made the boots and jacket he wore? The ones that were so carefully stitched together with . . . what?
Was he lonely?
Scared sometimes?
He had to be. He was human after all.
She smiled at him as she took a spoonful of the soup, watching as he did the same. That look of pleasure came over his expression and her stomach muscles quivered. “What do you think?”
He nodded as he scooped another bite into his mouth, slurping loudly. “Salty. Good.”
Harper hadn’t ever heard anyone seem to enjoy chicken noodle soup from a can quite as much as Lucas, and it made her grin, taking pleasure in his pleasure. Although she made note that he was pushing all the squares of chicken meat to the corner of his bowl.
They ate in silence for a moment before she finally got the nerve to ask him one of her gajillion questions. “Lucas, can I ask you something?” He scooped more soup into his mouth and