Son of a bitch.
She grabbed the jagged shard and pressed, holding it in place—if she pulled it out, blood would gush—and rolled in agony.
Three stories above, someone screamed.
More debris followed, and more screams.
Still holding the shard, she scrambled out from the shrubbery, backed away from the building and looked up.
A stout man dangled off the roof, feet kicking, screaming wildly. She’d seen him two days ago, and earlier today, in the tasting room. Thank God for the Rolodex in her brain; she remembered all she had observed about him.
RODERICK BLAKE:
MALE, WHITE, 30–40 YO, BLOND HAIR, OVERWEIGHT, TOURIST GARB WORN BADLY. BRITISH ACCENT. GRIPED ABOUT PAYING THE TASTING FEE. PAID AND OVER-TASTED, PRIMARILY PINOT NOIR. LEERED AT HER AND THE FEMALE TOURIST, WHO HASTILY DEPARTED. LEFT IN A LEXUS, LOUDLY PROCLAIMING HIS INTENTION TO GO TO A GOOD WINERY.
Now he was hanging off the roof.
Guess he didn’t find a good winery.
She dialed the winery’s emergency number. As soon as Rita Grapplee picked up, Kellen said, “I’ve got a man dangling off the winery roof, back side of the building close to the cellar door.” The cellar door which I almost reached and thank God I stopped to check for the key or I would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A broken piece of terra-cotta tile piercing her hip was better than a six-pound roof tile slamming down on her cranium. She had enough trouble with her head... “I’m going to try to bring him down safely, but get the EMTs here ASAP.”
Rita gave a squawk that sounded like, “Whatnotrooffall?”
Kellen guessed they didn’t get emergencies like this very often. “Send help!” She hung up.
From above, she heard Roderick yell again. How much had he imbibed that he’d climbed onto the roof of a three-story building and almost fallen to his death?
The original estate on this site had been orchards surrounding an early twentieth-century farmhouse. A few towering cherry trees surrounded the now remodeled farmhouse and provided gracious shade for the well-tended yard. The trees still bore fruit, and workers now picked the fruit and loaded it into buckets strapped to their belts.
She ran into the trees, each step more and more crooked as the pain in her hip blossomed into agony. A twenty-foot spike ladder leaned against a tree; the picker was all the way up in the top branches. She grabbed the ladder and lifted it. Every muscle in her poor abused hip told her that was a mistake.
In the tree, the picker cursed at her.
“Thank you!” she yelled and headed back to the winery, dragging the long heavy wooden ladder behind her.
The winery building was three stories of classic Tuscan architecture, a jewel that glowed like ancient amber in the setting of Oregon’s long lush Willamette Valley. The front of the building faced west toward I-5 and welcomed wine tasters with a long winding drive bordered by tall thin evergreens, rows of grapes growing in purple clumps and a walled garden. On the first floor, in addition to the tasting room, was a special events center, a kitchen tended by an impatient chef and wine storage.
Guests fought to stay in the exorbitantly priced second-and third-story suites, lounge on the balconies, enjoy the cuisine and if they wished, take part in bicycling tours and unique-to-them wine tastings.
Things like a guy falling off the roof did not happen here—or at least, never had before.
Kellen took a second look at the splinter of tile protruding about an inch from her hip. It hurt like a dirty bitch and blood oozed around it, staining the shredded thread of her jeans. The sharp tip had hit bone and backed out a little, so it wasn’t scraping her with every movement. Folks, that’s all the good news for tonight.
Taking a fortifying breath, she lifted the end of the ladder and slammed it against the building close to one of the third-story balconies. The spike sank into the golden-colored stucco, knocking flakes and chunks down on her.
Max was not going to be happy about that.
He wasn’t going to be happy about any of this.
She hit the rungs hard, climbing fast.
