But my pockets were empty, and I realized, with chagrin to match Rafe’s upon realizing he’d left his gun behind, that I’d left my phone in my bag in the parked car down by the gates.
Rafe was almost on top of Tim now, and there had been no more shots, so I decided it would be safe to follow. But just in case, I moved on my hands and knees along the side of the path, shredding my nylons and snagging the edges of my coat on branches along the way. That way, at least Rafe couldn’t yell at me to get down. Unless he wanted me to slither, commando-style, on my stomach, I couldn’t get any closer to the ground.
Nothing happened. Nobody shot at me. Nobody shot at them again, either, not even when Rafe moved across the path to crouch next to Tim. I held my breath—now would definitely be the time to try for him, if he unknown gunman wanted to—but everything stayed quiet.
I moved into a crouch myself, so I could move a little faster, and reached them just in time to see Rafe shrug out of his leather jacket before peeling the snug T-shirt up over his head.
However badly Tim was hurt, it wasn’t bad enough that he didn’t manage a choked laugh. “That’s almost worth dying for.”
“You ain’t dying.” Rafe pulled the leather jacket back around his naked upper body before wadding the T-shirt into a ball and pressing it against Tim’s stomach. Tim sucked in a breath and turned a shade paler. Not an easy task, when he was already the color of rice pudding.
Rafe glanced at me. “Hold this in place.”
I swallowed back nausea and placed trembling hands on the wadded-up T-shirt and pressed down. The fabric was slowly soaking through with blood. It was pouring out rather fast, for a man Rafe had said wasn’t dying. “I was going to call 911, but I don’t have my phone. I left it in the car.”
His voice was as even as mine was jittery. “I’ll take care of it. Just stay with him.”
“You’re going?”
“Someone’s gotta,” Rafe said, “and I ain’t letting you.”
“Are you sure he’s gone?” Or she, since shooting is an equal opportunity method of committing murder.
“Nobody’s shooting at us anymore. Just keep him alive until I get back.” He moved away, sticking to the treeline on the south side of the path, but going faster now.
I concentrated on keeping the T-shirt in place against Tim’s stomach. He was so pale he was practically colorless, his eyes closed and his lashes spiky against sunken cheeks. I wasn’t sure whether the wetness on his face was sweat, rain, or tears.
“Hang in there,” I told him. “We’ll get you to a doctor as soon as it’s safe.”
He nodded, but without opening his eyes.
“How do you feel?”
He licked dry lips before answering. “Like I’m dying.”
“I don’t think you are. Rafe said you weren’t.”
I lifted the T-shirt and peered underneath. Blood was still seeping sluggishly out of a wound low on Tim’s flank, just above his hip. The sight turned my stomach, but it seemed as if the flow had already slowed. I lowered the T-shirt and applied pressure again. Tim turned white around the mouth,
“What happened?” I asked, both because I wanted to know and to take his mind off the pain.
He tried to shrug, but must have thought better of it. “No idea.”
“Who wants you dead?”
“Nobody,” Tim whispered.
“Someone must. They were aiming for you, not Rafe or me. Unless whoever it was has really bad aim.”
Tim didn’t answer, and I added, “Did you notice anyone following you?”
He shook his head, not surprisingly. If he had noticed someone following him, presumably he wouldn’t have gone up here. It was a perfect place for an ambush. I wondered whether the unknown assailant had thought the place was empty or just hadn’t cared that Rafe and I were here.
In the distance, I heard the sound of a car starting up.
I glanced over my shoulder, down the path, and saw that Rafe stiffened. He must have heard it too. After a moment he took off, out from the shelter of the trees and down the path at a dead run.
I just hoped whoever was in the car would be too concerned with trying to get away to see him coming.
And I also hoped that whoever was in the car—whether Rafe had gotten a good look at it or not—had actually been the gunman, and that he or she hadn’t just been waiting for Rafe to leave to come out of hiding and finish Tim off, and me along with him.
But that didn’t happen either. There were no shots, not up here where we were, and not down at the bottom of the the hill where Rafe was going. Everything was still, the silence broken only by the soft pitter-patter of rain, the chirping of birds, and Tim’s belabored breathing.
“We’ll get you to the hospital soon,” I told him. “Rafe must be down in the parking lot by now. I’m sure the ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”
Tim nodded. “Hurts,” he told me, and now I was pretty certain at least some of the moisture on his face was tears.
I nodded. “I know. I was shot a couple of months ago. You’ll feel better in a few days, I promise.”
