He firmly and repeatedly reminded himself of all the reasons why he should not bury himself deep in her body and show her just how beautiful sex could be, though it was getting harder and harder to justify.
All he had to do was make it through the next twenty-four hours without doing something stupid. Then he would take her back into Pine Ridge in the same pristine condition in which she had arrived, though hopefully a little more refreshed and relaxed. He, no doubt, would be one step shy of being committed and have a terrible case of blue balls, but somehow he’d manage.
He was, after all, the Iceman.
He went back into the cabin and heard the shower running. That was good. Visions of Rebecca in his bed, sleep-tousled and gorgeous, were not what he needed. This way he could leave a cup of coffee on the nightstand for her when she emerged, and he could go back outside and chop some more firewood, because it smelled far too good in here. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, greedily inhaling the residual scent of his perfect woman, the one he knew he could never have.
All thought ceased the moment the bathroom door opened unexpectedly and Rebecca stepped into the bedroom. His eyes popped open in alarm, caught in the act of fantasizing. God, she was beautiful. Her skin, was moist and flushed from her shower. Her long blonde hair, so much darker when wet, hung loosely past her shoulders. He swallowed hard as crystal droplets fell from the strands onto her skin, following the natural contours of her breasts, disappearing beneath the towel.
Rebecca met his eyes, just as stunned to see him, apparently. For the longest moment, they could only look at one another.
And then, sweet and merciful Jesus, the towel fell to a pool at her feet, and every feminine curve was revealed to him. Her perfect breasts with those dark pink nipples; her small waist; the flare of her hips. Shapely legs that he knew would feel like heaven wrapped around him as he buried himself in all that lush womanly heat that he craved with a need so fierce it scared the hell out of him.
It took him a moment to see the scars. Pale white striations crossed her belly, her chest, her arms, like some kind of abstract art. The one beneath her jaw, the result of the insurgent’s blade in the jungle, was barely visible, even though it was one of the newer ones. Which meant the others had been deeper, crueler. The truth slammed into his gut like a wrecking ball. Rebecca had known torture.
*
Rebecca held her breath as Kane looked her up and down, knew the moment he’d seen them. At first his eyes had found her breasts; then his gaze had travelled south to the moist curls at the juncture of her thighs, unmistakable heat building in his gaze until she thought she would burn from it.
But now they sought out the faded souvenirs of more than a decade abroad in regions where there was no law, no police. Just those who used whatever they had – strength, street skills, cunning – to take advantage of others.
This was it. In an impulsive moment of insanity, she had bared herself to him. He would accept her or he wouldn’t. But at least now he knew.
“Turn around,” he said roughly, his voice little more than a growl. She did, unable to deny the command in his voice, baring her back to him, knowing what he would see there, knowing that it was even worse.
She heard his sharp inhalation. Felt the laser-like intensity of his eyes as they raked over the whip marks forever etched into her back and buttocks. Knew when he found the most recent, angry circular scar at her shoulder.
Rebecca turned around, trying to cover herself with one arm while bending to pick up the towel she’d dropped. The look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Her face darkened in embarrassment as she began to wrap the towel around herself, but in two heartbeats he was beside her, yanking it away with a sudden, rough tug. In one step Kane had closed the remaining distance between them. One hand gripped her upper arm while the other pushed back her hair, immediately finding that which he sought – the matching circular scar on the front of her shoulder. The exit wound.
Kane’s eyes met hers, questioning.
*
“Kane, it’s okay,” she started to say. He let his eyes rake over her chest, her belly, her arms, over her back again. This time, he did not see her womanly charms. This time, he saw the thin lines, some more faded than others, horrifying evidence of the violence of her life. Blood rushed through his ears as a wild rage filled him. The thought that anyone would ever dare hurt her made him crazy. He wanted to hunt down each and every one of the bastards that had ever touched her and torture them until they begged for death.
It wasn’t okay. It would never be okay. She had been beaten, stabbed, whipped, and shot. And not for any of the usual reasons. Not for greed or power or revenge. All these things happened to her simply because she was trying to help someone else live.