by Joyce Lamb
“If only I’d managed to kill you the first time,” her captor said, and sniffed hard. “Everything would have been fine. She wouldn’t have started hating me and calling me stupid. She wouldn’t have turned to that other guy.”
He must mean Mac. That’s why he went after Mac, why he tried to knock his head into next week. Charlie couldn’t stop the sound of distress that escaped her throat as she yanked at her hands again. She had to get away, get to Mac.
He watched her with shimmering, crazy eyes. “It should have been perfect. But now all I’ve got is this.” He leaned down gingerly to pick up the wrench, hefted it into his hand like a baseball player gripping his lucky bat, then stiffly pushed up from the bucket with a groan.
“This will have to be perfect enough.”
“No, please!” she cried, and let tears flood her eyes, let him see every quake and shudder. Reasoning didn’t work. Negotiating didn’t work. Maybe stark, raving fear would. He’d shown her compassion before. Maybe he hadn’t used the cuffs again because she’d bloodied her wrist trying to escape. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
“Please, don’t. Please. You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.” She was babbling now, certain this was it, that she was going to die. “Everyone does stuff they regret, that they shouldn’t have. You’re only human. That’s all. Everyone’s human. You made a mistake. We all make them. Every one of us.”
Her tears, her gasping desperation, seemed to reach him, because his face softened, and he lowered the wrench again.
He was so close to her she could smell his sweat. And blood. Did she smell blood? Maybe it was her own.
Forehead furrowing, he reached out a palsied hand and stroked her hair. The man was absolutely nuts. Homicidal one second, tender, almost apologetic, the next. The tips of his fingers brushed the arch of her cheekbone.
Pain arcs through me, radiating from throbbing flesh that has swelled so much it’s stretching the skin painfully tight. The bitch’s face, pale and wet with perspiration and tears, angles up, eyes wide and terrified. She’s going to die screaming. I’m going to make her die screaming. “You really shouldn’t have done that.” Lashing out backhanded, knuckles connect with bone, the blow vibrating into my shoulder and down, down into mangled, swollen flesh. Ah, God, she killed me. She fucking killed me. I bend forward with a groan and puke like a dog. Fuck!
“. . . everything. I can’t let you live.” He sounded so reasonable, so there.
She blinked him into focus, pressed her head back against the wall to steady the wobble. Breathe, breathe. Pain escalated in her temples, an express elevator shooting to the penthouse. Not again. Please, not again.
At least the flash had provided her with another angle.
“You need help,” she said, forcing strength into her weak voice, swallowing against the building nausea. “You’re hurt. You’re probably bleeding internally. I can help you. Get you to the ER.”
Incredulous, startled, either by the realization that he could be bleeding internally, or that she offered to help him, he stepped back, only to flinch and bend forward as though the movement had sliced through him like a knife. A long, harsh groan ground through his teeth. “This is your fault,” he gasped, sweat running down his face. “You broke something inside me.”
She jerked hard at her wrists. “I can’t help you if you don’t untie me.”
He dropped to one knee with a grunt, one hand pressed to his groin, the other bracing against the floor with a clank of the wrench. “Oh, God.” He retched, a horrible, wrenching sound.
“Untie me,” she said, desperate now. If he fainted, or died, she could be trapped here for days. Helpless. Starving. Slowly going insane.
Light flashed across her vision, and she saw Mac kneeling in front of the sink, felt the impact of the wrench against his skull.
She came back to herself unable to breathe at first, until her lungs expanded, pulled in a hitching breath. Flash fatigue. Oh, no. No no no no no no no no.
“You have to untie me now.”
He shook his head, his jaw clenched so hard she could hear teeth grinding. Then, amazingly, he shoved himself to his feet, wavered for a moment.
Camera flash, and gut-crushing pain exploded inside her, a hot rush of burning lava surging through the center of her body and into her blood, radiating like lethal ripples on a pond, spreading out to every nerve.