She had to, right? She didn’t have forever to save this guy. She had a chunk of roof tile protruding from her hip, wiggling with every movement. Sooner or later, she was going to faint, and she didn’t fancy falling off the ladder eighteen feet up. She made it to the balcony and over the wide Italianate railing.
That was when the situation got hairy. The dumbass on the roof was five feet too far to the left to drop onto the balcony. He hung over nothing but thirty feet of air and if he let go, he faced a backbreaking splat landing onto Mother Earth.
Inside the exclusive guest bedroom behind the balcony and through the open screen door, she heard a woman shriek and a man shout. They’d seen her, and she knew whatever else happened, two unhappy guests would be making their complaints known.
Yeah. Bummer. She spoke through the screen. “Throw your pillows and comforter out on the balcony. We’re going to save a life here.” Looking up, she shouted, “Hey! Roderick! Move to your right!”
A moan of terror answered her.
“One hand at a time. You can do it.” Actually, she didn’t know if he could. He had a lot of body mass and didn’t look as if he had much upper strength. “Hand over hand,” she instructed in a calm, encouraging voice.
The idiot wailed and kicked his feet.
She put her hand to her hip and moaned—and climbed up on the top of the concrete railing. It was a foot wide; wide enough for her to stand with no problem—as long as she avoided looking down the three stories to the ground. That got her close enough to grab at him. She didn’t, though. She didn’t want to startle him. “Roderick, can you look at me? See how close I am to you? Come on, Roderick, a quick glance.”
Roderick glanced, his face a combination of blistering red effort and green-white terror.
“Hand over hand,” she said. “It’s Oregon. We have a lot of rain. That gutter will hold you. All you have to do is move a little bit.”
He looked up at the sky and hung, gasping. Then he shuffled his hands to the right in three quick movements.
“That’s great,” she said. He’d hardly moved at all. “When you get closer, I can guide you down to the balcony.”
“I’ll break my legs,” he yelled.
“The people inside the room are bringing out pillows and blankets. Aren’t you?” She blared the question toward the screen door in her Captain-Adams-in-command voice.
The screen door snapped open and a man in a white terry bathrobe stood there, looking annoyed. “Look,” he said.
“You look!” She pointed up.
Had he thought she was kidding? Apparently so, because as soon as he saw Roderick dangling there, he ran inside and came back hauling pillows, sheets, the comforter.
She switched her attention back to Roderick. “Rod, listen.”
“Roderick,” he snapped.
For a guy hanging by his fingertips, he was pain-in-the-ass arrogant.
“Roderick, we’ve got you a soft place to land. Come on, shuffle over a little more.” Because hand over hand was apparently too much to ask.
He shuffled.
She made approving sounds.
The bathrobe-clad woman in the room stepped out, looked up and shrieked, “He’s going to plunge to his death!”
Little Mary Sunshine, that one.
From below, Kellen became aware of a growing mutter, like the rumble of thunder from a faraway storm. “You’ve got an audience, Roderick,” she said. “You’ve got something to prove. You can do it.” She measured with her gaze. “You’ve got about three feet before you can drop onto the balcony.”
He shuffled a little more. “I’ll break my legs.”
“Maybe.” She figured this was the time to be blunt. “But it beats dying of a broken neck. That’s a thre
e-story drop below you. Come on! Move it!” She’d moved from Captain Adams to Army drill sergeant, balancing on the top of the broad balcony railing, braying out orders at an unseasoned recruit.
Roderick moved on her command. He shuffled, hung, shuffled, hung. Sweat stained his armpits.
She moved back to allow his flailing legs to get past her.
He got about a foot past her, and his hand slipped.
“He’s coming down, get out of the way,” she shouted at the people on the balcony.
They leaped back against the building.
He swung his legs.
His foot hit her outstretched hand.
Already overbalanced, she fell sideways onto the balcony. She landed on the comforter; agony slashed at her hip, and she blacked out. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she had heard a sickening crunch.
He’d made it to the balcony—barely.
