Page 6 of Trapped

“You hurt your leg,” she whispered.

“I’ll live.”

“What happened?”

“I got shot when . . .” He stopped as warring images clashed inside his head. “When we were running for the bunker,” he finished, watching her face.

She looked concerned for him. But why not? If someone had sent Sophia Rhodes or her double to get information from him, of course she’d act concerned. She wanted him to think she was on his side—whatever that meant.

So, was she an enemy agent? Or was it the other way around. Was this whole place part of a setup?

For what?

He didn’t want to believe that scenario—or anything else bad. But, under the circumstances, bad was more likely than good.

His throat was so tight he couldn’t speak now. Struggling to conquer his wildly swinging emotions, he studied her face, trying not to react to his memories of the woman or the surge of need that rushed through him. Not just physical need. Something much more profound and much more dangerous.

Ruthlessly, he stiffened his resolve, although he hoped that didn’t show on his face.

But he knew he must be alert for any lies she was planning to tell him. “How could you be here? Have you been here the whole time? Or did you slip into the bunker somehow?”

She ignored the questions and simply said, “I came to help you.”

“Came to Thailand?”

She made a strangled sound. “That’s where they said you are?”

“What do you mean? It’s not what they said? It’s true.”

Even as he mouthed the denial, he felt a worm of doubt slithering down his spine. He had pictures in his mind of Thailand. Temples. Elephants. An ancient ruined city. Vendors lining the streets ready to sell you a complete set of clothing for a fraction of the cost back in the states.

But sometimes it felt like he was watching a Power Point presentation as he brought up each scene.

She must have read the expression on his face. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about where we are.”

“I have to worry about it,” he ground out. “It’s my job.”

“Okay. I understand,” she answered much too quickly.

He matched her reaction time. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, reaching out her hands and gently clasping his arms. He might have wrenched away. Instead, he went very still. Dragging in a breath, he caught the scent of honey and herbs. From her shampoo? Her soap? His memory didn’t associate that combination with her. When he’d known her before, lemon-scented shampoo was in. And she’d used that. But he liked this new flavor.

He ordered himself to stop focusing on shampoo.

Through parched lips, he said, “If you’re Sophia Rhodes, tell me something we would both remember.”

His heart was pounding as he waited for her to mention the night they’d spent together. Instead she said, “Do you remember Mrs. Watson?”

As he scrambled to bring the name into context, she went on.

“The Latin teacher. We used to say her boobs hung down so low that her belt held them up.”

At the image, he couldn’t keep a bark of a laugh from escaping. He hadn’t remembered that on his own. But now it zinged back to him.

“She’d walk around the room, and you wouldn’t know who she was going to call on for a translation of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. I used to do the homework and translate the chapters every night. But you hated the assignments. You used a pony. You remember?”

“Yeah.”

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