She came back to herself sobbing and gagging, with the vague impression that someone had cried out, maybe her. Her wrists were bleeding as though she’d thrashed, causing the ropes to abrade her skin.
Something was different. What was different?
She lifted her head, fought back the sickening whirl of dizziness. Was she alone? Where did he go?
Then she saw him. On the floor at her feet, unconscious, his complexion so pale it looked like wax. The wrench rested in his lax fingers.
It was over. He couldn’t kill her now.
A brilliant burst of lightning snapped her head back, and she lost herself again in his agony.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Noah, his heart raging, burst through the door into the boiler room of the Royal Palm. The woman at the front desk had said Skip had made himself an office back here, back where no one else ever went. Too dark and creepy, she’d said with a shudder.
Perfect for a hostage. Had to be. Charlie had to be here.
“Hang on, just hang on,” he said under his breath.
Heat blasted him in the face, made the prickle of sweat crawl over his skin.
Beside him, Logan said something, but Noah didn’t catch it over the thunder of various machines that cooled the air, heated the water and otherwise maintained the hotel’s atmosphere.
“I’ll take this way,” Logan said, louder this time, jerking his head to the right.
Noah nodded and headed left, stepping slowly, easily, grateful for the glaring light of several bare bulbs. Probably one reason it was so fucking hot.
Every door he opened revealed nothing but storage. Paper products. Shelves and shelves of family-sized canned goods. Bottled water. Sheets. Towels. Blankets. Pillows. Shower curtains. Regular curtains. Cleaning supplies. Furniture.
Every damn thing on the planet but what he wanted.
Charlie. No Charlie.
His control slipped, and hope fluttered a little more out of his grasp. She’d told him she loved him, and he hadn’t said it back. He should have said it back. She would never know . . .
Last door. He crashed it open with a violent, frustrated kick.
And froze in shock.
Skip Alteen on his back on the floor, unconscious.
Charlie. Not moving. Head lolling on her shoulder. Blood trickling from her nose and the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, God,” Noah moaned, his knees going weak.
He shouted Logan’s name, screamed it, every bit of helpless rage erupting out of him as he toed the wrench away from Alteen’s hand then dropped to his knees in front of Charlie.
She was tied up, blood on her face and wrists. Broken, oozing skin at her temple. And bruises. Oh, God, bruises in the shape of fingers on her throat and arms. In the blunt shape of a fist on her jaw, her cheekbone. The rage fired his blood, made his fingers clumsy as he pressed them to the pulse point in her throat. Her skin was damp, like ice under his fingers.
Logan made a ton of noise barreling through the door, then stopped cold behind him, his heaving breath rattling to silence. “Christ. Oh, Christ! Is she—”
“I’ve got a pulse,” Noah blurted, and a slightly hysterical laugh burst from his lips. Relief so powerful it made his head swim. “It’s strong. Her pulse is strong.” He grasped her chin, gently, tenderly, angled her limp head away from the wall to try to revive her. “Charlie?”
No response.
He bent his head over her hands, went to work on her bonds. First things first.
“This guy needs an ambulance,” Logan said behind him. “I think he’s in shock. Lucky fuck.”
N
oah agreed. If the bastard had been standing, or even halfway conscious, he wouldn’t have stayed that way.
Logan said a few words into the radio attached to his shoulder, then moved to Noah’s side. “How is she?”
“Unresponsive,” Noah said through numb lips.
Then, as though his voice revived her, she jerked and gasped, her eyes flying open, wide and startled.
Noah grabbed her forearms before she could strike out at him, trying to keep his grasp light on her bruises. “Charlie, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
She stiffened, her head arching back hard enough to bounce off the wall, and realization slammed into Noah. He released her and stumbled back, knowing it was already too late, that his touch had shot his fear and rage right into her.
Logan glanced at him in surprise. “What the hell?” He reached out to steady her himself.
Noah knocked his hand away. “No!”