Seconds later, she woke to Roderick’s screams. He had missed the pillows and the padding. When she looked, she saw blood and shattered white bone sticking out of one leg.
The man on the balcony, the one in the robe, leaned over the edge and heaved.
EMTs burst through the screen door and knelt beside Roderick.
Another man came out behind them.
MAXIMILIAN DI LUCA:
TALL, DARK, HANDSOME, ITALIAN-AMERICAN, BROAD-SHOULDERED FORMER FOOTBALL PLAYER WITH A SCOWL, WINERY OWNER. FORMER (PERHAPS FUTURE?) LOVER. SCOWLING, CLEARLY FURIOUS.
Max knelt beside her, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes. “Tell me the truth—how badly are you hurt?”
“I’m not dying,” she hastily assured him.
He closed his eyes, cradled her fingers against his chest, then opened his eyes and roared, “You couldn’t have called me directly? You called Rita instead? You couldn’t have waited for me to assist?”
Wow. For a moment, he looked as if he cared. “He was going to fall!”
“You’re bloody and you’ve got something sticking out of your hip. What the hell have you done?” Apparently it was a rhetorical question, because he yelled over the railing, “I need more EMTs up here!”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“So’s he, except for the compound fractures of his tibia!” Max put his hand toward the shard of roof tile sticking out of her side.
She flinched away. “Don’t! If you pull it out—”
“You’ll bleed to death. Yeah, I understand.”
Roderick must have gotten enough morphine in his system, because his screams quieted to the whining of the world’s largest mosquito.
Max gestured at the EMTs attending Roderick, and one rose, ready to attend Kellen.
Then, from the top of the spike ladder, at the outside edge of the balcony, a chirpy sunny childish voice said, “Mommy, that was awesome. You’re like Warrior Woman. That makes me Warrior Girl. I’m going to be Warrior Girl for Halloween. What are you going to be?”
RAE DI LUCA:
FEMALE, 7 YO, MIXED ITALIAN/NATIVE AMERICAN/ANGLO ANCESTRY. BLONDE, BROWN-EYED, TALL FOR HER AGE, FRONT TEETH TOO BIG FOR HER FACE, INTELLIGENT, RELENTLESSLY CHEERFUL, TALKS LOUDLY AND CONSTANTLY. PREFERRED APPAREL: PINK TUTUS, PINK TIGHTS, PINK T-SHIRTS WITH GLITTERY EMBOSSED WIDE-EYED OWLS, ANKLE-HIGH PINK FUZZY BOOTS. PREFERRED MENU: PEANUT BUTTER, CHEESE STICKS, YOGURT, ANYTHING COVERED IN BALSAMIC VINEGAR. HATES GOLDFISH CRACKERS.
Max stood and swiftly, efficiently grabbed their daughter off the top of the ladder. In his fierce father voice, he asked, “What have I told you about climbing trees and tall ladders? Haven’t I told you no?”
“Mommy did it!” Rae said.
Kellen intercepted a livid glare from Max and judged it a good time to pass out cold.
So she did.
Don’t miss What Doesn’t Kill Her by New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd, coming soon from HQN Books!
Copyright © 2018 by Christina Dodd
Photo credit: Marc von Borstel
CHRISTINA DODD
New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd writes “edge-of-the-seat suspense” (Iris Johansen) with “brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor that are pure Dodd” (Booklist). Her books have been called “scary, sexy, and smartly written” by Booklist, and much to her mother’s delight, Dodd was once a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. With more than fifteen million copies of her books in print, Dodd’s fans know that when they pick one up they’ve found, as Karen Robards writes, “an absolute thrill ride of a book!” Enter Christina’s worlds and join her mailing list for humor, book news and entertainment (yes, she’s the proud author with the infamous three-armed cover) at christinadodd.com.
ISBN-13: 9781488052323
Families and Other Enemies
Copyright © 2019 by Christina Dodd
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