The Tracker Page 8

  “Is there anything I can do to help? We can talk, if you want. I’m a good listener. Or we can…play cards or something. Read together. Or maybe, I don’t know…something else.” Heat crept into my cheeks.

  He grunted, then he shook his head. “You’re so innocent, you know that? I can tell already that I’m going to corrupt you. Thanks, but no, there’s nothing you can do.”

  He went back into his bedroom and closed the door. He came out several minutes later dressed in workout shorts and Nike sneakers. His torso was still bare. The man was mouth-wateringly beautiful, even his damn legs. And the more I was around him, the more attractive he became. He wasn’t even my type. Too dark. Too brooding. So why the hell did he get to me so much?

  He headed for the door. My gaze followed after him, latching onto that hard, muscular back and the tattoo that vined artistically across his shoulders. What was its significance? Before I lost my nerve, I blurted, “What does your tattoo represent?”

  He paused at the door, but he didn’t turn to face me. He didn’t speak for a long moment, then, as if the words had been forced out of him, he hissed out, “Slavery. Torture. Death.”

  I swallowed hard, my heart pinching at his words. If he’d been subjected to something terrible, why would he want to permanently mark himself with a reminder of what he’d gone through?

  This was evidence that there was a soul in there somewhere. I believed Tracker had feelings. Deep feelings. I’d seen those drawings and sensed the emotion that had gone into creating them. Had he put that tattoo back there so he couldn’t see it? Was it a reminder of what he’d survived? I wanted to understand him, but I sensed he’d experienced more horrors than I would ever understand.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He jerked his head in a nod. “I’m gonna go spar with Gordon. Don’t wait up for me.” He left before I could respond.

  I stared at the closed door. Whether he was dark or brooding or not, I was now filled with a new determination. Cooking and cleaning and laundry wasn’t nearly enough repayment if he found Eliza. So, I would give him more. But not in the way he might expect.

  God, Jess, why do you even care?

  I put my face in my hands and sighed. I didn’t have the answer to that question at this point. Maybe it was the vulnerability I’d glimpsed in his eyes. Maybe it was the obvious suffering I’d heard coming through the bedroom while he’d been in the middle of a nightmare. Maybe I just felt the need to help an injured soul.

  All I knew was that I would do everything in my power to help him.

  I would find a way to fix him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jessica

  I spent those first few days at The Tracker’s reading the books on his shelves to keep my boredom at bay while he disappeared for hours on end, “following leads to Eliza’s whereabouts.” I was the perfect slave. I kept his apartment clean, fixed his meals, and stayed out of his way. I avoided his bedroom entirely if he was home, and when he was gone, I prowled the apartment, trying to figure the man out. I’d heard him thrashing around in the bedroom several more times, but I never went inside, never tried to rouse him. I did what he suggested and stayed away, even though I longed to help him. As concerned as I was about him, I didn’t want him to accidentally strangle me, either. I wasn’t sure how to help him at this point, but I wasn’t going to just give up on him and cast him aside like his employer had. He needed to know that he wasn’t worthless. So for now, I would show that I cared by being the perfect slave and staying out of his way. And hopefully, someday soon, he would open up to me.

  I never ventured out of his apartment, even though I longed for company. I didn’t want to give him a reason to call off our deal. He always returned at dawn, just as the world was waking, and slipped back inside the safety of his cold, barren apartment.

  I would dream about him at night, about his strong arms holding me close, his lips brushing against mine, his hard, muscular body taking mine in a sweet, blissful possession that had me crying out for more. I’d never dreamt about a man like that before. I’d never really wanted a man to do the types of things I dreamed about him doing to me. I was embarrassed that he affected me this way. The only logical explanation was that I’d never been around such a masculine man before. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to such splendid manliness?

  I would always wake alone on my cot, flushed from the realness of my dreams, feeling like a fool. I shouldn’t want him. And I sure as hell couldn’t let him know how much I wanted him. I was much too proud to let him know that.

  I want you to come to me willingly.

  Never!

