It all came back in a waterfall: The white-haired man with the switchblade coming at her as she was bound and gagged on the floor. The dog attack. Luke freeing her and carrying her out to a car. This abandoned house, which she had a hazy recollection of being moved into.
Now she was here, in the cellar, on this bed of multi-colored fabric—
Voices up above. Now footsteps that made dust fall from the boards over her head.
A door opening and a beam of light piercing down the steps ahead of her. “Rio, it’s me.”
At the sound of Luke’s voice, she shuddered in relief—and became aware that she’d lifted up a gun and pointed it at the open-board staircase in front of her.
The reality that he hadn’t left her undefended meant that he, and anybody with him, did not intend to hurt her. But considering how much rescuing he’d been doing over the last little bit, did she really still doubt his savior act?
Then again, old habits of self-protection died hard.
“I’m here,” she said in a rough voice.
“I have help.”
There was a pause, and then she saw his legs at the top of the rough wooden stairs. She knew they were his because he was wearing those strange, tight, too-short black pants—and through the open frame of the stairs, she watched him take things one step at a time. Was he injured?
No. He was helping someone in a tan-colored robe, someone who seemed to have bad balance.
It was slow going.
And when he was finally on the concrete floor, he put out his arm for whoever was with him and brought them around, into the light . . . oh, so it was a limp, the person had a limp, a bad one—and their whole head and body were covered, nothing showing of the face, a mesh drape hiding the features.
“She’s here to help you,” Luke explained.
Rio glanced at him, needing to refresh everything she knew about his face, his body, his energy. In the flickering light, he looked ferocious and his body seemed huge. Next to him, the robed figure was slight and came up to his pecs.
It was a woman under there, Rio thought.
“Will you allow me to examine you?”
The voice was, in fact, female, and also smooth as silk, and for some reason, Rio pictured whoever was under there as having long, dark hair.
“I got hit on the head,” Rio said on a mumble.
“So I may examine you?”
The accent was odd, a mixture of French and something Romanian. Not that she was a linguist.
“Sure.”
She didn’t even bother to ask whether the woman was a doctor or a nurse. Or a vet. Anything was better than nothing, and it was not safe for her to be seen at so much as a doc-in-the-box. Mozart had resources everywhere in and around Caldwell—
“You’re a nun,” Rio blurted as she put the gun aside. “That’s what you are.”
As the woman lowered herself down onto the edge of the fabric pile, she relied heavily on Luke’s arm—and then addressed him. “You will leave us now, and allow me your flashlight. Thank you.”
Luke hesitated.
“You will leave us,” the woman said more sharply. “You are not her mate. It is improper for you to attend to her. Go.”
After a moment, Luke looked at Rio. “I’ll just be upstairs.”
“It’s okay,” Rio said. Even though she feared she was lying to him.
“And you must needs get her some food and drink,” the nun ordered. “Now. She is dehydrated and requires nourishment.”
Luke did not seem like the kind of guy who took orders. But he skulked off for the stairs like he’d been yelled at by an elementary school teacher.
After his heavy weight clomped up the steps, the robed figure’s mesh-covered face turned to Rio. But the woman didn’t say another word until Luke had closed the door.
“Tell me, female,” she said gently, “what happened to you.”
Rio’s eyes watered. And she intended to speak . . . but she suddenly didn’t have any air in her lungs.
“Oh, female. I am so sorry.” A soft hand took her own. “Just catch your breath, we are not in a hurry here.”
“I’m okay.” As Rio breathed in deep, she winced. “I really am.”
Was she? She didn’t know for sure. Or maybe at all.
“Where do you hurt?”
Everywhere. “My head is the worst. They hit me with a gun, I think. At least twice.”
Determined to be a good patient, even though there was nobody around with a clipboard to judge her performance on convalescent compulsories, she went to sit up. The pink-and-white fabric draping her to her chin fell down—