Bodyguard Lockdown - By Donna Young Page 0,4

caked his swollen, broken nose told her they’d met before. On the tarmac.

“General Trygg will be here within a few hours,” the man commented. “You can tell him how well you’ve been treated.”

Sandra hadn’t planned on staying that long. Trygg, while brilliant, was psychotic. And that wasn’t a good combination.

“Does he treat all his guests this way?” She tried to lift her shoulders, give her wrists some reprieve.

The man shrugged. “I do not know. You are the first I’ve held for him. The others I have killed.”

“That’s reassuring.” Sandra looked past the man’s shoulder to the room beyond. Searching.

“Looking for this?” He held up a medical bag, its black leather worn and scratched. “Nothing in here will help you.”

That much was true. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. “I’m a doctor. My bag is essential—”

“You are a paycheck to me.” With a flick, he tossed the bag onto a stained gold couch across the room. “Or an opportunity. Which will it be?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“You put General Trygg on death row. But he wants you alive. And he is offering a substantial amount of money to keep you that way.” He grabbed her chin, pinched the bones until she gasped. “Why go to Tourlay?”

“It’s a border town. The last place he’d search,” she scoffed. “Take it from me, anyone who helps Trygg ends up dead.”

“Or rich.” He laughed, then winced. His hand went to his nose, checked for blood.

“You should have that checked,” Sandra quipped. “I know a good veterinarian.”

He grabbed the collar of her blouse, drew her close until only his foul breath separated them. “You think you are safe until Trygg gets here? You are not.”

Sandra slammed her forehead into his nose. The man staggered back bellowing. Blood smeared his face, dripped from his chin.

“Untie my hands,” she spat. “We’ll see who is safe from who.”

“You bitch!” His fist came down. She tried to dodge the blow, but had nowhere to go. Pain exploded against the side of her temple, ricocheted through her shoulder as her chair toppled over.

She bit her lip against her scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The handcuffs held her, kept her knees from touching the ground. Her ankles remained bound to the chair’s deadweight.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back. A knife appeared in his hand, the cold steel pressed against the delicate curve of her throat. “I could kill you now and be gone before Trygg walks through the door.”

“You’ll be hunted down like the rodent you are,” Sandra managed, her voice rough, her jaw set against the pain. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“Neither do you, Dr. Haddad,” he snarled.

Without warning, the man jerked. Air burst from his mouth; surprise widened his eyes, slackened his jaw.

He slid to the floor without another sound, a knife protruding from the back of his skull.

“Honey, I’m home.” The soft Texan drawl reached her.

Sandra’s eyes snapped up, took in the black scarf that hid all but the ice-blue eyes.

“Booker?” Recognition, then relief came swiftly, followed by the pinch of tears and a shudder in her chest.

The sharp jab of uncertainty took a full second more. “How did you find me?”

“I followed the trail of stupidity.” He retrieved his knife from the dead body, wiped the blood on the man’s shirt, then straightened. “Why aren’t you safe at the palace?”

“You think this was my fault?”

“It isn’t?” He tugged the scarf from his face, left it on the floor beside her.

“Only you would blame me for getting kidnapped.”

Sandra took in the harsh, unbending features, the sculpted lips that rarely curved into a smile.

There’d been a time when love made his words kind, humor softened the sharp planes of his face. This was not it.

“You are one of the royal physicians. You live at the palace, surrounded by security. By family. And instead, when threatened, you go to the airport late at night, alone. Making yourself an easy target.”

Pride kept her from responding. Along with the small sliver of truth in his words.

Still, she had her reasons.

He sliced through the binds at her feet with the knife, sheathed the blade, then placed his hands at her waist. “Stand up. I’ll keep you steady. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint.”

“I’m the one with the medical degree. Not you,” she snapped, more impatient with herself than him. The longer it took her to recover, the longer they were in danger.

The position took the weight off her wrists. Blood rushed