Deadly Game (GhostWalkers #5)(7)
Author: Christine Feehan

She bit down on her lip. She didn’t know how he could be genetically enhanced without being part of their unit, a special unit of the military designed for covert operations, but she’d never seen him before. And he was enhanced. She could feel the strength and power in him even without physical contact.

“I can’t answer that,” she said truthfully.

“You weren’t there to assassinate the senator?”

“No, of course not. We were his protection team.”

“A protection team doesn’t pull out and leave the client when one of their team goes down or is captured. Your unit did just that.”

“I can’t answer for my unit.”

“Why did you think we were there to kill the senator?”

Without his touch, pain was closing in again. Her leg hurt bad enough to bring tears burning behind her eyes. She risked a look at it. The leg was swollen, but it had been worked on. Her clothes had been cut off, which meant no hidden weapons. She wore only a long T-shirt. “Am I going to lose the leg?”

“No. Nico worked on you before the doc got here. You’ll be fine. Your hand is broken too. You didn’t give me much of a choice. Why would you try to kill yourself if you were there to protect the senator?”

“I can’t answer that.”

No flicker of impatience crossed his face. He didn’t blink, watching her intently with glacier-cold eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him in the way she knew she should be.

“Let me help you sit up. We’ve given you fluids, but you should try to drink on your own. You lost a lot of blood.” Before she could protest, he slipped his arm underneath her back and helped her to sit, arranging pillows behind her.

She breathed him in and felt an instant electric current run between them. She swore little sparks danced over her skin. His gentleness disarmed her. He was a straight-up killer. She’d been a soldier all of her life and she recognized a lethal predator when she saw one, but when he touched her, there was no sign of aggression or the need to brutalize or dominate. He simply helped her, when he could have stood back and watched her struggle.

“Ken?” The voice came from the other room and her captor half-turned to face the doorway. “Briony says to bring her sister home and she sends her love.”

She looked past the man standing by the bed and her heart nearly stopped. The face of the man standing in the doorway was everything Ken’s should have been. Strong. Handsome. Classically beautiful. It was the face she imagined on an avenging angel—the bone structure, the lines and masculine perfection. The stranger had the same eyes, the same mouth. She had avoided looking too much at Ken’s mouth because she might have fixated on it. The scar that marred the soft fullness of his lips ran from the top lip to the bottom and down his chin in a straight line, and had the same precise symmetry that the other scars had.

The man in the doorway stopped. “I didn’t realize she was awake.”

Ken turned back to her, his arm still cradling her body, as he picked up a glass of water. “Can you manage with one hand?”

She could shoot a gun or throw a knife with one hand. She certainly could drink water, but having Ken close to her was intoxicating. She’d never been intoxicated before either. She allowed him to hold the glass to her lips. His hands were rock steady. She was trembling. Whatever was affecting her certainly wasn’t doing the same to him.

Mari hesitated, staring at the clear liquid with a sudden thought that she was a prisoner and they wanted information. As if reading her mind, Ken brought the glass to his lips and took a long drink. She watched the glass slide against his mouth, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and she couldn’t help noticing those same horrific scars on his neck and, lower still, reaching under the shirt. Where else did they go?

She let him put the glass to her lips, astonished at how good water could taste. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty. All the while she drank, she had to force her mind from straying to Ken. She tasted him on the glass, felt him through the thin material of the T-shirt—or maybe it was his T-shirt. Maybe that was why she felt him imprinted deep in her bones.

She held the glass to her forehead, fighting for air. With every breath she drew into her lungs, a sharp pain stabbed through her chest.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Ken said, taking the glass and setting it on a table beside the bed. “If you hadn’t been wearing two vests, you’d be dead right now.”

Cami had insisted she wear two vests. She’d have to remember to thank her friend for that. She touched the painful spot. “Was it you?”

“I was aiming for your eye. You moved as I pulled the trigger.”

“I figured you would fire as soon as you knew where I was. I kept rolling, but you hit me with both shots.”

“I didn’t kill you,” he pointed out, his voice mild. “And that’s a rare thing.”

She blinked up at him, seeing the beauty of his face when he wanted her to see his mask. She knew he hid behind that mask of complete indifference. He hid himself away where no one could get to him—and why it mattered, she had no idea. She had obligations and she had to escape as quickly as possible. She just knew she didn’t want to add to this man’s scars.

“Lucky me. I didn’t kill you, and that might be even rarer.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, the one without a scar slashing white through the black hairs. “Actually, it was Jack you nearly hit. Do you need a painkiller?”

Mari shook her head. “You’ve given me something. I’m already floating. How bad is the leg?”

“Let’s just say, you’re going to have to put off your escape plans for a little while.”

Was he reading her mind? It was possible. She was a strong telepath; maybe he was too. Maybe touching her allowed him entrance to her mind. Panic swirled in her belly, her stomach churning. Dr. Whitney had experimented on the soldiers with the idea of creating a unique black ops team capable of slipping in and out of situations, and handling any problem that might crop up, including interrogation. With the right psychic ability, just touching another might be all that was necessary to extract the information wanted.

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not reading your mind.”

She blinked up at him. “If you’re not, how did you know what I was thinking?”

“You don’t have a poker face and I know your sister very well.” His gaze locked on hers—held hers. “She has a lot of the same expressions.”