Page 12 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

Chapter Three

Georgia jerked herhead up in surprise. That pounding wasn’t her heart, it was several pairs of booted feet on the steps. She struggled to stand up and felt Peter’s hand under one arm, supporting her.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered in her ear. “Keep your head down and avoid making eye contact with anyone.”

Georgia sucked in deep breaths, fighting the fear threatening to swamp her, suck her down, and drown her.

“Georgia?”

“I...” she had to stop to breathe, “...understand.”

His hand squeezed once reassuringly before falling away.

The door opened.

The bright lights blinded her momentarily, but she could see the lethal end of a rifle motioning her out. Moving slowly, she left the room with Peter right behind.

The man who opened the door spoke harshly to them in his own language. Georgia glanced at him blankly before jerking her gaze to the ground.

After a second, he gestured sharply with his gun for them to move toward the stairs.

Georgia counted four terrorists, being careful to keep her gaze on the floor except for quick glances, their fingers nervously hovering over the triggers of their rifles.

She walked slowly to avoid provoking them. A hard shove from behind and several vicious words told her slow wasn’t good enough. She fell to her knees but scrambled up, moving more quickly to the stairs. She glanced behind.

Peter met her gaze and nodded slightly.

Georgia let out a long, slow breath and wished she was back in that damn storage room.

* * *

As Georgia fell tothe floor Peter had to restrain himself from going to her aid. Knowing that if he did, he risked a rifle butt to the head, and God only knew what they’d do to her. Thankfully, she got up on her own and climbed the stairs with more speed.

She glanced back at him, her eyes connecting with his. He nodded at her, relieved that she didn’t complain or resist the rough treatment. They were far less likely to pay attention to her if she was quiet.

He ruthlessly ignored his body’s response to her too-cute butt her skirt did nothing to hide and her world-class breasts encased in that reserved suit jacket. And if he noticed, so would every other man who saw her.

The hallways were silent. Peter let his gaze wander over the interior. A few overturned planters, several blood pools, and a couple of broken chairs littered the floor along with some glass from a smashed chandelier. The glass crunched under his shoes, sounding more like peanut shells than crystal.

They were herded into Ambassador Mitchell’s office and forced to stand in front of the long desk dominating the room. The American flag that used to stand so prominently behind it had been torn from its standard. Peter guessed that’s what was smoking in the garbage can. Georgia, standing closer to it, seemed to be having trouble breathing. Her whole body shook, but she kept her head down and stayed silent.

In-Charge was talking in a low, harsh tone to the ambassador, whose back was to the room. Peter couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The terrorist looked up, his face slowly taking on a condescending smile. It wasn’t a pretty sight and it only got worse when he came toward them. He stopped in front of Georgia, one hand coming up to grasp a lock of her auburn hair. He leaned forward to smell it and ran one finger down her neck, smiling the whole time.

Goddamn son of a bitch.

Peter glared at him, resisting the irrational urge to wipe the unwholesome grin off the terrorist’s face and break every bone in his hands for touching her. Only the knowledge that one of the other men in the room would shoot him dead stopped him from acting on instinct. Georgia needed him alive.

She wasn’t the first woman who had needed him to help keep her alive. He’d failed then. He couldn’t this time.

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