Free Crossfire Christmas by Julie Miller Page A

if he was the most manly thing she’d ever had in her apartment? He was the enemy. Her captor. Compassion for his injuries and this rudimentary attraction didn’t matter. “You said you’d let me go.”
    “When I’m done with you, I will. I figure I need six to eight hours of solid sleep to get my energy back before I can get out of your life. I can’t risk you calling the cops or giving me away to anyone before I’m ready to leave. Until then, I’m tying you up.” As if testing the newfound strength in his left hand, he closed his fingers around her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to look at him. “Do we understand each other?”
    Teresa pulled away from his gentle yet firm, callused touch, nodding. “I’ll get the tape.”

Chapter Five
    Nash turned his face away from the ribbon of sunlight that squeezed between the wall and curtains and hit him in the eyes.
    He rolled over onto his back, moaning at the stiffness that made every joint ache. He raised his forearm to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of sunlight off the snow outside. Yeah, there was a chill on the bare skin of his torso. And yeah, he was pretty beat up. He could tell from the throbbing in his shoulder that he was far from 100 percent.
    But he must have slept through the night. As consciousness pushed away the dregs of sleep, he was able to remember the echoes of his nightmares—familiar faces, doors closing all around him, locking him out, keeping him from reaching Axel Torres and Jim Richter and Tommy Delvecchio. And blood. Way too much blood. At least, that was how he interpreted the wispy clouds of scarlet hanging around him like warm breath in the wintry air of his dreams.
    Despite the disturbing images that clung to the fringes of his thoughts, he felt a little more rested, a little more like a normal person. As normal as the last surviving member of a team marked for death could feel, at any rate.
    That sobering thought raised him to another level of consciousness. He blinked his eyes beneath his arm, slowly taking stock of his surroundings. Sore thigh. Shoulder that felt as if it had been through a meat grinder. Soft quilt beneath his back. Softer pillow beneath his head. The subtle scents of alcohol and soap and...garlic? teased his nose. His stomach grumbled in a visceral response to the enticing aroma. Right. Food hadn’t exactly been a priority for him these past two days. And whatever was cooking smelled mighty good.
    Whatever was cooking?
    No longer dreaming, no longer speculating, but wide-awake and suddenly aware of the keen gaze watching him, Nash opened his eyes and curled his fingers around the gun at his side before lowering his arm. He turned his head slightly to the right and saw that it was too late to go on the offensive.
    “Ah, hell.”
    Teresa Rodriguez, that sweet little bundle of curves and sass, sat in the kitchen chair beside the bed, where he’d left her bound and gagged last night.
    Except the tape he’d stuck loosely over her mouth was gone.
    Not only was she free of her bindings, but she’d changed her clothes and held his badge and a magazine of bullets in either fist. “Good morning, Agent Nash.”
    Nash swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. Maybe a little too fast because her dark eyes and blue sweater swirled around in his vision. He shook off the dizziness, tossed aside the blanket she’d covered him with and spared the time to check his Smith & Wesson to confirm that the magazine she held came from his weapon. He was empty. At a distinct disadvantage. The captor was now the captive.
    She bombarded him with questions before he could decide on his next plan of action. “Why did you make me afraid of you? Why did you kidnap me? Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
    That clever little minx. She’d cut herself loose from the duct tape he’d bound her wrists and ankles with last night. And while he couldn’t stop the grin of admiration from hooking the corner of his mouth,