Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Marlowe drifted on a feathery soft cushion of clouds and freedom. No nightmares. No worries. No pain. No lists and no schedules. Just sweet relief from a thousand years of never doing enough or being good enough. Of loneliness and struggle. Of always running but never running fast enough. Never catching up. She saw the miserable little girl she'd been through a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. Instinctively, she shied away from the dark indigos and the sucking vortex of the ebony blacks surrounding those colors. There was danger in drawing too close to shadows. They lied and pretended to be what they could never be, especially to little girls: Kind. Gentle. Honest. Uh-uh. She turned back around to the bright yellow gold of a thousand sunflowers and—

"Hey, sunshine. It's time to wake up, honey. You're safe and you're on your way home."

The fantastical world she drifted in vanished with that strangely masculine call from somewhere else. The rainbow was gone. She found herself falling into—

Ugh. The real world. A room she'd never seen or been in before. Unnaturally bright lights overhead. A ceiling with sharp corners. A stiff collar holding her head forward and her left arm in a rigid sling. Those had to go. The bed she'd fallen into wasn't nearly as soft as that narcotic cushion of fake clouds and phony freedom. Her body felt heavy, leaden; her head like someone used it as a basketball. A lot. Must've been a long game. Her brain pulsed with pain, which made her dizzy and nauseous and queasy and… Oh, hell. "I'm going to throw—"

"No worries, I've got you," that same voice said. A plastic barf bag appeared under her chin, and a big, warm hand lifted her head high enough, making sure she hit that tiny target despite the harness restricting her neck. Again and again, she retched, while that guy held her steady.

Yuck. How embarrassing. At last, she was done, but throwing up always made her cry, damn it. She was stronger than this. Enough with the tears already. She couldn't even sniff through her nose. She was drooling and the damned thing around her neck was in the way.

"Aww, honey, it's okay to be sick, and it's okay to cry. Are you done?" Why did this guy have to be so considerate and nice?

She nodded. Yes, she was done making a joke of herself. Her aching head bobbed like a leaf snapping in a stiff wind, and she needed something to wipe her disgusting mouth and nose. A drink wouldn't hurt.

As if he'd read her mind, the guy smoothed a soft, warm damp cloth over her face and wiped away the mess stinging her eyes, make that, eye. What the heck? She fingered the bandaged area where her left eye should've been. Damned thing wasn't there. Instead, a large patch covered that entire side of her face.

She traced her tender lips next. Tiny stitches lined the full length of her bottom lip. Well, duh. Those creeps had punched her enough. She was genuinely shocked they hadn't busted her jaw. Wait a second. Did they? She moved her jaw from left to right. Nope. Her front teeth were loose, but they were all there, and her jaw was sore, but intact. This place might be her new reality, but it was only another challenge to overcome. Another test. They couldn't keep her here against her will. As soon as she could stand on her feet, she was history.

Ever so slowly, Marlowe looked up at the man leaning over her. Something about him was familiar, but she didn't recognize that firm, square jaw or the five o'clock shadow covering it. Or the perfectly arched brows over eyes the color of pine trees in spring, sparkling with hints of amber. Damn, he was breathtaking. Chiseled, in an alpha-male kind of way. Beautiful, long lashes no man had a right to. Handsome, absolutely. He'd be more at home in Hollywood though, not here in—wherever she was.

The stranger lifted a covered mug and placed its straw on her lip. "Just a sip, okay? When you're feeling better, you can have more."

Something in her chest thumped. Like an obedient little mouse—which she had never, ever been—Marlowe whimpered, "Okay." Whatever his name, this guy's sedate demeanor was soothing, and the hit of ice-cold water sliding down her throat was heaven. She wanted more, so before he got away, she latched onto his wrist. At least, that was the plan. But he was bigger and stronger and—

He looked down at her fingers circling his wrist. It dawned on her then that this very nice man was dressed in black. All black. He looked different in the light. But he was still that guy, the man she'd kicked. Oh, no. Marlowe froze. Was this when he punched her?

Grabbing the blanket with her one good hand, she shielded her face to block the blow. As much as she could, she fisted her other fingers. The best defense was a strong offense. If nothing else, she'd strike first. She could do it.

Until he set the mug quietly on the nightstand and whispered, "Lean back and take it easy. You're safe, and I'm here to protect you for as long as it takes you to heal. I'm not going anywhere, just need to let the doctor know you're awake."

That voice… Not baritone. Lower. Gravelly.

"You're not going to hit me?" she squeaked. How does a woman apologize for kicking a guy's privates, the guy who today looked like he'd stepped out of the latest hunky Australian fireman calendar? Who, despite her attack, had still hauled her ungrateful butt up that steep mountainside, on his shoulders, to a giant black helicopter and—

That was all she remembered, other than he'd killed her attackers and he'd saved her life.

