“I’m going to build a fire,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”
EMILY WATCHED ZACK FEED wood to the fire blazing in the floor-to-ceiling river-rock hearth and tried not to relive everything that had happened in the last four hours—and not to imagine what might happen next. Born and raised in this part of Idaho, she’d seen enough winter storms in her life to know that no one was going to show up to rescue her. Not the police. Not the FBI. Not even the highly trained prison SORT team employed by Lockdown, Inc.
She was on her own.
What she needed more than anything was answers. She needed to know who Zack Devlin was and why he’d taken her hostage. Even more, she needed to know why the prison marksmen had been shooting at her. Why Marcus Underwood and Dr. Lionel had been within an inch of injecting her with truth serum. Why inmates were mysteriously dying…
Shuddering at the possibilities, she looked across the room at Devlin and wondered what secrets were buried beneath all those layers of Irish charm. Was he a dangerous, cold-blooded killer? Who was he really?
Things aren’t always what they appear….
What had he meant by that?
“That ought to keep us from getting hypothermia.”
Emily looked up at the sound of his voice to see him standing a few feet away, watching her with an unnerving intensity. The irises of his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. A day’s growth of stubble shadowed his jaw. The cut on his forehead stood out in stark contrast against his skin. Having worked the last three years as a corrections officer in a maximum-security prison, Emily had dealt with plenty of ruthless, brutal men. But staring into Zack Devlin’s glittering eyes, she thought he seemed by far the most dangerous.
They studied each other for an uncomfortable moment. Emily could hear the wind tearing around the old lodge. Something flapped rhythmically against the exterior window, like a ghost hammering at a nail. The entire place seemed to shudder with every gust of wind.
But even though the man standing across from her radiated danger, she felt strangely safe….
“Why don’t you have a seat by the fire and let me take a look at that bullet wound?” he said.
The thought of getting closer to the fire appealed, but Emily was nervous about Devlin touching her—for reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here. If that wound is bad, it could get infected and make you sick.”
He was right. An untreated bullet wound could lead to infection, which could be serious. “As long as you can talk and administer first aid at the same time.”
“I’ll see if I can find some supplies I can use to get it cleaned up.” Turning away, he strode through an arched doorway.
She watched his retreat, then rose and wandered around. The main room was cavernous, with high ceilings and massive rustic beams. Arched windows ran from floor to ceiling. The floor was made of parquet and stone and littered with years of dust and small debris. Holes marred the walls where fixtures and wall hangings had once been. But it was the stone hearth that dominated the room. Forty years ago the place would have been magnificent.
The scent of burning wood hung pleasantly in the air. Despite the fire, the room was still freezing, so she crossed to the bench he’d dragged to the fireplace and sat. The warmth felt wonderful against her skin. Her feet were numb. She looked down at her hands. They were red and aching from cold. Her hair and coat were damp. She was in the process of taking off her coat when Zack returned, his hands full.
“This must be our lucky day,” he said.
Emily didn’t feel very lucky. In fact, she thought this was one of the worst days of her life. “Did you find first-aid supplies?” she asked.
“I melted a little snow in this plastic container. I found a bar of guest soap. And last but not least, a bottle of vintage 1981 cognac.”
“I don’t think cognac is going to help our situation.”
“Quite the contrary.”
She tensed when he sat on the bench beside her and began to open the bottle. “This isn’t for drinking, though I might just have a nip considering the age of this bottle.”
“If you’re not going to drink it, what do you plan to do with it? Blow up something?”
“Cognac has a high volume of alcohol,” he said. “It will burn like the dickens, but it will disinfect your wound.” One side of his mouth hiked and he grinned like a scoundrel. “If you’re game, we can drink the rest.”