by Tasha Black
A scalpel glittered dangerously in her hands.
Dalton kicked the bed. It flew across the floor, smashing into her hip and pinning her to the wall. The scalpel flew out of her grasp and clattered to the ground.
The sound reverberated in Dalton’s skull and he heard every note of it as if it were a symphony. His senses were through the roof. He could smell through the jasmine now to the musk and fear that oozed from Sterling’s pores.
The doorknob sighed as an outside hand touched it, so Dalton was prepared when it turned.
On the other side, he knew already, were two guards. He could smell the oil on their guns and the bad decisions on their minds.
As the door swung open, he wrenched one of the green tanks free from the stand it was in.
As the first guard entered, Dalton spun with the tank, connecting with the man’s thorax.
The guard’s eye rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled.
Before he could fall, Dalton caught him and drove forward, using the man half as a shield, half as a battering ram.
He slammed into the second guard, and out the door.
The second guard’s breath rushed out of him with a lingering scent of garlic as Dalton and the first guard’s body crashed him into the far wall of the hall.
Dalton let go, and both guards collapsed in a pile at his feet.
The long hallway had many doors, but the crisp scent of fresh air had Dalton sprinting past them without a moment’s hesitation.
Ahead on the left, that was the way outside.
He made a quick left turn, just as he heard Sterling scramble into the hallway.
Booted footsteps and the smell of confidence from around the corner told him the men were already mobilizing. Sterling must have tripped some kind of silent alarm.
His frustration must have shied the beast. He had lost the scent of fresh air.
Running blind now, he turned another corner, hoping to elude his captors long enough to bring the beast back.
He skidded to a halt at the sight that awaited him, but it was too late.
He stared down the barrel of a Mossberg shotgun, like the black eye of a cobra about to strike.
The man, more of a mountain in a uniform, tightened his finger on the trigger.
There was nowhere to go.
The thunder of the shot was deafening in the enclosed space.
It punched into his chest, taking him off his feet.
The normal colors faded from the world around him as a deep red washed over everything.
8
Westley Worthington stood in an alleyway, trembling with fear.
He wasn’t exactly sure where he was. He had pushed himself to get as far away from the scene at the bodega as possible.
And he was fast. Way too fast for anyone to catch him on foot. Maybe even in a car. He wondered what his top speed was.
Not that it mattered. Right now it was zero.
He’d ducked into this quiet alley, and as soon as he’d stopped running, his legs refused to move again.
His thoughts snapped back to the time he pushed himself in the gym with Jason. He’d chalked that up to a glitch, and it had only been a few seconds.
This time, he’d been locked up for at least 30 seconds. It felt like an eternity.
What if control of his legs didn’t come back?
Was he supposed to call AAA for a tow into the shop?
He wished, and not for the first time, that Dalton were around. He could always call Dalton. Shouldn’t he be back on duty by now? What was going on with him? West made a mental note to pay his friend a visit.
Suddenly, sensation flooded back into his legs.
West let out a sigh of relief.
His phone buzzed, as if in reply.
Cordelia Cross:
When should we schedule Jessica to meet with Mallory for pre-lim?
Jesus, no.
When?
When I’m sure this works.
When I’m sure this isn’t the physical equivalent of Flowers for Algernon.
He pictured Jess trapped and trembling in this very alleyway, vulnerable to any of the riffraff that now frequented Cobble Slope, and he shuddered.
He had to tell Cordelia the time wasn’t right. But not with a text. Jessica was her world and she would need to know more.
So what was he supposed to say?
He hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then slipped the phone back into his pocket without replying. They could talk about it later, when Cordelia got home from work.
Where he should be.
He missed the actual work. He’d been doing a lot from the laptop Mallory had set up to look like it was logged in at the fancy rehab facility in Europe. He’d even done some of the company research analysis he hadn’t looked at in years. But it wasn’t the same as going into the office.
Even physically he was ready.
Except of course, when he was stuck like the Tin Man without an oil can.
The truth was that he wasn’t ready to leave Cordelia’s house. Not yet.
In his heart, West knew their little taste of suburban bliss wasn’t real. But there was something about the feeling of normalcy that he couldn’t bear to lose, even if they were just playing house.
He had begun to think it might have a shot at working, though, and he thought Cordelia had, too.
Why had she put the brakes on?
His mind kept going to the prosthetics. Maybe she thought they were repulsive, that he was more machine than man.
But that wasn’t his Cord. Her favorite person in the world spent half her life in a metal chair.
Maybe it was him, maybe he needed to return to the public eye, take back up the mantle of leadership that had drawn her to him in the first place.
He would do it, soon.
But in the meantime, he had to do something about the glitch. He should call Mallory - maybe she would know what to do. If she didn’t, she would certainly figure it out.
But what if it was more than a glitch?
His blood ran cold as he considered what he would be reduced to if they took all his tech limbs away.
