Warrior Spirit. Cassie Miles

I don’t believe you’re a good person, either. You kidnapped me. You tied me up.”

      “Cooperate, Sierra.”

      “Let me go, Trevor.”

      “You remember my name. I like that.”

      As he came closer to the chair, his name wasn’t the only thing she remembered. They had been riding together, crushed together in the saddle, she’d felt the sheer power emanating from him. What woman wouldn’t be drawn to that?

      Trevor had to be one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen. Tall and long-legged, his body was in prime physical condition. His shiny black hair hung straight to his shoulders. And his eyes…oh my God, his eyes were an intriguing, piercing blue.

      She didn’t want to be attracted to him. He’d captured her, dragged her off against her will and tied her to a chair. “You’re a monster.”

      He reached behind the chair to place one of the water bottles on something she couldn’t see. A table? A tray? Then he unscrewed the cap of the other and held it near her mouth. “Take a few sips. It’ll help your headache.”

      “How do you know I have a headache?”

      “Dehydration. Come on, Sierra. Make it easy on yourself.”

      She licked her lips. The inside of her mouth tasted like cotton. Though it went against her stubborn grain to do anything he said, she wasn’t a fool. “Okay. I’ll drink.”

      He helped her sip from the bottle. The first cool taste was pure nectar. She wanted more.

      “Not too fast,” he cautioned. “Just a little at a time.”

      When he supported her head with his other hand, she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch. She’d seen Trevor smack down three men with a couple of blows. And he’d rendered her unconscious with a tap on the shoulder. But he held her so tenderly now.

      With a shake of her head, she derailed that train of thought. She’d have to be nuts to trust this man. At the moment, all she wanted was the water. She chugged half the contents of the bottle.

      “That’s better,” he said. “You’re comfortable, aren’t you?”

      “No,” she snapped. “I need to stretch. To move around.”

      “First we’ll have a talk.”

      She wiggled in the recliner, but there was really no point in fighting against the restraints. All she’d do was make herself weaker.

      The way to get out of here was to be smarter than he was. She tried a different tactic. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

      He reached down beneath the chair and held up a plastic container. “Bedpan.”

      Did he really think she’d allow him to pull down her panties? As she gazed along the length of her body, she realized that she wasn’t wearing her own clothing. She’d been dressed in cotton hospital scrubs. “You bastard!” In spite of her decision to stay calm, she jerked against the restraints. “You undressed me.”

      “This outfit is more comfortable,” he said. “And I’m all about making you comfortable, Sierra. So you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

      “Then you’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything.”

      “You think you’re tough.”

      “Damn straight. I’m from Brooklyn.”

      He gave her an altogether charming smile. This guy was really fine to look at. “Tell me about Brooklyn.” His tone was courteous and encouraging. “Tell me about when you were growing up.”

      “You don’t really want to know. You just want to get me talking, to loosen my tongue.”

      “That’s very perceptive,” he stated. “You’re a smart person, aren’t you?”

      She didn’t believe his compliment, couldn’t allow herself to believe one word that fell from his sexy mouth. “I’m not telling you squat.”

      In the blink of an eye, Trevor’s attitude changed. His lips curled in an angry sneer. His eyes were cold as blue ice. “You have no choice.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “You’re helpless, completely dependent on me.”

      “I’m not scared of you.”

      “You should be.”

      “Yeah, yeah.” It was taking all her willpower to keep up her tough facade. She had to think about something else, something outside this interrogation room.

      “You should be afraid,” Trevor repeated. His hand clamped hard around her throat. “The Militia are terrorists, murderers. If you know anything about them, give it up.”

      The pressure against her throat was just enough to make breathing difficult. She choked out the words. “I don’t know anything.”

      He released his grasp but stayed close to her. His gaze bored into her face. “Tell me about Lyle.”

      “He’s dead. There’s nothing to tell.”

      Without a word, Trevor reached behind the back of the chair. He held a pair of thick cotton socks, which he placed on her feet.

      “What are you doing?” she demanded.

      He was silent as he fitted gloves on her hands.

      “Stop it!” Panic crashed through her. What was going to happen? “Don’t touch me.”

      His hands were rough as he slipped a blindfold over her head. She couldn’t see anything. Her panic became terror. She was truly helpless.

      “You’ll tell me,” he growled. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

      “Whatever you say. Take the blindfold off. Please.”

      “Silence,” he said, “isn’t always golden.”

      She felt him place something else on her head. Earphones. He fastened them tightly with a chin strap. She heard nothing but an unpleasant static noise.

      She was blinded and deafened, unable to feel anything with her hands. It seemed as if she were floating in a terrifying space—endlessly falling and falling.

      TREVOR STEPPED AWAY from the chair and watched as she struggled. Maintaining the level of dispassion necessary for interrogation was difficult. Usually, he had no problem in turning off his emotions. Human compassion was not an option when dealing with an uncooperative subject.

      But he kept thinking of her name. Sierra. Beautiful Sierra. Tough Sierra. Most women—or men, for that matter—would have cracked when they realized they were helpless. But she had put up a valiant fight.

      Her struggling subsided, and he checked the silent monitor behind the interrogation chair. The restraint on her left wrist held a mechanism that measured her pulse. The beating of her heart returned to a level closer to normal. Deprived of sensory input, she was in a state of suspension.

      His technique was roughly based on the CIA model for coercive interrogation. First came arrest and detention. Taking away the clothing and any familiar objects was like stripping off armor. The subject became more vulnerable—more dependent upon the interrogator.

      When he questioned her, he alternated kindness and cruelty to throw her off balance. The subject should never know whether to expect a compliment or a slap in the face.

      The next step was where they were right now. Sensory deprivation. The socks and gloves eliminated the sense of touch. The hood and earphones cut off sight and hearing. Without sensory stimulus, the subject became highly disoriented.

      During Trevor’s counterintelligence training, he’d undergone most of these procedures himself. Though it was intensely confusing to lose the use of your senses, the worst part for him was confinement. He hated to be enclosed.

      In