Unfortunately, the one who was most likely to get hurt should the whole thing go sideways was the woman he was hoping to help. Still, he had to try.

He knew his dick wasn’t a magic wand, and he realized there was a selfish element to this—if it went the way he hoped it would. But he and Laura had a connection. He knew she felt it every bit as much as he did.

What was it Nate had said?

A woman who’s been hurt like she was hurt needs a lot of time and love to heal.

Javier would be leaving in nine days, so there wasn’t much time. But no man on earth cared about her the way he did. He wanted to give her this chance.

If he opened the door, would she trust him enough to walk through it?

* * *

JAVIER GOT BACK to the flat, relieved Childers, and went looking for Laura. He found her still in her office, documents from the leaked FBI file spread out on her desk, a troubled look on her face. “How’s it going?”

“It’s not.” She tossed down the document she’d been reading and motioned to the hundreds of pages before her. “I talked to Ali’s parents and his uncle. I even called two of his instructors. They still insist he’s innocent. They can’t think of anyone he might have met or anything that might have happened to radicalize him. When I listen to them, he sounds like a great kid. Then I look at the file the FBI compiled on his online activity . . . I went to some of the websites. It’s terrible—films of people being killed, murdered children, decapitated bodies.”

Javier knew what those sites carried, hate and violence turned into a kind of pornography. “I wish you hadn’t. You didn’t need to see that.”

She rubbed her temple, the telltale sign she had a headache. “What makes a kid turn away from studying accounting to launch a career as a terrorist?”

“If I had the answer to that, I’d have the corner office at the Pentagon. Why don’t you take a break and let the FBI and the Marshal Service do their jobs?”

“We know at least one other person has to be involved. That person must be to blame for—”

“Or maybe Ali himself is to blame.” He walked over to her and began to massage her shoulders. “This isn’t good for you. You need to let this go, at least for a while. Your muscles are tight again.”

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes drifting shut as he gently kneaded her upper trapezius muscles with his fingertips. “Mmm.”

He saw his first chance to improvise. “You know what you need? A massage. It would help you relax, loosen up your muscles, ease that headache.”

She smiled. “That sounds perfect, but somehow I don’t think Zach will let me visit a massage therapist.”

“A massage therapist? Hey, I am perfectly capable of giving a good massage. It was part of the curriculum for my degree—anatomy, therapeutic modalities, and shit.”

Of course, that had been a lifetime ago.

She opened her eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“Put yourself in my hands, bella. You won’t regret it.”

And Operation Laura was off the ground.

* * *

LAURA LAY FACEDOWN on a blanket on her living room floor in front of the fireplace, naked apart from the sheet she’d pulled up to her hips. The blinds had been drawn to give the room a dark, cozy feel. A mix from Javier’s iPod played quietly in the background—soft Spanish classical guitar music. It was almost like being in a spa, except that she’d never felt this combination of anxiety and anticipation at a spa.

She felt strangely self-conscious. Before her abduction, she’d never been body shy, never felt the need to cover herself. Now it was her natural instinct to shield her naked body, to protect the part of her that was most vulnerable.

But this was Javier. They’d been lovers, and she knew she had nothing to fear from him. Despite her anxiety, she longed to feel his hands on her again, her pulse picking up at the very idea.

It’s just a massage.

Yes, it was. But it had been a long time since Laura had wanted a man to touch her, even in a nonsexual way. And if this massage turned erotic?

Some part of her hoped it wouldn’t—and prayed it would.

Javier knelt beside her wearing only his running pants, a bottle of sweet almond oil he’d bought in his hands. He opened it and poured some into his cupped palm, the soft scent filling her head. “I’m going to start with your back and shoulders. Let me know if the pressure is too much for you.”

The idea that she was about to get a massage from an elite military operator made her smile. She wanted to make some joke about him giving massages to his fellow SEALs. Then big, warm hands settled in the middle of her back, sliding slowly upward, unleashing delicious sensations. And her thoughts unraveled on a slow sigh.

