Chapter Twenty Seven
“Where were you when Taylor came in?”
Sara looked over at the back of the ambulance, her impatience with Detective Fallon growing. She understood the man needed to do his job, and quickly, but she needed to be with Taylor. “Against the far wall. I couldn’t see around Patrick, though.”
Patrick Reilly. He hadn’t said much beyond the occasional grunt or hiss of pain. He might never say anything. She might never find out if Patrick was behind the mysterious hang up calls she’d received or the unwelcome visits to her house. They may never confirm he was in Portland on Tony’s orders. But the damage he’d done was enough, she hoped, to keep him in prison for a while, and send a message right back to Tony — Taylor was off-limits.
Though if Tony was stupid enough to think sending someone across the country to intimidate Taylor into taking on whatever job he had for him, maybe they weren’t in the clear.
“Ms. Andrews?”
She blinked and pulled her attention back to the interview. “I’m sorry, did you ask a question?”
Fallon gave her a patient smile. “So they fought. How did Taylor get shot?”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Taylor had his elbow up and aimed at Patrick’s face. I didn’t have a clear look at how it happened. Taylor stumbled backward, and then they started fighting again.”
“Until Taylor managed to lay on him.”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting maneuver.” Fallon closed his notebook and tucked it away inside his jacket. “That’s all for now. I’ll have one of the officers take you to the hospital to get your hand looked at.” One of the paramedics had wrapped it loosely and given her an ice pack, but it had throbbed its way to the point of numbness, the pains migrating up her arm.
She glanced at the ambulance again. “Do you think they’ll let me ride in the back?”
Fallon followed her gaze, then jerked his head toward the ambulance. “We can always ask.”
The parking lot was littered with patrol cars and gawkers, building tenants standing around with their cell phones out. Some tried to take surreptitious photos as Sara and the detective crossed the lot to the paramedics preparing Taylor for transport. She understood how car wreck victims felt now — exposed and somehow embarrassed and ashamed.
She moved to Taylor’s side while Fallon spoke with one of the medics. “Hey.”
He reached for her, and she met him halfway, the familiar warmth of his hand curving around hers draining the last of her fear. They’d made it. Together. He had cotton wadding packed onto his shoulder and a line had dug itself between his brows, but he was alive and home. “You’re okay?”
She shrugged. “Mostly. I’ll have bruises and I’m not sure about my hand.” She inched closer. “It’s not like it was with Sam,” she said quietly. Sam had broken her down and dug a hole for the bone-deep terror to burrow into well before he’d pushed through the door of her apartment and held a knife to her throat. She didn’t know how to explain that Patrick was different. He was bigger and deadlier than Sam, all cool efficiency and ruthlessness. But therapy, self-defense classes, and months of learning to trust Taylor had given her a solid foundation to stand on. With Sam, she’d felt horribly alone. With Patrick, she hadn’t yet lost the confidence she could get away when Taylor burst through the door.
“If it hadn’t—”
She placed a finger over his lips. “Don’t. I don’t want to play the ‘what if’ game. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come in when you did. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I’d made it out the back door. Because if I start thinking about all the ‘what ifs,’ I will fall apart.” And she couldn’t right then. Later, when it was the two of them and they’d assessed the damage, she could, and likely would.
“Ma’am? We need to get him inside.” One of the paramedics, the blond one, took up position on the other side of the gurney. She stepped back, the medics lifting the gurney and sliding it inside the ambulance. One jumped down and helped her climb inside, and she picked up Taylor’s hand, the two of them quiet as the doors closed and the ambulance rolled out of the parking lot.
The hospital wasn’t as chaotic as TV shows made it appear. Taylor was rolled into a room in the ER while she was lead to a curtained off area. She sat on the edge of the bed, struggling against the dueling temptations to go stand outside Taylor’s room or lie down on the bed and sleep for a week.
Metal rattled as the curtain was drawn aside, a scrub-clad woman standing in the opening. “Sara Andrews?”
She yawned. “That’s me.”
The woman gave her a small, kind smile. “Adrenaline crash. Let’s get you checked out so you can get some sleep.” She rolled a stool over and sat, reaching for Sara’s wrapped hand. “What happened?”
Pain rushed through her fingers as the bandage came off. “He slammed the butt of the gun into my knuckles, and every time I tried to pull free, he’d knock my hand into the wall.”
Much like Taylor had done the day she’d punched the wall, the woman ran cool, gentle fingers over her hand, manipulating it and asking her to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten. A few minutes later, she was walking down the hall to x-ray.
“Hairline fracture to your wrist and your middle finger.” The woman, who Sara decided must be a doctor, motioned for another scrub-wearing woman to come forward. “Kath will get you fixed up. Cast will come off in about six weeks as long as the bones heal right.”
Sara yawned again. “Fine.” She just wanted to get out of there and find Taylor.
* * *
He woke in the dark. A mechanical-sounding voice squawked in the distance, and the blankets felt inconsequential on his skin. He recognized this place. Not this one in particular, but what it was. A hospital room.
Someone was holding his hand. A warm, soft weight covered it, spreading out along his right forearm. Lifting his head from the pillow was a struggle, one he fought with at the sight of brown hair spread over worn and faded blue. Sara. His hand twitched, aching to run through those soft locks.
