whispered more to
himself, because he still couldn’t believe this. What sort of monster would do
this to someone else?
As her breaths became less jagged, her quiet sobs faded. He
went to work tucking his finger under the cloth at her neck and hacking through
the stiffened fabric, hardened by some resin-like substance. He couldn’t
imagine how she’d lived, because the strips were tight and constricted her
chest.
He sliced a line down one arm and then turned to the other.
From the side of his eye, he saw her free arm raise and something glinted. Out
of instinct, he reached up to deflect the wild swing and caught her wrist.
A blade clattered to the floor.
He glanced toward her face. Her eyes were wide open and
staring wildly back at him. They gleamed golden and sparkled ferociously.
Juste didn’t know if she had meant to kill him, but he
couldn’t take the chance. Not when he only had her partially freed. Moving his
right leg, he straddled her body, careful not to give her his weight, and
pressed her arm to the floor. “I’m here to help. Let me help you.”
She shook her head and said something in a language he
didn’t understand, something guttural but soft, sounding Arabic perhaps.
“I don’t understand you,” he said more loudly, but realized
shouting wouldn’t make her understand him any better. With his free hand, he
cupped her cheek, finding it soft and moist with tears. From what he could see
of her features, she was young … and hauntingly beautiful.
His breath caught as her gold-flecked gaze locked with his. “Let
me help you,” he repeated, then eased his hand from her wrist. He raised his
short blade to show it to her, and then climbed to the side and resumed slicing
the fabric.
This time he started talking, a monologue of nonsense, just
making sounds to soothe her as he worked. She had to be frightened out of her
mind. He could only imagine the horror she’d been through. And then he made
himself stop that line of thinking and start thinking like a cop. She was
wrapped like a mummy; her skin was olive and her eyes were shaped like almonds.
She might well have something to do with the exhibit, might have been involved
with the theft. Or she could be a witness. How she’d run afoul of the thieves .
. . Well, he wouldn’t know until he got her to the station.
At her collarbone, he stuck his fingers under the fabric to
lift it high enough to run the knife beneath it and was further surprised to
slide his fingers along naked skin. Juste pulled in a deep breath and shot
another glance at her face.
Her features were still, not a blush or a grimace crossing
her face. Perhaps she was too shocked to realize she’d be naked as the day
she’d been born by the time he was done. But what could he do? He wasn’t
leaving her in this death shroud—evidence or not, he was ridding her of the
wrappings.
Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the body he revealed
inch by inch was achingly lovely—slender, with skin the color of golden honey.
He tried not to think of what he uncovered, tried to keep his gaze busy with
what he was doing, and not lingering on her pretty breasts with their soft, tan
nipples. More breathtaking was her feminine mound, which was completely bare.
Her long silky legs were gently curved. Crusts of the resin, which had hardened
the wrapping, stuck to her skin but failed to detract from her beauty. From the
tip of her head to her slender toes, Juste had never seen a more perfectly
formed female.
The woman barely breathed, staring upward from her plywood
bed.
Realizing he’d studied her body a little too long, he
shrugged out of his jacket. “Wear this until I can get you out of here. I have
a blanket in my car.” He held out the coat.
But she didn’t move to take it. She laid there, her gaze
studying him. And then she opened her mouth. “Say … that … again,” she
said slowly.
Her words held no hint of an accent, as he would have
expected. Her voice was raspy, as
himself, because he still couldn’t believe this. What sort of monster would do
this to someone else?
As her breaths became less jagged, her quiet sobs faded. He
went to work tucking his finger under the cloth at her neck and hacking through
the stiffened fabric, hardened by some resin-like substance. He couldn’t
imagine how she’d lived, because the strips were tight and constricted her
chest.
He sliced a line down one arm and then turned to the other.
From the side of his eye, he saw her free arm raise and something glinted. Out
of instinct, he reached up to deflect the wild swing and caught her wrist.
A blade clattered to the floor.
He glanced toward her face. Her eyes were wide open and
staring wildly back at him. They gleamed golden and sparkled ferociously.
Juste didn’t know if she had meant to kill him, but he
couldn’t take the chance. Not when he only had her partially freed. Moving his
right leg, he straddled her body, careful not to give her his weight, and
pressed her arm to the floor. “I’m here to help. Let me help you.”
She shook her head and said something in a language he
didn’t understand, something guttural but soft, sounding Arabic perhaps.
“I don’t understand you,” he said more loudly, but realized
shouting wouldn’t make her understand him any better. With his free hand, he
cupped her cheek, finding it soft and moist with tears. From what he could see
of her features, she was young … and hauntingly beautiful.
His breath caught as her gold-flecked gaze locked with his. “Let
me help you,” he repeated, then eased his hand from her wrist. He raised his
short blade to show it to her, and then climbed to the side and resumed slicing
the fabric.
This time he started talking, a monologue of nonsense, just
making sounds to soothe her as he worked. She had to be frightened out of her
mind. He could only imagine the horror she’d been through. And then he made
himself stop that line of thinking and start thinking like a cop. She was
wrapped like a mummy; her skin was olive and her eyes were shaped like almonds.
She might well have something to do with the exhibit, might have been involved
with the theft. Or she could be a witness. How she’d run afoul of the thieves .
. . Well, he wouldn’t know until he got her to the station.
At her collarbone, he stuck his fingers under the fabric to
lift it high enough to run the knife beneath it and was further surprised to
slide his fingers along naked skin. Juste pulled in a deep breath and shot
another glance at her face.
Her features were still, not a blush or a grimace crossing
her face. Perhaps she was too shocked to realize she’d be naked as the day
she’d been born by the time he was done. But what could he do? He wasn’t
leaving her in this death shroud—evidence or not, he was ridding her of the
wrappings.
Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the body he revealed
inch by inch was achingly lovely—slender, with skin the color of golden honey.
He tried not to think of what he uncovered, tried to keep his gaze busy with
what he was doing, and not lingering on her pretty breasts with their soft, tan
nipples. More breathtaking was her feminine mound, which was completely bare.
Her long silky legs were gently curved. Crusts of the resin, which had hardened
the wrapping, stuck to her skin but failed to detract from her beauty. From the
tip of her head to her slender toes, Juste had never seen a more perfectly
formed female.
The woman barely breathed, staring upward from her plywood
bed.
Realizing he’d studied her body a little too long, he
shrugged out of his jacket. “Wear this until I can get you out of here. I have
a blanket in my car.” He held out the coat.
But she didn’t move to take it. She laid there, her gaze
studying him. And then she opened her mouth. “Say … that … again,” she
said slowly.
Her words held no hint of an accent, as he would have
expected. Her voice was raspy, as
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