As Logan stared at him like he’d lost it, Noah got to his knees and grasped the sides of Charlie’s head, alarmed that her eyes looked blind, as though the flash hadn’t ended.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asked. “What the hell is wrong?”
She relaxed then, her head suddenly limp in his hands, her eyelids fluttering. Noah, desperate to feel her, to know she was okay, leaned forward and kissed her. He tasted her blood and closed his eyes, concentrating on the moment when her slack lips moved, responded, and her tongue met his.
In the next instant, she was there with him, her dazed eyes open and fixed on his. Clear, almost wild. Instead of diving into his arms, as he expected, as he wanted, she pushed him away with surprising strength.
“Mac,” she gasped. “He hit Mac.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Noah didn’t like it. They should be going to the ER, getting Charlie checked out. If he’d known how to get there from here, they’d already be halfway there. Instead, he steered onto another side street, following Charlie’s directions to Mac Hunter’s.
“The paramedics are on their way,” he told her, not for the first time. “Logan, too. They’ll do everything they can.”
“I need to see him.” She grasped his hand. “He hit him hard, Noah. I felt it—” She broke off, and her body snapped taut next to him.
He looked at her, saw the cords in her neck standing out, her teeth clenched against a scream. His heart began an erratic thud. Flash fatigue—supersized.
He’d suspected it earlier, but she’d brushed him off, told him she was fine. She wasn’t fine. She wasn’t anywhere near fine. The flashes hitting her were so much more frightening, so much more intense, than the last time she’d been in flash fatigue. What the hell was she seeing? Feeling? What did that bastard do to her?
He caught her hand, gripped her fingers tight against his palm, not knowing what else to do to help her ride it out.
When the tension left her muscles, the shuddering moan that followed, like she was in terrible, agonizing pain, ripped right through him.
“We need to go to the ER,” he said, fear making his voice guttural. “Or AnnaCoreen’s.”
She sagged in the passenger seat, absolutely limp. “Please,” she whispered. “I need Mac.”
The way she said it, the crack in her voice, sparked another worry. She’d said she and Hunter were over. But he’d heard the pleading in Hunter’s voice on her answering machine. He’d said he’d do anything to get her back. Would Charlie take him back?
Shoving away the doubt, he considered arguing with her about AnnaCoreen again but knew he wouldn’t win, so instead he tried to think of how to get his hands on some tranquilizers to stop the flash fatigue. He had no desire to know what would happen if such intense flashes went untreated for too long. Then it hit him: The paramedics at Hunter’s would have Ativan or some other tranquilizer among their supplies.
A red light loomed ahead.
“Please run it,” Charlie said.
After slowing to make sure no cars were coming, he blew through. He spotted the flashing red lights of an ambulance and a police car before he was close enough to Hunter’s blue green stucco house to steer the Mustang to the curb. Charlie opened the door and would have stumbled out while the car was still moving if he hadn’t slammed on the brakes. “Jesus, Charlie!”
But she was already running for the front door.
He jammed the car into park and went after her. He caught up on the porch, followed her inside toward the activity in the kitchen. She dodged the police officer who tried to intercept her. “Mac? Mac!”
Noah shouted for Logan, who waved the cops back. He was behind Charlie again when she saw Hunter and gasped. Hunter was laid out on a gurney, a bloody white towel wrapped around his head and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Charlie rushed forward. “Oh my God, Mac!”
Surprisingly, the man was conscious and turned his head toward her, raising a blood-spattered hand. Before Noah could stop her, she slid her hand into Hunter’s and leaned over him. “It’s okay, I’m here.”
The flash on Hunter’s attack buckled her knees, and Noah surged forward to catch her, but she caught herself on the side of the gurney, never letting go of Hunter’s hand. Then she was stroking his forehead, talking to him. “Hang on, Mac, please hang on.”
Noah moved to the other side of the gurney, his heart jackhammering, his gaze fixed on Charlie, watching her carefully. So pale and bruised, tears running unheeded down her cheeks.