She jerked, breath wuffling softly, and her head came up. Big brown eyes blinked and squinted. Yellow and purple marred her skin in a sunburst of anger, spreading out from a small cut on her left temple. “Taylor?” Another blink, and her eyes widened, the sleep haze clearing away. She was out of the chair and next to his head in a blur of movement. “You’re awake,” she whispered, her hand trembling as it stroked through his hair. “You’re awake.” Warm lips pressed to his forehead, followed by hot liquid hitting his skin. Above him, she sniffled. Crying. A fragment of memory came out of nowhere, tears streaking down Sara’s face as she huddled next to a wall, her hand swollen to twice its size.
He’d been shot. By Patrick.
Fury surged. He’d done everything he could think of to protect her and she still hadn’t been safe. Had Tony seen through his lie?
“Taylor?” He glanced up to see her wiping away tears. “I’ve been worried about you.” She twisted around and located the chair, dragging it closer to the bed. She sat, clasping his hand, and he zeroed in on the cast on her right hand. It went halfway up her forearm and extended around her two middle fingers, the tips of them barely visible above the plaster.
“He broke your hand?”
“Fractured my wrist and middle finger. I have to wear this for six weeks.”
Guilt slid over the shame, a thick, oily black. “I’m sorry.” Christ, was he sorry. She’d had to relive her nightmare because of him.
“Sorry for what? You didn’t break my hand. Patrick did.”
Taylor fumbled with the buttons on the side of the bed and finally found the one that raised it into a sitting position. “Which never should have happened. We never should have happened. You would have been safer without me in your life.”
“Shut up.” She shot out of her chair and leaned in, got right in his face. “Shut up. It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself fo
r someone else’s crazy.”
“Sara—”
“I mean it. You want to tell me you want to take back the last few months? Erase it?” He glared at her. “Fuck that. Everything changed in that hotel room that night. And I don’t regret a minute of it.”
It struck him as she said it, the truth of it. That night of chastity, trapped in a hotel room with a woman he barely knew, one who wouldn’t let her fear make her weak, had been the catalyst. Tony could wreak as much havoc as he wanted with their lives. The bottom line hadn’t changed. Sara was his, and his alone.
But he wouldn’t leave her blind to the coming dangers. “The case against Tony isn’t as strong as they want. It could be months or years before it makes it to trial. He may send someone to replace Patrick.”
Fear flickered over her face, chased away by determination, her eyes snapping with it. “Then let him. He’s not going to run me off.”
He shut his eyes. “He’s not.”
“No. He can try, but he’ll fail. Miserably.”
He opened his eyes; her face was inches from his. “Have I told you lately you’re amazing?”
Her gaze flitted to his mouth and back. “Not lately. Maybe you should remind me.” Her lips sealed to his, and the heat of the kiss healed something inside him modern medicine couldn’t.
* * *
“I can walk, you know.” He felt like a ninety pound weakling, but he was able to put one foot in front of the other, and he’d continue to do so as long as there was breath in his lungs.
“And? This is my caring face.” Sara pointed to her perfectly bland expression. “Get in the chair. Or I’ll track down someone down who can wrestle you into it.”
The doctor had cleared him to go home, so he was perched on the side of the bed, dressed in his own clothes and trying to convince Sara he could walk out of the hospital under his own power. She wasn’t going for it. “Your choice is me or a nurse.”
Grumbling, he eased himself into the chair, and it rolled forward as soon as his ass touched the seat. “In a hurry?”
“Shut up,” she muttered. “The sooner you get home, the better.”
He wasn’t about to argue. They hurried through the halls and out the main entrance, and she held the chair steady as he hefted himself up and into the passenger seat of her car.
It took him a while to figure out she was taking him back to her house, rather than to his apartment. Not that he was complaining. It guaranteed he’d be with her.
The trip from the front door to her bedroom stretched on, and he almost tripped over his own feet to get to the bed. He’d spent who knows how many hours sleeping off the anesthesia, stayed the night in the hospital, and her bed looked like heaven incarnate.
He winced and hissed out a breath as he tried to pull his shirt off, fiery jabs of pain bolting from his shoulder down his arm.
“Need some help?” Sara stepped between his legs, her hands skimming over his chest to the hem of his sweatshirt. Gripping it tightly, she worked it up and over his head. “Lie down, Taylor,” she said quietly. “You should rest.”
He shifted until he was able to lie down, smiling when her nimble fingers went to the fly on his jeans. “Impatient?”
“Oh, hush. You heard the doctor. You’re not supposed to exert yourself.” The stiff fabric got caught around his hips, and he lifted them so she could drag them down.
He wasn’t about to argue. He ached all over, a combination of his body dealing with the sudden invasion of the bullet and having lain around for too long. “You’re staying, right?”
Her kiss was a tease, the barest hint of pressure on his mouth. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
True to her word, Sara was propped up against the headboard, the e-reader he’d given her clasped in her good hand, when he woke several hours later. The covers were over her legs, her upper body obscured by one of his sweatshirts, and a heady, possessive spike of love scored his gut. His. Forever his. He was going to make sure of it.