If he could barely get Cordelia to look his way now, what chance would he have then? When he couldn’t walk. When he couldn’t even embrace her.
When you have nothing to offer her sister.
He shook his head and swiped his hair out of his eyes. He needed to get himself together.
Determined, he set off for Cordelia’s house.
9
If there was one thing Cordelia had learned from working with animals, it was to adapt to the viewpoint of the one you were with - however unfamiliar - and make a connection.
But connecting with a five hundred pound tiger that needed a flu shot seemed like a walk in the park compared to connecting with Prince Isaam and his esteemed advisor Princess Noora.
She wished West could have been there. He always knew how to deal with these rich, eccentric types. Cordelia was out of her element.
She cleared her throat and attempted to make assertive eye contact, while maintaining her implied status, which was below that of the two foreign investors.
But the royal executives ignored her. Prince Isaam continued to feed Princess Noora a spicy eel roll as she salaciously licked his fingertips.
He was the prototype of a Middle Eastern prince: tall dark and handsome, with dusky eyes that made Cordelia’s stomach do funny things when he looked right at her. Noora was tiny, with glossy black hair so long and thick it made her already small form seem almost pixieish.
Cordelia found herself wondering, for about the hundredth time since their meeting had begun, whether they were a couple. Her first thought had been brother and sister, but they certainly weren’t acting like it now. She could swear there had been no relationship, romantic or otherwise, implied in her briefing. Maybe the new security team missed something, or maybe they were just messing with her. She missed Edward Dalton, and hoped he was finding answers, wher
ever he was.
“Miss Cross,” Prince Isaam said, pulling her out of her reverie. “I apologize.”
She began to shake her head to indicate that their inappropriate behavior was forgiven.
But the prince extended a piece of sushi toward her before she could speak.
“I should have offered you some eel,” he purred, gazing at her with his bottomless dark eyes.
The eel quivered suspiciously.
“Oh,” Cordelia spluttered. “Um, no, thank you.”
“Very well, enjoy your… California roll,” he said doubtfully.
Cordelia wasn’t really into sushi. She’d fed enough raw fish to her animal charges at the zoo to make the idea less than appetizing. Frankly, she’d been surprised when her Middle Eastern guests had chosen a sushi restaurant for this lunch meeting.
They all sat on the floor of a private room, in proper Japanese tradition. A low table hung from the ceiling and held an astonishing selection of sushi. And Cordelia was beginning to suspect they’d chosen the restaurant just so they could canoodle on the floor.
She wished she had anticipated the seating arrangement when she was getting dressed this morning. She was having the devil of a time making sure her tweed skirt didn’t reveal any parts of her she didn’t want to display.
“Cordelia, darling,” Princess Noora leaned forward over the table so that Cordelia had to struggle not to look at the way her small breasts swelled over the top of her filmy dress. “When is Westley coming back?”
Westley?
Since when was she on a first name basis with him?
“His injuries were very extensive, Princess Noora,” Cordelia explained. “He is committed to returning to his leadership position as soon as he is able.”
She did her best to hide her own growing doubts about West’s return.
“A shame,” the princess sighed. “He is very talented. I do miss him so.”
Talented?
She hoped it was a reference to West’s skill in the boardroom.
Prince Isaam wrapped an arm around Noora’s waist and dragged her back to his side.
“I’ll bet you do,” he teased her, nuzzling at her neck again.
Nope. Definitely not talking about the boardroom.
“I know he will be sorry that he didn’t have the opportunity to meet with you and Prince Isaam today,” she said quickly, to cover her surprise.
“Please, call me Tarek,” Prince Isaam said in a tone that sent an involuntary shiver up Cordelia’s spine.
“Oh, he likes you,” the princess added, pretending to be impressed, and giving Cordelia a wink.
Were they coming on to her?
At a business meeting? During lunch?
No, that couldn’t be right.
They were probably just messing with her. Cordelia knew that business done at this level was cut-throat and any tactic might be tried when the goal had so many zeroes at the end of it.
But that didn’t stop her cheeks from coloring. Damn her fair complexion.
Desperately, she stared at the Kandinsky-like circles of sushi on her plate, as if they might help her think of a polite way to steer the conversation back to a business discussion.
A tiny sigh from across the table alerted her to the fact that Tarek and Noora weren’t worried about it. His face was cradled in the curve of her elegant neck, nibbling as she closed her eyes in ecstasy, one of her hands wandering over his lap.
For an instant, Cordelia allowed herself to imagine she was in Noora’s place with Westley at her neck. She could feel the electricity of his warm breath across her delicate nerves and feel the sharp points of his canines on her neck.
Her heart pounded and blood rushed into parts of her body she would rather not be thinking about in the present company.
Across from her, the prince’s hand was curling around his colleague’s breast, his thumb circling and flicking her nipple through the pale blue silk.
