No Limits by Alison Kent Read Free Book Online Page A

still see the glare of the lights, the ripple of water. “This place isn’t good for much but camping out, though you’ve probably figured that out on your own.”
    She nodded, repeated, “Who are you? And how do you know who I am?”
    He sat back on his heels, and she noticed for the first time that his hair was pulled back into a low tail at his nape. She reached up to remove the cap she wore from her head. It had kept her hair out of her eyes while she’d scrubbed the bayou’s mud out of her clothes.
    But now it only made her feel ugly, out of her element. Oh, hell. Who was she kidding?
    She wore no makeup, and nothing but the waders she’d found and her bra. Even her panties were hanging with the rest of her things on lawn chairs she’d placed to catch the breeze from upstairs windows missing their glass.
    The chairs were far enough inside the rooms not to be visible to anyone outside looking up, and the broken windows wouldn’t draw attention the way open ones would. Oh, good. She was thinking like a woman on the lam—a far cry from embracing the limelight.
    And look where that had got her, she mused, then shuddered, wrapped her arms over her middle, the movement tugging at the tape serving as a bandage on her arm; she sucked back a breath in response.
    “My name is Simon Baptiste. I know who you are because your face is on a billboard I can see from my patio.” He took hold of her forearm and peeled the tape back, watched her face as she grimaced. “And if you don’t get this stitched up, you’re going to have a battle scar to put my dozen to shame.”
    “You have battle scars?” she asked, knowing he was right, knowing, too, that at this moment in time a scar was the least of her worries. That’s why they made long sleeves.
    “More than a few.” He pushed up to his feet, offered her his hand, and helped her up. The waders squeaked and crinkled as she moved. “What happened to your clothes?”
    “I washed them out. They were full of leaves and mud and squirmy things.”
    He offered her a kind smile. “I’m guessing you don’t have others.”
    “I do. In the trunk of my car.” Where they weren’t doing anyone but the fish any good.
    “Let me grab my gear. I’ve got soap and towels, and a pair of boxers I can donate to the cause.”
    “How about a T-shirt to go with the shorts?” The bra covered her, but it was still a bra
    —and the one thing she still needed to wash. “At least until my shirt dries.”
    “That I can do,” he said, heading for the door.
    “And coffee? I know it’s asking a lot, but I am beyond exhausted.”
    “I hear sleep’s good for that.” His eyes flashed, but not with his smile as much as with the fire to right a grave wrong.
    “You try closing your eyes when you see nothing but water ready to swallow you whole like some big gulping mouth.” Not to mention headlights flying at you like bullets, or the grille of the truck they belong to grinning like the devil rising from hell. Even worse was seeing it all with her eyes wide open, and feeling the impact in every one of her bones hours later. She’d lived a life of luxury, and Pilates or not, had no idea she could hurt this bad.
    “I brought food for a week—”
    “Food for one. I only need coffee.” Even that was imposing, but she honestly couldn’t find it in her to care. As long as he was one of the good guys and could get her out of this nightmare and back to New York…
    “For one, yeah. But there are groceries to be had down here in the bayou, chère.” He pull ed open the door. “Let me unload the goods, get the generator going, and then you can tell me how the heiress to the Ferrer fortune wound up ass over end in the swamp.”

Nine
    B y the time his guest returned, freshly showered and shampooed and dressed in his things, Simon had thrown together a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, and toast. He didn’t immediately turn around and greet her but focused on piling the food on paper