Hunter raised his free hand to move aside the oxygen mask. He was trying to tell her something.
“Don’t try to talk,” Charlie said. “Save your strength. Promise me you’ll save your strength.”
His mouth curved, and he managed to get out three faint words: “I love you.”
A quiet sob escaped Charlie’s throat, and then she lowered her head and kissed Hunter’s lips. She murmured something near his ear, too low for anyone else to hear.
Noah’s heart stopped beating.
“We have to go,” the second medic said. “You can follow us to the hospital.”
Nodding, Charlie let go of Hunter’s hand and stepped back. The medics zoomed out of the kitchen with the gurney, leaving Charlie and Noah facing each other.
She met his gaze, tears rolling freely. He didn’t move, having no clue what to do. Obviously, she loved Mac Hunter. The pain lancing through him wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt. He should have told her earlier, when she’d said she loved him. He’d hesitated, and now he’d lost her.
She took a faltering step toward him. “Noah . . .”
She stopped and stiffened, dazed eyes going blind.
He rushed forward to brace her, support her, whatever she needed, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t thought to try to get Ativan from the medics. A hard shudder racked her body, and then her knees gave way. He lowered her carefully to the floor, and her head lolled over his arm. He waited for the moment when she’d look up at him, no longer senseless.
When she relaxed this time, though, she didn’t gasp in air as though surfacing from the deep end of a pool. And she didn’t open her eyes. It took him a moment to realize she’d lost consciousness.
Logan walked into the kitchen talking: “We need to secure the crime scene—”
Noah looked up at the stricken police detective, fear closing his throat. “We need another ambulance.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Noah paced the ER waiting room, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, but the double swinging doors through which the paramedics had rushed with Charlie. He’d shouted at them in the ambulance to give her a tranquilizer. While one medic questioned why when she was already unresponsive, the other commented that her heart rate was off the charts and her blood pressure was rising. Then a horrible beeping alarm had gone off, and the next thing Noah knew, the medics were diving for defibrillator paddles.
Shuddering at the memory of Charlie’s heart being shocked back into rhythm, he flipped open his cell phone and started to call information to get AnnaCoreen’s number before he
realized he couldn’t remember her last name. Shit.
Logan pushed through the double doors then, and Noah met him halfway, the sober look on the other cop’s face stirring terror he had to struggle to contain.
“How’s she doing?” Noah asked.
“They don’t know what’s wrong with her.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re doing blood work.”
“Can I see her?”
“I doubt it. They’ve got her in one of the back rooms. They just chased me out.”
Noah wanted to scream at the way he’d been shut out, but Logan knew these people, and he didn’t. “Have they given her anything? She needs a tranquilizer.”
“Yeah, yeah, they gave her something to get her heart rate stabilized and blood pressure down. An alpha-blocker something or other. It seemed to be working when they made me leave.”
Noah’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, then. She’ll be fine now.” She had to be.
Logan cleared his throat. “They’re thinking it was an epinephrine overdose, but it doesn’t make sense. She’s not taking anything like that, and they didn’t give her any.”
“Epinephrine is a form of adrenaline,” Noah said.
“But where’d it come from?”
Her own body, Noah thought, feeling sick. The combination of flash fatigue and the attack on Hunter had overdosed her. Or, rather, she’d overdosed herself by insisting on touching the guy when she knew she was already in a vulnerable position. That’s what you did when you loved someone. You put yourself at risk, blind to the consequences.
Noah sank down onto a nearby chair, seeing again the kiss she’d given the man who’d said he loved her. He hung his head, fighting down the despair gathering inside him. He was going to lose her. He knew it in his gut.
“Alteen’s in surgery,” Logan said, probably talking just to talk. “Ruptured testicles.” He winced and paled further as he said it. “Sounds like Charlie defended herself pretty well.”
“Good for her,” Noah growled. He wouldn’t have minded rupturing some testicles himself, but Charlie had obviously taken the fuckwad down all on her own.