His hand crept under the sheet, searching for her leg. When he came into contact with bare skin, he grinned. Stroking up, higher, higher, his grin widened as her hand came down on top of his. “Friskiness isn’t good for your recovery, bud.” She glanced down at him and lifted a brow.
“I think I’m a better judge of that. C’mere. And as much as I love seeing you in my clothes, lose the sweatshirt.”
She set the e-reader on the bedside table, and he remembered he’d intended to go back and get the tables she’d had her eye on at the furniture store. As soon as he could walk for more than five minutes at a time, he was going. He’d surprise her.
“The sweatshirt’s staying on.” She slid down and curled into his side, holding herself stiff.
“What is it you always tell me? I’m not fragile? I’m fine, Sara.”
He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, waiting as she relaxed against him, the weight of her head on his shoulder a welcome one. “How was your trip home?”
“Not as productive as I wanted.” He told her about the meeting with Tony. “Agent Nance wanted me to wait to tell Tony no until they had a chance to go through the recording. I’ll call him in the morning.”
She glided her fingers along his abdomen. “Detective Fallon called. They’re charging Patrick with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.” She snuggled closer. “I talked to your mom, too.”
He stilled.
Sara kept talking, oblivious. “She was very concerned. Wanted to rush right out here to take care of you. I told her if she did that, I wouldn’t have anything to do. She mumbled something about treating her baby right and hung up.” Her smile carried more than a hint of mischief. “So? Am I treating her baby right?”
“Getting warmer.” He nudged her closer, lifting his head to capture her mouth. He’d missed this, missed the taste of her, missed the warmth and tantalizing combination of soft and firm.
He pulled back. His stomach was growling at him. He ignored it. He wanted to talk to her first. He had a question to ask her.
Questions. Plural.
He wound a lock of hair around his finger, tugged. “Ever thought of having kids?”
Her head popped up, expression guarded. “Yes…”
The corners of his lips kicked up. “You remember I told you I don’t care much for labels?” Her head bobbed up and down. “I think I’ve found a few I’d be good with.”
He saw the instant she started to pick up on it, the faint gleam piercing through the wariness. “Oh? Which ones might those be?”
His gaze traced over her face. Had he really thought she’d be better off without him? There was no way he was better off without her. Her smile was puzzled. “Taylor? You going to answer the question?”
“Got distracted,” he murmured. “How about husband, father, yours?”
Her breath hitched, and she sat up completely, blankets pooling at her waist. Her cheeks paled and her eyes went wide with shock. “I think you should probably spell that out. Use small words so I can understand you, because I don’t think my brain’s working quite right.”
He worked a hand under the hem of the sweatshirt. The skin of her belly was smooth and hot to the touch. “I want to marry you, Sara. Have children with you. Spend the rest of my life sneaking up on you.”
Tears welled and wobbled, spilling onto her flushed cheeks, and she rubbed them away. “I never figured you for a traditionalist.”
“Neither did I. Come back?” He lifted an arm, and she melted down, stretched out along his side. She was a beautiful fit. Made for him. “Yeah. Traditionalist. Right down to the ring.”
“No diamonds,” she said immediately. “Or gold. Not a fan of either.”
He chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I can pick out a suitable ring.” His stomach rumbled. “Probably ought to get up, get some food.”
She sat up and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something. What do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
; She slid out from under the covers and snagged a pair of yoga pants lying across the foot of the bed and dragged them on. “Give me, oh, fifteen minutes?” She darted around, kissed his cheek, and hurried out of the bedroom.
She was back about ten minutes later balancing two plates between her good hand and her broken one, and she set them on the bedside table while he worked himself into a sitting position. She handed him one and left the other on the table, disappearing down the hall once more. He dug a fork into the mound of scrambled eggs, burning his tongue on the first bite.
“Done to your satisfaction?” She walked in and handed him a glass of water, her own filled with something fizzy and golden.
He jerked his head at the glass. “What’s that?”
Sara flushed. “Sparkling cider. It’s one of my comfort things. I drank a ton of this stuff as a kid.”
He held out a hand for the glass, and she gave it to him. The bubbles zipped over his tongue. Swallowing, he gave her back the glass, and picked up his own. “So why do I only get water?”
Her laugh had him smiling, and she took his glass and retreated from the room. She came back a minute later, carrying the bottle and his now empty glass. After pouring him a generous serving, she placed the bottle on the floor and climbed onto the bed, folding her legs into a lotus position and taking the plate he handed her. He followed her gaze to his shoulder, and the bandage over his wound. When he glanced at her face, he was surprised to find her frowning. “What?”
“It’s so dumb, but I’m mad the bullet went through your shoulder. It ruined your tattoo.” She grinned at his snort. “What? You know that’s how this whole thing started. I couldn’t stop thinking about the damn thing.”
“I knew it. You just want me for my body.”
Her laughter rang in his ears. “Well, duh.” She lifted a forkful of egg. “I guess that means my labels would be wife, mother, yours?”
Mine. “They’re whatever you want them to be.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. “As long as you’re mine, that’s all that matters.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Hidden Scars Page 21
