“Look a woman is standing on the railing. Look,” yelled a woman below. Other cries were muted as she focused on her step. Tunnel vision. Another sign of the adrenalin rushing through her system.
The people on the terrace pushed away from her, as if she might pull them over. No one wanted to be grabbed by a lunatic on a ledge. A white-haired dowager squared her shoulders and marched up to her reaching for her with a thin hand covered in blue veins. “Come down from there,” she demanded like an old school marm. “Is it man trouble? Trust me dear, they aren’t worth it.”
Sadie shook her head. A slight gust of air brushed her shoulder as a shiny Ninja star sped past her skin, missing by an inch. Great, the satyr’s a Mutant Ninja Turtle in disguise. She gripped the surface of the banister with her toes, an impossible task, but she tried all the same.
The older woman screamed. “Someone’s attacking her,” and ran back into the throng.
Could this night get any freaking worse?
As if in answer to her question, a second star whizzed by her mouth. This time it missed by half an inch. Sweet Jesus. Keep your balance Sadie. A familiar metallic taste flooded her mouth, her focus sharpened even more. Left foot, breathe, right foot… She talked her way forward, her muscles cramping from the strain.
It made no sense. What kind of man would throw Ninja weapons in the middle of a charity ball? He had to be either really desperate, really stupid, or… confident he could get away with it. As her former spy-boss Jeremiah once said: “Venice is a city where secrets hide for centuries.” Sweat poured from her body drenching her bra and panties, which stuck to her like a second skin. She wiped at her eyes to see more clearly. Not looking down. She couldn’t look down. She inched along. Surely someone would come and help her soon.
A third star. This time a freaking quarter inch away. The air whipped by her face, swishing as the disc sliced through it. The satyr-turtle neared.
And why Ninja discs? Hiro shuriken were not as deadly as made out in cartoons. The Samurai used them to distract their opponents so they could move in for the kill. Move in for the kill. Was that the man’s agenda?
Screams and shouts filled the air. In the distance a siren blared. But it was all muted. She could see and feel only her body, the banister and her stalker.
Without thinking her eyes slid down, seeking an escape route. Damn it. She shouldn’t look. She knew better. Nausea rose in her throat like a volcano. Damn she hated heights. Slick with sweat her hands reached out into the air to steady her body, which teetered as the rush of dizziness hit her head. Escape. She had to get off the banister.
But the wooziness in her head threatened her balance. Time to gain solid ground. Time to take the initiative. Reminding herself that when it comes to fighting nice girls finish dead, she took a deep breath and jumped back onto the balcony. She turned to face her assailant standing only three feet away. She hoped he didn’t know she had training, because her talent would take him by surprise. In street fights anything goes. And it goes fast. She pushed her body past two people in her way, wanting the first move.
“Asshole,” she screamed as she aimed her right foot straight for his balls.
Doubling over, he cried out.
Her second kick aimed for his head, but his hand caught her ankle and twisted her to the ground. Pain shot up her leg and into her hip. She lay on her back, watching as he raised his right fist to punch her.
But a large hand caught his arm.
Behind the satyr stood Sebastian Wilde. Her Sebastian, a giant of a man who looked like a modern Viking with long, sun-kissed blond hair that fell wild and loose to his shoulders. Tonight he dressed as a genie in purple silk. On his broad face he wore a silver mask that accentuated his pale blue eyes. Blue like the morning sky, they were the most intense eyes she’d ever seen. A shiver of recognition mingled with love mingled with relief ran through her body. Sebastian.
The satyr’s body flew from hers as Seb pulled him away. She sat up to see her assailant grabbed by two security guards. Where had they been all this time? The whole incident had taken only a few minutes, but it had felt like eternity.
Sebastian reached down for her. “How do you get yourself into these situations?” he said. The ragged tone of his voice hit her like a ton of Ninja stars. That was the thing about Sebastian. She had to read between the lines to understand him. Torn between helping her up and kicking the shit out of her attacker, his voice took on a frustrated edge. A man of action, he didn’t like being torn.
She let him help her up. These are the sorts of things she’d only figured out by dating him for six months. Dating? Do they even use that term these days? And if they did, did it come anywhere near explaining what they meant to each other? Why think about this now? Her body trembled.
Once on her feet, she tugged at her dress and brushed hair away from her sweaty face. “I didn’t need rescuing,” she said, not really meaning to say it out loud. The words just slid out.
He pulled her into his arms and his familiar scent hit her harder than a double-malt scotch on the rocks. “I did it for me,” he whispered into her ear.
Her body continued shaking from exertion and adrenalin and the potent chemistry of Sebastian. It would be easy to stay in his embrace forever.
She couldn’t. Not now. Pushing away from Seb, she took another look at her attacker. He’d been hand-cuffed, and the security team were marching him into the main building. Scanning his body from top to bottom she noticed something on his arm. “Wait,” she called out to them. They turned and let her catch up. “Let me see,” she said, pointing to the man’s right wrist. The satyr fought, but the men forced his wrist towards her. A finely detailed tattoo, the size of an American quarter, marked his arm, The Eye of Horace inked in black, in the center of a green triangle. She’d never seen such a tattoo.
In one strong stroke she whipped off his mask, but she didn’t recognize him. He had a round face with faint freckles and a receding chin. He looked unremarkable and not at all like an assassin, more like an overgrown boy scout. She locked his face into her memory. “Why?” she asked.
“We’re watching you,” he said in a staccato voice and then he collapsed. His face paled and turned pink. Cyanide! He must have had a suicide pill. The men tried to hold him up, but his body sagged between them. They helped him onto the floor of the terrace and took his pulse. It took four minutes for him to die.
Covert Danger Page 24