  I wanted to change my schedule to match his, so I was slowly adjusting my sleeping hours for the daytime and my awake hours for nighttime. If he was a creature of the night, then I would soon be too.

  He kept his distance from me now, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me. We rarely saw each other, and I suspected he planned it that way. He only spoke to me briefly to give me updates on his search for Eliza. When we were alone in the apartment together, he never engaged me in small talk. He would go to his chair and read a book, ignoring me completely. Or sit at his table and draw.

  I caught him looking at me a couple of times, his gaze scrutinizing, before he bent over his sketchpad and drew. Was he drawing me?

  I quickly dispelled that idea. I was average. Why would he want to draw me?

  Each time he came home, he would say it was another dead end. No clues to where Eliza might be. My worry and frustration grew with each day. Would he ever find her?

  On the seventh day, he returned to find me snooping through his sketchpad. He had been drawing me. I’d sat there, stunned, for a long time and stared at the detailed, realistic sketch of my very own face. Seeing myself through his eyes. The sketch was beautiful. I looked beautiful on that page, not average like I’d always felt. Did he think I was beautiful? The idea made my breath catch.

  I jerked back from the sketchbook as he strode in the door, my face heating as his gaze narrowed on me. He glanced down at the sketchbook, then back into my eyes.

  “I have a lead.”

  I slapped the sketchbook closed, not wanting him to know I’d been staring at the drawing of my own face in awe. “You do? Where is she? Is she alive?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s just a lead. I’m checking it out later. Right now, I’m taking a shower. Fix me something to eat.” He strode into the bathroom.

  I hurried into the kitchen.

  He had a lead! He had a lead! He had a lead! Finally!

  When he emerged several minutes later, smelling delicious after his shower, I served him a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup, and a glass of milk. He ate without comment, then leaned back in his chair to study me where I leaned hesitantly against the kitchen counter.

  “You need anything else?”

  His gaze slowly raked me from head to toe. The heat smoldering in his eyes made my face grow hot. He’d brought me a few more outfits over the past week—leggings, long-sleeved cotton shirts, socks, a couple of sweatshirts and sweatpants that weren’t as large as the first ones he’d brought me, but no bras or underwear. And nothing sexy, which surprised me. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or not. And I wasn’t sure if the man was uncomfortable buying underwear or if he just didn’t know what size to buy, so I had to make do with what he brought. I certainly wasn’t about to complain. Today I was wearing a pair of black leggings and a soft pink sweatshirt.

  “Come here, slave,” he murmured.

  I hesitated. There had been no mention of me “coming to him willingly” over the past week. I’d grown comfortable believing I wouldn’t have to do anything more for him except cooking and cleaning. Though my dreams had been filled with fantasies involving Tracker that had nothing to do with housework, they were just that: fantasies. I would never tell him about my dreams or how one look from those silver eyes could make me weak in the knees. The man was all I could think about. If he
knew of my desire to be the one to “fix” him, he’d probably kick me out.

  He leaned farther back in his chair and spread his legs. He watched me, resting his hands on his thighs. “Did you hear me? I said. Come. Here.” Though he spoke quietly, his words were laced with steel. He expected me to obey. If I didn’t, there would be hell to pay.

  Oh God.

  I’d promised not to fight with him anymore. But surrendering went against my nature.

  Just do it, Jess. Surrendering might not be so bad. If he makes you feel anything like in your dreams, it will be worth it.

  Forcing myself to be brave, I slowly pushed away from the counter. I took a step toward him, then another, my gaze locked on his.

  I stopped before him, just outside of his spread legs, not daring to come any closer.

  His gaze traveled down my body again, then back up to mine. He smiled lazily. “Come closer.”

  I swallowed hard and took a tiny step forward so I was standing just inside his spread thighs. He crossed his arms over his chest. I tensed, expecting him to touch me. He didn’t. His nostrils flared as if he’d suddenly picked up my scent. His eyes smoldered with something dark and dangerous.