"No, honey," he whispered. "I don't hit women, babies, dogs, or cats. And I'm a pushover for grandmothers and grandfathers, too. I'll be right back."

"Thanks," she whispered, suddenly shy, her heart pounding at the details she couldn't recall. Afraid to look him in the eyes with her—eye—Marlowe turned away. Or she tried. Not happening with her neck and head caught in that unwieldy contraption like they were.

A toilet flushed nearby. He was probably emptying that disgusting bag. A chair scraped and he was back, sitting with one ankle crossed over his knee. Apparently, he meant what he said. He was staying. Why? Didn't he have anything else to do besides babysit her?

"Yes, she just woke up," he said quietly into his cell phone. "He's not available?" The guy paused. "Okay, then. Sure. No time like the present."

Oh, yeah. She had a doctor. It didn't take long before a nurse in bubblegum-pink scrubs rushed in, grinning like a Barbie doll at the handsome man in the chair. Not even glancing at the patient in bed. Not that Marlowe blamed her. This guy was worth dreaming about, and she was Frankenstein's bride material.

"Well, hello again," Barbie gushed, shaking her index finger at him. "You didn't check in at my desk like you're supposed to, Mr. Downey."

The tone in her voice made him sound like a naughty little boy instead of a thoughtful, very masculine male. Who did she think she was?

"That's a rule around here, you know." She kept up that scolding, sing-songy tone. "Visitors must always check in at the nurses' station before they visit patients, no matter what. No exceptions."

Marlowe would've rolled her eye at that ridiculous dumb-blonde routine if her head wasn't already pounding at this woman's too bright, too loud, and way too obnoxious voice. But Mr. Downey, huh? Finally, a name that went with that gorgeous face.

"Why should I check in? I never left," he murmured quietly, his voice deliciously low and lullaby soft.

Marlowe closed her eye, secretly pleased he was not brainless Ken to the nurse's dumb Barbie. But wait a second. He'd been here all night? How many nights? Just last night?

Barbie couldn't believe it, either. "You were here all night ? Why didn't I know that? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Staying overnight is not allowed. But, oh well." She actually bounced and batted her eyes. "I guess as long as it's you."

‘Here it comes,' Marlowe thought, sneaking a glimpse at the bubblegum flirt. ‘Wait for it.'

Sure enough, Barbie dropped her inch-long fake eyelashes, like a well-trained hooker straight out of Hollywood, and whispered, "I'll let it pass this time, but next time—"

"There'll be no next time. I'm not leaving," he declared, his tone quietly firm. "Where my wife goes, I go."

Your what? Wife? Me? Since when?

At the same time Marlowe was stroking out over that audacious lie, Barbie shrieked, "This woman's married to you ?" She made Marlowe sound like she was a lower life form, and Barbie hadn't yet had the decency to even look her way. How rude.

"Yes, and we have six kids," Marlowe whispered hoarsely. Hey, if Mr. Downey could dish it out, he could take it. Although six kids might be a stretch, considering he wasn't old enough and neither was she.

Not that Barbie noticed. There went those fake, too-long-to-even-look-real lashes again, batting a hundred while striking out. "Ah, err, your, umm, wife…" For crying out loud, spit it out . "…isn't wearing a ring, and I assumed…" Cough. Cough.

"I have her ring. I removed it before surgery."

I had surgery? On what? Oh yeah, probably my eye.

"Well, okay. I guess that makes sense." Barbie tapped her index finger on her plump bottom lip, pouting. For the love of God, what is wrong with this woman? "I didn't mean anything…" Stiffening her spine, she mustered a cheerful, totally fake, "Never mind. Let's see how she's feeling today, shall we?"

She. Not Mrs. Downey. Not Marlowe. Not the hag in the bed. Eye contact would've been nice, but this woman seemed to have eyes only for Mr. Downey.

"You and the mouse in your pocket?" Marlowe teased, too quietly to be heard.

Which caused her fake-and-totally-unexpected husband to push his chair back, lean over, and take hold of her good hand. "Now, honey," he murmured, his voice so soft and sweet, Marlowe wanted to lick him. "Be nice. You know we only have two little ones. Twin girls, Blossom and Buttercup."

Marlowe wanted to laugh at those outrageous names. But the moment he twined his fingers between hers, she lost the battle for self-control. This man was gorgeous up close. Soft brown hair, trimmed on the sides, but luscious and long enough on top to run her fingers through. If she could. A very strong angular jaw, perfect brows, and a strong, straight nose. A dimple. This big tough man had the most adorable dimple, close to the corner of his mouth. The tender glow in his eyes overrode her plan to get up, get dressed, and leave.