With deep, slow strokes, he moved his hands up to her shoulders, then down to her lower back, which was surprisingly sore. He zeroed in on the place where it hurt and pressed against it with his thumbs in deep, firm circles. “You’re really tight here. It comes from sitting at that damned desk all the time. How is this pressure?”

She wanted to speak out in defense of her desk, but she could barely answer his question. “Good.”

His hands were magic. That was the only explanation. As they worked over her back, they found sore spots she didn’t know she had—the base of her spine, between her shoulder blades, an area on her right shoulder where she’d hit the ground the night of the shooting—then teased those sore spots away with gentle pressure.

She began to drift, anxiety and anticipation slipping away, yielding to a feeling of drowsy bliss, her sense of place and time fading, her mind aware only of Javier’s soothing touch.

He massaged her arms to her fingertips, earning a whimper when his fingers found the knotted muscles in her forearms—the result of typing all the time. He moved on to her legs, rucking up the sheet to expose her upper thighs, then massaging her ankles and feet with his thumbs. And she was in paradise.

* * *

JAVIER BENT DOWN, kissed Laura’s temple. “Time to turn over, bella.”

He watched as she turned onto her back, his gaze taking in the sight of her—her long, silky hair, her creamy smooth skin, the fullness of her breasts, the sweet spot where her narrow waist met the curves of her hips. He’d known that touching her like this would turn him on, but what he hadn’t expected was the rush of tenderness.

She settled onto her back, her white-blond hair fanned out around her head, her eyes closed. The sheet had slipped off, but she didn’t seem to care, whatever shyness she’d felt before having melted away.

He lifted her head into his hands, smoothed silken strands of hair away from her face, and began to explore the muscles of her neck with his fingertips. “Just let the full weight of your head rest in my hands.”

She did as he asked, making a little “mmm” sound as he began to work her tight upper trap muscles with his fingers. “You’re so good at this.”

“Thanks.”

He turned her head slightly to one side and then the other, stretching muscles that had knotted up under stress, his gaze falling on her throat. Something twisted in his gut to think that Al-Nassar had threatened daily to decapitate her. His fingers caressed that sensitive skin, and he found himself wanting to feel her pulse against his lips.

He’d done this to help her feel comfortable with being touched, to prove to her that her body was a safe place to be. But while she grew steadily more relaxed, he became more aware of the suffering she’d endured, the true horror of it becoming visceral for him in a way it hadn’t been before. It was bad enough to read about it in the paper or hear her speak about it, but to see proof of it . . .

He’d seen her stretch marks last night. What he hadn’t seen were the other marks her ordeal had left on her body—faint lines on her back that could only have come from being beaten repeatedly with a strap of some kind.

He knew he couldn’t take away the pain she’d suffered or erase the memories she carried. They would be with her for the rest of her life, just like his memories of Krasinski’s death and the medevac crash would always be with him. Still, he’d found himself trying to soothe away those scars, to wipe away her suffering.

Then he’d remembered a story Mamá Andreína had told him of old Taino healers, men and women who had the ability to heal others by taking the pain and suffering of the sick into their own bodies and overcoming it. Well, Javier was no healer. He killed for a living. But in a way, that was what he’d been trying to do, even if he hadn’t realized it until now.

Maybe that explained why his chest had gone tight. Or maybe seeing the cruelty of what Al-Nassar had done to her written on her skin was more than he’d been prepared to take on. Or maybe . . .

He was in love with her.

¡Anda pal carajo! Holy shit!

The realization hit him with the force of a fist, unleashing a rush of adrenaline. Even as he tried to deny it, he realized it was true.

He was in love with her.

His hands froze for a moment, the realization transforming the act of touching her into something . . . sacred. It seemed amazing to him that she should trust him, that he should be here with her now, her precious body in his care. Pulse pounding in his veins, he found his rhythm again, moving slowly over her skin, careful to avoid her breasts, uncertain how she’d feel about being touched so intimately.

By the time he finished, she was sound asleep, her face relaxed, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even. He drew up the sheet and draped the throw from the sofa over her to keep her warm. Then, with nothing else he’d rather do, he stretched out beside her and watched her sleep.