When You Dare. Lori Foster
shoulder.
Dare thought of men hitting her, manhandling her, and bone-deep disgust ignited. He despised bullies of any kind, but a man who would hurt a woman was at the top of his list of assholes that needed a lesson.
She breathed deeply, her eyes closing and her nostrils flaring. “That smells so good.”
Out of his seat already, Dare fetched her food. “Do you want to sit here, or eat in the bed?”
She hesitated, looking down for a moment as if uncertain of her welcome, not wanting to inconvenience him. “Table please, but … I should dress first.”
“All right.” He set the food on the table and opened the bag of clothes, pulling out a few T-shirts, panties and a pair of pull-on cotton shorts. “You can get more stuff tomorrow if you feel up to it. Something warmer, maybe, and nicer for the plane ride. But for now, I figured this would fit.”
She didn’t look at the clothes. The arm she leaned on barely supported her, and her breath went choppy with effort.
Voice weak, strained, she said, “I’m sorry, but … I haven’t eaten in too long and I’m feeling kind of … faint.”
Dare straightened, going on alert. Would she pass out on him?
“If … if you could help me into the bathroom, I’ll dress in there.”
Shit. He did not want her passing out alone, maybe hitting her head. “Yeah, no problem.”
Dare moved to the bed and slipped an arm behind her, then drew her to her feet. She swayed into him, one hand clutching at his shirt and holding on for dear life.
She made no attempt to step away. He didn’t ask her to. “What would you like to do?”
“I can’t …” She choked, cleared her throat, and her voice was so low he barely heard her when she said, “This is embarrassing, but the shower …” She swallowed. “I think I’m depleted.”
Easing her back onto the bed, Dare knew he’d have to be firm to get her agreement. “Okay, Molly, listen up.” He kept his tone as impersonal as possible. “This isn’t a big deal. I can dress you. I can even feed you.”
She rolled in her lips with embarrassment, a habit he’d already noticed.
“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” he lied.
That brought her dark eyes up to his.
Damn, but her eyes could melt a man’s soul. “I’m in the personal protection business. You’re not the first woman I’ve rescued. You’re not even in the worst shape.” Another lie. Most women he retrieved were found in the first forty-eight hours before too much damage had been done—or they weren’t found at all. “Okay?”
Still with her gaze locked on his, she nodded.
“Good girl.” He grabbed the clothes from the bag. He wasn’t really discomfited by the task, but he’d just as soon get past it.
Taking clothes off a woman, yeah, he had plenty of practice with that.
Dressing the near-dead … not so much.
“Panties first, okay?” He still had no idea what had been done to her, how she might have been tormented or used. If it was sexual in nature, then this would be doubly hard on her. “We’ll take this nice and slow, and if at any point you feel panicky, just tell me.”
“I won’t panic.”
He looked up at her. “Yeah, well, I’d just as soon not get kicked in the face again.”
For a split second, he thought he saw a slight smile on her bruised mouth. Then she looked away. “No, I won’t do that again.”
As Dare knelt down to work her small feet into the legs of the very plain cotton underwear, he noticed more scrapes and bruises. After she ate, he’d dig out the first-aid kit and patch her up.
When he had the panties up to her knees, he took her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Hold on to my shoulders.”
She was so much shorter than him, maybe five-seven to his six-three, that, while he stood upright, holding his shoulders pretty much stretched her out.
He bent to the task and she leaned against him. She was surprisingly … soft for someone so thin. And she smelled good now, clean like shampoo and soap and warm, gentle woman.
In a shrill, nervous voice, she asked, “So, who did you rescue? Other than me?”
“A friend. Almost like a sister.” Her thighs were trim, firm. He did his best to look away as he dragged the underwear up under the damp towel. His knuckles dragged against her soft bottom, a bottom that wasn’t as skinny as he’d thought.
Not that her curves mattered. With her shivering against him, he felt more like a damned doctor than a man who’d been without sex for months. “Now the shirt.”
He took the damp towel off her head and tossed it aside. Her hair fell in tangled wet hanks to her bare shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful, her chin stubborn.
And she looked ready to drop with both weakness and degradation. She was not a woman used to needing help, he could tell, especially not with something so personal.
“Feel better being clean?” If he kept her talking, maybe this would be easier for her—and for him.
“You have no idea.” Dare pulled the shirt down over her head, and as soon as she popped free, she added, “Do you have any scissors?”
He had to practically lift her arms to get them through the armholes. Because a bra had been well beyond him, he’d bought the shirt big and loose. It fit over the bundled towel she had wrapped around herself. “Why?”
“I was going to cut it.”
“It?” He reached beneath the shirt and pulled away the bulky towel. Surprise stilled him for only a moment. Dirt, distress and injury had hidden it, but Molly Alexander had one hell of a rack.
And he felt like a grade-A prick for noticing.
“My hair.” Not quite defeated, but close, she sat back on the bed again. Face pale and mouth tight with strain, she kept her shoulders back, her bare knees and ankles squeezed together. “There’s no way I’ll get the tangles out. And truthfully … I just don’t care enough to try.”
She was not his problem, Dare reminded himself, and her hair sure as hell didn’t matter to him. But damn it, for whatever reason, he didn’t want her to give up now, not on anything.
“Let’s worry about it tomorrow, okay?” Taking her arm again, he got her upright and helped her step into the shorts. Decently dressed, clean, and marginally rested, she made quite a picture.
Sort of cute, but still very bedraggled and wearied, not to mention abused.
Dare led her to the table. “You sure you don’t want to do this in bed?”
A hoarse laugh huffed out. “I’ve been tied to a disgusting, filthy mattress for nine days, unable to sit up or walk or … anything. Trust me, I’d rather be at the table.”
The image sickened him. “Gotcha.”
He set juice in front of her. “Try to drink it all, okay? It’ll help.” Then he opened the microwave and pulled out her still-warm cup of soup.
“I know the pancakes probably smell good, and there’s enough for you if you want to give them a go, but I figured it might be too much—”
“It would be.” She drank a little of the juice, waited, then drank some more. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, I have to take it slow or I know I’ll be sick. And I’d rather be beaten than barf again.”
“Again?”
Her expression flattened with memories. As if the shock and humiliation