The shriek of the bolt being drawn in the cell block door shattered the sultry afternoon silence.
Lilah jerked her head up. For a second, she remained frozen. Then she scrambled upright, scooted to the far edge of the thin mat that served as her bed and pressed herself back against the rough concrete wall. She braced herself as the door at the end of the corridor crashed open.
Against a dim spill of light, a pair of jail guards staggered into sight. A man hung limply between them. His head lolled. His feet trailed in the dust. As the guards dragged him forward, Lilah stared at tanned, muscular arms, the hard biceps stretching the sleeves of a faded olive T-shirt. At inky hair that gleamed even in the murky illumination. At the trickle of blood beading at the edge of a determined mouth.
With a long-suffering grunt, the jailers hoisted their burden a little higher. The prisonerâs head tilted sideways, allowing her a quick view of a straight blade of a nose and the strong clean line of a cheekbone.
All of which abruptly seemed familiar.
Her heart leapt even as her mind reeled. No. It canât be. What would the love of her reckless youth, the masculine yardstick against whom sheâd once measured all others, the man who at times still invaded her sleep and hijacked her dreamsâwhat would he be doing here, in the farthest reaches of the Caribbean, in remote San Timoteo, at one of El Presidenteâs private jails?
Her mind mustâve snapped. It was the only explanation that made sense, Lilah decided. Sheâd tried to be brave, to hold on and be strong, but finally sheâd lost it. Whatâs worse, she was hallucinating.
And yetâ¦.
The guards dumped the newcomer onto the adjoining cellâs concrete floor. One of them lingered long enough to give their newest captive a vicious kick to the ribs, then exited, slamming first the cell door and then the corridor door behind him.
Every nerve in Lilahâs body screamed for action. Yet the harsh lessons of the past month had reinforced her innate sense of caution. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she forced herself to stay where she was, to wait for the sounds of the bolt slamming home and her captorsâ footsteps receding. Then, unable to remain still another instant, she launched herself off the bed and across the cell.
She reached the unyielding metal bars, her gaze locked on her fellow prisonerâs face as she slid to her knees. Her pulse thrummed wildly in her ears as she studied the straight eyebrows, the strong chin and the killer cheekbones.
This close, there could be no doubt. The years may have added width to his shoulders, heft to his muscles, a few character lines to his handsome face, but it was him.
Dominic Devlin Steele.
Stunned, she tried to think. What on earth could he be doing here? Was it sheer coincidence? An incredible twist of fate?
That hardly seemed probable. Yet the only other explanation was that he was here deliberately, and the only person likely to orchestrate that would be her grandmother. Try as she might, Lilah couldnât imagine a world where Abigail Anson Clarke Cantrell Trayburne Sommersâs path would cross Dominic Steeleâs.
Much less why heâd agree to put himself in harmâs way for her.
Then she realized none of it mattered. After a month of fear, loneliness and growing desperation, it was simply wonderful to see a familiar face. Even his.
Especially his.
She reached through the bars. âDominic? Itâs me. Lilah. Lilah Cantrell.â Fingers trembling, she touched her hand to his cheek.
On some marginal level, she registered that his skin was reassuringly warm. That the faint prickle of his beard against her palm tickled. And that nearly a decade had done nothing to dim the hot little thrill of pleasure that touching him brought her.
But mostly her focus was all on the fact that he was far, far too still. âI canât believe itâs really you. That youâre here, of all places. The thing is, you need to wake up. Wake up and talk to me. Or at least stop being so still. Please?â
He didnât stir. Biting her bottom lip, she tried to decide what to do now, only to have panic flood her when she realized she didnât have a clue. Her fright gave birth to a lump in her throat and the next thing she knew, she had to press her lips together to muffle a sudden sob.
Her weakness shamed her. So what if seeing someoneâanythingâfamiliar emphasized how demoralizing the past monthâs incarceration had been? So what if sheâd begun to lose hope that sheâd ever see home again? Or that, as hard as sheâd tried to convince herself it didnât matter, sheâd started to wonder whether sheâd even be missed?