  “It’s time for you to make another payment. You haven’t done much but lay around here all week while I’ve been out looking for your sister.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he stopped me. “Keep quiet. I’m talking. You owe me, slave.”

  “Jessica,” I whispered. “My name is Jessica.” Why wouldn’t he ever say my name?

  He grunted. Then his gaze slowly raked down my body again. Heat flooded into my cheeks. Awareness snaked through me. I found his perusal unsettling, yet, strangely, it turned me on.

  He looked into my eyes. “I want to draw you. All of you. Not just your face.”

  My breath grew shallow. Heat pooled deep in my belly. My core throbbed. All of me? As in, naked?

  “Are you s-sure? What if you don’t…like what you see?”

  Lust flashed in his eyes. “I already like what I see.”

  I gulped. He did?

  It’s all right, Jess. He just wants to draw you. Just do it. This is for Eliza.

  “I…don’t know,” I whispered. No man had ever seen me naked before.

  “I promise not to touch you,” he murmured, his gaze meeting mine. “I’m an artist, a professional. You’ll be completely safe.”

  My legs trembled. Would I? I couldn’t breathe.

  I want you to come to me willingly.

  Oh God. Was he hoping I would ask him to make love to me now? That wasn’t going to happen.

  I want to draw you. All of you. Not just your face.

  Drawing isn’t so bad, Jess. He didn’t say anything about sex.

  I pondered that for a moment. I might fantasize about him, but that didn’t mean I could go through with those fantasies. The reality might not be anywhere close to my fantasy. And I’d vowed I would never beg him to make love to me.

  So why didn’t the idea of “coming to him willingly” repel me like it once had?

  His gaze whipped back to mine. “I want you on my bed, naked. So I can draw you. Go get undressed while I gather my sketchpad.”

  I swallowed hard, stepping back shakily as he rose from the chair. I stood there, my legs turning to lead, unable to move as he strode for the sketchpad on the table near the bookshelf. He picked it up and turned back to me, his gaze again raking down my body.

  He cocked a brow, then pointed to his bedroom.

  Lying naked on his bed would be dangerous. I would be vulnerable, exposed. Anything could happen. What if he touched me? What if he kissed me?

  What if I kissed him?

  He said he wouldn’t touch you.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m not comfortable being naked on your bed.”

  He strode toward me, making me tense and back away.

  He reached me, pausing to stare down at me. “I said I wouldn’t touch you. Do you trust me?”

  I swallowed hard. Did I trust him? Not really.

  I lowered my gaze. “I don’t know.”

  A moment of silence passed. He sighed. “I guess I can’t blame you. Go, then. I won’t draw you.” He waved toward my cot.

  I didn’t miss the disappointment in his words.

  I hesitated. If he was only going to draw me, then I had nothing to be afraid of except my own modesty.

  I cleared my throat. Afterwards, would he set his sketchbook aside and join me in the pose? Like the embracing couple he’d drawn? Heat spread throughout my entire body.

  I pulled my gaze back to his and found him watching me closely. What was he thinking? His expression remained unreadable, so I had no idea what thoughts ran through his mind.

  I cleared my throat. “O-okay. I’ll do it. But no touching. I…trust you.” If he remained professional and kept his hands to himself, I could probably do this. No touching.

  He stilled, then a slow smile spread across his face. The expression in his eyes turned gentle for the first time ever. Was this the same man who’d called me “slave” just moments ago?

  “Thank you. Your trust means a lot to me. I promise I won’t ever betray that trust. I just want to draw you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

  His reassurance helped me relax and I turned and headed into his bedroom. He followed behind me, flipping through his sketchbook.

  “What did you think of my other drawings?” he asked as I hovered nervously near the bed. “I know you looked at them.”

  My cheeks heated. “I…they’re amazing. You’re very talented.”

  “You think so?”

  I nodded, again thinking of the naked couple embracing.

  Don’t go there, Jess.

  Tracker turned his back to me. “Go ahead, get on the bed. I won’t look until you’re ready.”