Cordelia grabbed the glass of ice water in front of her and downed it, then put it down on the table perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
The sound roused her guests.
“I know you didn’t come all the way to Glacier City to hear about Mr. Worthington’s injuries,” she said in the most assertive tone that she dared. “Please tell me what you would like to know about our operations.”
“Medical Prosthetics,” Tarek replied, looking up at her earnestly.
He was nothing if not direct.
“I’m happy to report to you that Medical Prosthetics is up and running at 100%. As a matter of fact, they should be taking on new patients soon.”
Inwardly, she hoped as always that Jessica would be one of the first.
“That’s wonderful news,” Noora said solemnly.
“If we can see some progress,” Tarek said. “We may be interested in doubling our investment.”
He gazed at her, unabashedly watching for her reaction.
The amount of money he was suggesting was more than most companies made in a year. Cordelia had no doubt the Abu Dhabi investors could afford it. But why would they want to invest so much?
“However,” he added, “we would like to see the facilities in person.”
“That is very generous,” Cordelia replied honestly. She knew she shouldn’t ask the next question, but her curiosity got the better of her. “May I ask why you are interested?”
The prince smiled and for a moment was even more handsome than ever.
“We have a personal stake in the work being done by Medical Prosthetics. Much as you do, Cordelia,” he added.
For a moment, Cordelia was completely at a loss. How could they know about Jessica?
“Let’s set up a tour then,” she replied, pulling herself together.
“Today,” the prince said flatly.
“Certainly,” she agreed, pulling out her cell phone and texting Mallory on the double. “I’ll contact Dr. Pruitt now.”
The prince nodded and the princess stroked his chest softly, as if to soothe him.
Cordelia’s hand went to her forearm as the bite wound there began to tingle again. She was annoyed that it hadn’t healed yet. She was running out of long sleeved wardrobe options.
Without reason, her heartbeat raced. She had the sensation of being in terrible danger. Sweat prickled her brow and she had to fight the urge to run.
What was happening to her?
Was it bad sushi? She had been very careful not to eat anything with actual raw fish.
Another jolt of terror streaked through her veins and she squeezed the phone in her hand so hard she was afraid she would crack the screen. She needed to get out of this room.
Now.
“Excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m going to see if I can get better reception in the hall.”
Without taking time to see if they acknowledged her, or to properly adjust her skirt, she rose and dashed out the door into the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms and the exit.
Something about the hall filled her with panic, as if the walls were closing in and there was no place for her to run.
Her nose suddenly filled with a musky, animal scent. It hadn’t been there an instant ago. And it certainly wasn’t coming from this hallway. She must be hallucinating. She longed for fresh air.
Was she having a stroke? She’d read somewhere that people having a stroke sometimes experienced strange smells. And her heart was pounding so wildly now, like it was trying to escape her chest.
She turned the corner into the ladies’ room and saw a face looking at her with mad, glittering eyes.
It took a second for her to realize that the face looking back at her was her own face, reflected in the bathroom mirror. Because those were not her eyes.
They were a startling ice-blue.
That couldn’t be right.
Maybe if she splashed cold water on her face, she could shake herself out of whatever was happening. She reached for the tap, but stumbled as pain exploded in her chest.
> She gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and clung to it like a life raft just to stay upright. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and set her jaw against the pain.
It must be a heart attack. Was this what a heart attack was supposed to be like? It felt more like being kicked in the chest by a horse.
Tears slid out the sides of her eyes and she felt them running down her cheeks and neck. If it were a heart attack, she probably wasn’t going to make it, which at least must mean the pain would end.
Then it stopped.
No pain. No pounding heart. No feeling of imminent danger.
They were just gone, like they had never existed.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes.
Her own plain blue eyes stared back at her.
Completely rattled, she turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face until the frigid sensation drowned her emotions.
She dried her face with a paper towel and took a couple of deep breaths.
The buzz of her phone on the floor of the silent restroom where she had dropped it startled her.
She bent and picked it up.
Mallory Pruitt:
You’re good to go on the royal tour. Anything I should know? Am I supposed to curtsy?
Cordelia had almost hoped Mallory would have a good reason to put off the tour. It was going to be another late night.
She felt a pang at the thought of missing a night at home with the family, and with West. If she were being honest, she was mostly sad about missing time with West.
On the other hand, now that she was playing it cool, it was probably better not to come home at all. It was so hard to push him away, and she didn’t really know how to do it.
She had promised to put Jess’s needs before her own. But it was so hard to keep that promise when he was in the room, his big body practically radiating heat and desire, pulling her helplessly toward him like he was a planet and she was his moon.
It confounded her how other women could do this, wanted to do it, did it as a strategy to get a commitment out of a man. There was that terrible book all her friends had read back in school, about how to make a man fall in love with you by ignoring him.
