The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Jillian had to pee.

      No two ways about it.

      And she still couldn’t move.

      Great. Just…great.

      Her only option other than calling out to her captor/rescuer/whatever to help her to a toilet was to wet the bed.

      Out of the question.

      She listened.

      The cabin was quiet, aside from the rush of the wind and creak of old timbers. She held her breath, but heard no footsteps, no rustle of clothing or papers, no snoring. It seemed as if she was completely alone.

      Maybe he’s abandoned you. Left you here alone in the blizzard.

      She didn’t know whether that was a bad thing, or good. Couldn’t dwell on it, not with the pressure in her bladder.

      Setting her jaw so that she wouldn’t cry out, she forced herself into a sitting position, all the while feeling the dull throb in her rib cage. Once upright, she took a good, hard look around the room. Yes, there was a window, and it had to be daylight because there was more illumination within this small room than there had been, but snow obliterated any view from the cot. The only door into the room was the old scratched panel that connected this small bedroom to the next, which she thought was probably the heart of this rustic cabin, the area where he stayed, whoever the hell he was. She listened and heard nothing, as if he either were asleep or out of the house.

      Was that possible?

      In this storm?

      How?

      By the same way he brought you here.

      She remembered feeling as if she were floating and, yes, hearing some loud engine, but it had been cold, so damned cold, and she’d been on the brink of consciousness, almost wakening, then settling deeper into the coma or whatever it was that had kept her unaware ever since the accident.

      She couldn’t damned well stay propped on this bed with her bladder about to burst, so she gritted her teeth and swung her good leg over the edge of the cot.

      Now, for the real test of will.

      Clenching her jaw, she tried to drag her injured leg to the side of the bed.

      A sharp, excruciating pain shot up her calf.

      Holy Mother of God!

      Think beyond the pain, beyond the injury. She’d taken enough self-defense courses to train her mind and focus, but man, her leg hurt.

      She sucked in her breath.

      Again, she told herself. You can do it.

      With effort she dragged her foot to the side of the bed and slowly rotated so that she could swing her leg over. For the first time she saw what he’d done and realized he’d taped her ankle, stabilizing it. Clean cotton gauze wrapped around a splint of two pieces of wood that stuck out a bit. It was old-school, not the molded plastic boots she’d seen on school athletes who had injured themselves, but it looked like whoever had taped her up had done a decent enough job.

      But, of course, it wasn’t a walking cast.

      Then she saw the crutch.

      Propped against the wall near the foot of the bed.

      Her skin crawled a little. This guy was a lot more prepared than she’d thought. Who had a crutch just lying around? Maybe a doctor? Or…or someone who’d once hurt himself. But really, in this barren room, a crutch?

      Don’t second-guess it. Just nab that sucker!

      Maybe, just maybe, he’s a good guy.

      No, she couldn’t let herself think that way, not until she knew more about him. He’d shown up pretty fast after the accident. Why the hell was he out in the middle of a snowstorm? She thought she remembered the sound of a rifle report, as if someone had shot at her before the car started spinning. Though it was just conjecture, she had to be cautious.

      Because, damn it, she was trapped here.

      With a healer?

      Or a killer?

      Don’t even go there. Not yet.

      Willing herself to keep moving, she scooted down the length of the cot and snagged the single crutch. Somehow, she pulled herself to a standing position, though she kept no weight on the injured foot, and then, with her bladder full and her leg aching dully, she made her way to the doorway, hobbling awkwardly and making more noise than she’d intended.

      Even so, she didn’t hear a response. If he was inside, he hadn’t heard her.

      Taking a deep breath, she twisted the old metal doorknob and pushed gently on the oak panels. Soundlessly the door opened a bit and she peered through the crack to a larger room. No lamps had been lit and the stone and wood living area looked gloomy and dark, only a bit of light coming from the fireplace that butted up to the doorway from which Jillian was peering.

      The room had a high ceiling, nearly two stories. On the far end was a ladder that led to an open loft. Bookcases filled the area beneath the loft’s overhang and a massive table occupied the center of the shadowy room. An armoire of sorts was pushed against the wall and nearer the fireplace was another cupboard—no, a closet, like she’d seen at Grandpa Jim’s house twenty-five years earlier, the locked, handcrafted cupboard he’d used to store his hunting rifles.

      Jillian felt a trickle of fear.

      Of course he’s got guns. For God’s sake, he lives in the wilderness! Maybe you can get hold СКАЧАТЬ