  Along with clothing, Tracker had also brought me some girlie things, like fruity shampoo and conditioner, a pack of disposable pink razors, scented lotion, and strawberry lip gloss. I was especially grateful now for the razors, because if he hadn’t brought them, I wouldn’t have had a way to shave my legs and other areas.

  I quickly shed my clothes while his back was turned and settled onto the bed. I wished I had really long hair in that moment, so I could help cover my nakedness. I pulled my legs toward me so that my thighs blocked my torso from him.

  “O-okay. I’m ready.”

  He slowly turned, the anticipation on his face unmistakable. Had he been wondering all this time what I looked like naked? My face burned.

  He tsked. “You’re hiding. Come on now, let me see.”

  Heat scalded my body, from the top of my scalp clear to the tips of my toes. He stepped closer.

  I tensed, watching warily as he set his sketchbook down.

  “I lied,” he murmured, his gaze holding mine. “I need to touch you. Just briefly, to help you into the pose I want. Will you let me?”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. He smiled gently and leaned over the bed. My heart thundered wildly as he slipped his hand over my thigh just above my knee and gently drew it down. Heat spread from his hand into my leg, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and making me overly aware of his touch.

  “Relax, slave. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His gaze held mine as I slowly relaxed and let him pull my leg back. He reached for the other leg, moving it alongside the first one. He lined my thighs together, gently bent my legs and pressed them up toward my stomach, pushing me into a pose.

  “Perfect. Now lie back,” he urged. “Fluff your hair around your shoulders. Lean up on one arm and rest the other across your hip.”

  I did as he instructed, slowly relaxing under his guidance. I didn’t feel threatened or afraid anymore. I felt…

  “Gorgeous,” he murmured, reaching for his sketchpad and pencil. “Hold that pose. Don’t move.”

  For the first time in my life, I felt beautiful as I held the pose and let him draw me. He was all business,
his gaze sharp, his hand flying across the sketchpad as he drew me. His demeanor changed as he drew, his expression relaxing, the harshness leaving his features. Drawing was how he relieved his stress, how he dealt with his pain. What worked better for him, drawing or the physical release like sparring? Certainly not the violence he’d hinted at. Killing. I still refused to believe that. The man sitting back on the edge of the bed, his hand flying across his notepad with each stroke of the pencil, was a completely different man than the one I’d first met. I stared at his face, deciding he was more handsome when he was relaxed like this.

  My breath caught. Could he tell how attracted I was to him? My nipples puckered with awareness. Embarrassed heat flooded my cheeks. I stared at his face, but his expression never changed. If he noticed how overly aware of him I was, he didn’t show it. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or disappointed.

  Time passed. The arm I was leaning on started to ache.

  Just when I was about to ask if I could stretch, he rose. “All done.” He turned the sketchpad toward me. “What do you think?”

  I sat up, momentarily forgetting I was naked, and reached for the sketchbook.

  The woman in the drawing was beautiful, sexy…and didn’t look anything like me. I wasn’t beautiful, and I had no idea how to be sexy.

  “That’s…not me.” I handed it back to him. “I don’t look anything like that.”

  His brow furrowed. He studied the drawing, then glanced back at me, his gaze raking down my body. My face grew hot as I recalled I was still naked.

  Don’t shrink away, Jess. Be brave.

  I lifted my chin and met his gaze.

  “You don’t have any idea how sexy you are, do you?” The huskiness was back in his voice. “This is you.” He pointed to the drawing, holding it up again so that I could see it. I stared at the detailed strokes of a truly lovely young woman lounging back on the bed in a sexy, seductive pose. Was that really me? The drawing wasn’t crude. My thighs blocked my nether regions. But he’d drawn my breasts in intimate detail, down to my small, pert nipples that jutted out in obvious arousal. I wasn’t well endowed like the other woman he’d drawn, far less shapely, but he’d still captured my femaleness, the gentle roundness of my hips, the dip in my tummy, my flushed cheeks hinting at my obvious attraction to him. The image was quite stunning. Embarrassing.