"You… Ah, you are…" Was all she managed to murmur, because it was suddenly, hard to breathe. My heck, he has gorgeous eyes.

The door's hydraulic hinge whooshed shut. Good. Barbie Doll was gone. Maybe she wouldn't work the next few days. That'd be nice since she hadn't once asked how her patient was doing. Was she even a real nurse?

"Hey there, honey." The sexy gentleness in this guy's voice was more than she could handle. "It's sure good to see your bright, smiling face again."

Honey. He'd called her that in the cave. Before or after she kneed him? Why couldn't she remember?

"I'm not beautiful, I'm ugly," she whispered, "but you're so handsome." She'd purposefully made herself ugly to avoid being caught or noticed by the Taliban. In that country, the uglier a woman was, the better off and the longer she lived. Ugly women didn't attract attention like pretty girls did.

"You still think I'm handsome?" he teased, reverently kissing her knuckles and those gorgeous green eyes intent on her. "You gave us a helluva scare, honey."

There was that kind, sweet word again. No one had called her anything that nice before, ever. "Who… who's us?" she asked, glad he hadn't agreed she was ugly.

"Me and my team. You remember Beau and Murphy, don't you? And Lee? He's the big guy who lifted you into the chopper."

Beau? Murphy? Lee? Chopper? Nope. Didn't ring a bell. Not at all. Not like it mattered. She'd never see those guys or the chopper again if she'd really met them in the first place. Talk was cheap and lies were cheaper. After all, she was suddenly married and had twin daughters. Who knew what other lies this guy was capable of. "Oh, them, sure." By then, her energy was gone. "I'm tired, umm, husband." More like too tired to play this ridiculous game any longer.

"Then go to sleep and rest easy. I'll be here if you need anything."

It dawned on Marlowe then. Where's my beanie?

She freaked. "Crap. Oh no, crap!" slapping what was now her only good hand on her head. No, no, no. But it was too late. He'd already seen her very bare, very bald, totally hairless head. Those creeps in the cave had taken the beanie the moment they'd captured her. They'd known she worn it under her veil. They'd known! They'd claimed she'd broken Allah's laws. That was why they'd beaten her. Big, brave men like those cowards had to beat her sins out of her. Liars!

"You know. Mr. Downey, you know. Don't look. Stop, I'm ugly!" Tears rolled out of her one good eye. "I look like Cyclops, but you… you're…"

Gorgeous and sexy and tall, and you smell so good.

He was instantly in her face. "Name's Asher, honey, and you do not look like a Cyclops." He smoothed a gentle hand over her bandaged skull. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"R-really?" she asked like a dolt, blinking through the tears welled up in her eye, wishing he wasn't lying to make her feel better. But okay if he was. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Of course you're beautiful, and the hair you shaved off is growing back. It looks more like a very close shave, a buzzcut. It's the latest fad back in the States, so please don't cry. Until we get you home, you'll be traveling as my wife, Mrs. Asher Downey. Yes, you lost your beanie, so I picked up another for you." He pulled a dark green beanie from his rear pocket and asked, "May I?"

He wanted to touch her scalp? Her bald-as-a-cue-ball head? "No." Heavens, no. "Why?"

"Why what? Why do I want to help you, or why do you have to travel as my wife?"

"Both." God, yes. Both.

"Because, honey…" Very gently, he slipped the beanie over her skull, cupping the back of her neck when he finished. "What's important to you is important to me, and it's possible someone tracked you here. I don't know why, but if they did, they won't find your name on the clinic's records. You're registered here at the embassy hospital as Mrs. Asher Downey, and the reason you're here is listed as a mountain climbing fall. Nothing ties you to the Taliban."

All she heard out of that long explanation was that one very special word: Honey. Man, this guy was something out of a fairytale. He was sincere and honorable. His eyes were green and full of life and that word was doing strange things to her heart.

"Wait. I'm in what embassy?"

"Yes, the American Embassy in Pakistan, and as far as our fake marriage goes…"

Marlowe squeezed her eye shut, embarrassed but at the same time, deeply touched by the gentleness of his touch. Everything Asher Downey had done for her was unbelievably gracious and kind. There were still questions she needed answered. Too many hows, whys, wheres, and whos to the puzzle she was caught in. But him, she liked.

"Who are you?" she asked, her question slurring with exhaustion. Darn, she didn't want to fall asleep. Not yet. "I mean, really?"

"I'm an American contractor and I work special operations the US military can't."

"Ohhhhh," she breathed, fading faster now.

Mr. Downey—Asher—kept talking, but Marlowe was beyond comprehending. Nothing made sense. Not where she was or why this man was kind to her, an anonymous woman nobody wanted, in a country no one cared about. The last things she felt were his warm lips on her forehead. This man was better than a lullaby.