Bodyguard Lockdown

chapter Ten



Sandra raised Booker’s eyelid, checked the dilation with her flashlight and noted the one pupil was still not normal.

Earlier, she’d cleaned the wound, stitched it, then bandaged it to keep it protected.

He’d have a scar, but a small one compared to the others that tattooed his body. Several from knives, a few from bullets. One across his right knee from falling down a treacherous mountain.

It was part of his history, a part that he never shared with her.

The sky dimmed to a murky orange, losing its heat, allowing the shadows to grow, the night to settle in.

Sandra tossed more wood on the fire, risking discovery for the warmth, then led the horse to the water and grass.

Surviving the night was the most important thing right now. Many fires littered the desert. Camps were everywhere, filled with nomads, tourists and caravans.

Fatigue made her legs shake. Sandra sat near Booker, taking a minute to gather some energy.

They’d lose a day here. A necessary delay. She wouldn’t take chances with Booker’s physical condition.

She wouldn’t have another death on her conscience.

The strap of her medical bag caught at her neck. Sandra slipped it over her shoulders.

Of its own accord, her hand drifted over the thick seam in the back. It wouldn’t be long before she’d need the map hidden in the lining.

Booker shifted, muttering in his sleep.

Her hand slipped over his forehead, then behind his neck. The heat of his skin nearly singed her fingers.

She silently cursed, knowing the concussion had brought on the fever.

She grabbed a bottle of water and the bottle of aspirin from her bag. It was all she had; she hoped it would be enough.

She slipped the aspirin toward the back of his tongue, then lifted his head. “Booker, wake up.”

She shook him gently. Booker’s eyes fluttered open. Fever and firelight turned the blue irises molten silver.

“Drink,” she whispered. “Please.”



“You’re safe?” His voice shook, from fever or relief; it still troubled her. “I thought you died—”

“We’re both safe for now, Booker,” she assured him. “Drink some more water. You need to stay hydrated.”

“We?” His eyes bored into hers. “You said we.”

“Yes. We—”

“You and the baby. You’re both okay?”

Sandra froze. “The baby?”

Booker glared at her, his eyes hazy from distant memories. “The baby, Emily. Remember? Our baby?”

“Booker, it’s Sandra. Not Emily.” She placed the bottle at his lips, coaxed him to take a few sips. Shivers rippled over his skin, caused his shoulders to shake.

“Damn cold,” Booker muttered. “Where’s the jungle? Why Siberia?”

“We’re in the desert,” Sandra soothed. The temperature was dropping quickly out here. The fire wouldn’t be enough. Not with a fever raging.

“You’ll be warm soon. I promise.” She lowered his head, then took off her shoes, stripped down to her T-shirt and panties. She burrowed beside him, rubbing herself against the coldness of his skin, cradled his head against her shoulder and closed her eyes.

But his words whispered through her mind.

The baby, Emily. Our baby.

“Sandra?” Booker rasped out, the desperation in his tone ragged. He pulled her across his chest, cupped her chin in his hand.

“Yes?” she answered, wanting what he offered, knowing he did so in his dreams. “You’ve got a fever, Booker. You need rest.”

His arms tightened when she shifted, pinning her to the length of his body. His eyes filmed over with a blue haze, raced over her face. “God, you’re beautiful.”



Then his mouth covered hers. Hot, feverish, it demanded, no begged, a response.

“Booker, please.” Now she was the one who begged.

On a groan, he deepened the kiss and her will broke.

Tongue swept against tongue, rubbing, seducing in soft, sensual circles. Then his mouth moved to her lower lip, drawing it between his own, nipping and suckling until her toes curled, her limbs shook, her body thrust against his in a desperate attempt to end the torture, or continue it, she couldn’t be sure. Didn’t care.

Her hands found his shoulders, drew him down on her. His skin slid against hers, hot and feverish. His body trembled, then shivered, then shuddered.

Sandra crashed into reality. Felt him shudder again. Fever induced, not desire driven.

“Booker. You’re not well.” She grabbed his shoulder, pushed him away, let him roll to her side. “You need rest.”

He groaned once, then didn’t stir.