Redemption by Sharon Cullen Page B

against the door. When he peeked in, she was curled in a ball, asleep.
    Sometimes sleep was the best thing, unless of course the demons you were trying to escape invaded your dreams. Then sleep could become a prison, trapping you in your nightmares, forcing you to relive things you’d just as soon forget. He walked on, entered the guest room, and while he wrestled with his decision not to call the police, once again checked the streets for any sign of the car that had followed them.
    What would he have told the cops if he’d called? Hope’s father had been killed but they couldn’t find the body? She’d witnessed the murder but fled the scene without calling the police? She’d disappeared for three days, claiming to have lost her memory?
    His actions on autopilot, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed in his boxers. He stared at the ceiling as he lay on his back, hands behind his head. Outside, a car cruised past but traveled on. Inside, the furnace kicked on and somewhere in the room a clock ticked by the seconds. He wondered if Hope was sleeping soundly. If, even in sleep, she grieved.
    Hope.
    Funny thing about life was you never knew what was coming next. One day you’re boarding a plane to Peru to kick some terrorist ass, the next you’re imprisoned, tortured, near death. One day you’re saying your final goodbyes to a life that had turned on you, the next you’re caring for a woman who crashed into your yard bringing…hope.
    Yeah, funny how things could change in the blink of an eye. He bet Hope never imagined her life would irrevocably change as she walked into her father’s home for Christmas. Probably never imagined running for her life to a man who’d given up on life.
    Irony didn’t even begin to describe it.
    His lids drooped, and as he drifted off to sleep, chocolate-colored eyes looked into his. Serious, yet with a spark of humor. Rich, dark hair surrounded a round face. There were crinkles in the corners of her eyes, indicating that at one time she used to laugh often.
    Angelina. Her name meant angel. And she was that. At least to him. His angel surrounded by hell. “¿Como esta?” she whispered in her native tongue.
    He scooted to a sitting position, trying to hide his wince of pain. “Bien.” It was their ritual. She would ask how he was, he would reply in the positive even though they both knew he was full of shit.
    Little did she know—or maybe she did know—that his day revolved around her visits. He would eagerly await the rancid meals she served him. And she seemed to enjoy their too-brief visits as well.
    Setting the dented tray at his feet, she threw a worried glance over her shoulder before touching his uninjured leg. He closed his eyes at the feel of a healing touch, a touch that didn’t bring pain and humiliation. “¿Te hizo dańo?” Did he hurt you?
    “No.” They both knew it was a lie, just as they both knew there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about his injuries except give what comfort she could.
    Concern shadowed her dark eyes. He was already half in love with her even though they spent mere minutes a day in each other’s presence.
    “Ah, mi soldado valiente.” She cupped his cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and smelled of the food she’d been cooking.
    Brave soldier? He didn’t think so. He was anything but brave, breaking under the terrorists’ interrogation tactics, screaming when the pain became intolerable. No, he was anything but brave. But if she wanted to believe that, he’d let her. He turned his face into her palm and kissed her hand.
    She pulled away in surprise, cradling her hand close to her breast. Tears filled her eyes. “Gracias.”
    Ah, but he should be the one thanking her. For just a few minutes each day, she made him feel human, made him forget the pain, the humiliation, the terror. “No, Angelina, thank you.” He waved his hand in the air, motioning her toward the door. He didn’t want her to go, but his fear of being