I lifted the T-shirt again. It was disturbingly soppy, and my palms were stained red, but the wound didn’t look too bad. The flow of blood had definitely slowed. Hopefully that meant Tim wasn’t in any danger of bleeding to death. Whether the bullet had nicked any internal organs was a different story, but I didn’t figure there were too many of those down on his left side. Heart and lungs and kidneys were all farther north. And if his appendix had been hit—well, we all know they’re useless anyway.
“Cold,” Tim muttered, his teeth chattering. I wasn’t sure whether it was the chilly air hitting the wound that bothered him, or whether it was just the shock of being shot in the first place, combined with the blood loss, the misty rain, and lying on the cold ground, but I lowered the wad of fabric again, before struggling out of my coat.
Rafe came loping back as I did my best to drape it over Tim without taking my hand off the sodden T-shirt. And I might as well admit it: without trying to touch the coat too much. Blood is almost impossible to get out of fabric, and my hands were almost dripping with it. And although my cashmere coat is several seasons out of fashion, I don’t have the money to replace it with anything even remotely comparable right now. I didn’t want to smear blood all over it if I could help it.
When I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, I jerked, and my heart starting up a limping run. Then came Rafe’s voice. “Everything OK?”
I started breathing again. “Fine.”
Tim’s eyes fluttered open, and I figured Rafe probably tried to give him—and maybe me—something else to focus on when he shrugged out of the leather jacket to drape it over Tim in lieu of mine. “Put your coat back on, darlin’. You’re getting wet.”
“So are you,” I said. “And at least I’m wearing something else. You’re not. You’ll catch your death out here in the rain with no clothes on.”
“You can warm me up later.” He winked.
Tim mumbled something, but I didn’t ask him to repeat it, since I figured I already knew what it was.
“Did you call 911?” I asked instead, draping the coat over top of Tim, on top of Rafe’s leather jacket.
Rafe nodded. “Ambulance is on its way. Let me take a look.”
He nudged me aside, pushed away the coats and lifted the sodden T-shirt. Tim sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth.
“Looks good.”
“I’ll live?”
Rafe grinned. “Yeah. You’ll have a scar, though.”
“Like yours?”
Tim tried to lift his arm, but managed just a weak flutter and a grimace. Rafe glanced down at his own shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Hot.” Tim’s lips curved.
So did Rafe’s. “You’re doing great. Just hang in there. The ambulance is coming.”
Tim nodded and closed his eyes again. I tilted my head and listened. Far away, in the distance, I could hear the sound of
sirens approaching.
“I’ll go down and meet them,” I said. “Show them where to go.” And give Tim the thrill of having Rafe—a topless Rafe—all to himself for a few minutes.
“Be careful,” Rafe told me.
“Always.”
The ability of throwing his own standard response back at him gave me no little satisfaction as I headed down the walkway and the hill toward the parking area and gates.
Chapter Twenty Three
“What was that all about?” Rafe asked some twenty minutes later.
We were standing in the lobby of Vanderbilt University Hospital’s emergency room, after watching Tim being taken inside for bullet removal. The attending physician had been kind enough to stop for a moment to reassure me that he’d be just fine, and now Rafe was arching his brow at me.
“What do you mean?” I turned in the direction of the double doors. “He was just telling me not to worry.”
He followed me toward the outside. “You never mentioned this guy before.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder. Surely he wasn’t jealous? Was he?
“I’ve only met him once. He was the attending physician when Kylie Mitchell had her car accident back in December. Simon Ramsey. I had to tell him I was Kylie’s sister so he’d let me—and Aislynn—in to see her.”
We passed through the sliding doors and out.
“He remembered you,” Rafe said.
“So? I remembered him, too.”
“That’s different. He was your friend’s doctor. You were just one of, I’m sure, a lot of friends and relatives coming through the ER.”
I shrugged. “So maybe he likes blondes.”
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “Maybe he does.”
I glanced at him. Opened my mouth to inquire how he could possibly be jealous of a man I’d met only once, and closed it again.
“Do you think he’ll be OK?” I asked instead. “Tim?”
He glanced at me. “He’ll be fine. The doc said so.”
Right. “What happened?”
“Somebody shot him,” Rafe said.
“Beyond that.”
He shrugged. The open leather jacket slithered over wet, naked skin. “You were there. You know as much as I do.”
“You’re sure they were shooting at him, right? And not you?”
“If they were shooting at me,” Rafe said, “they missed by a football field. Anybody coming after me has better aim than that.”
Good to know. Or not.
“Anyway, ain’t like nobody’s gonna look at Tim and think he’s me.”
No. Nobody in his right mind would make that kind of mistake.
I turned my head to look at him, at those faded jeans hanging low on his hips, wet on the bottoms, and the smooth skin and ridged abdomen visible under the open leather jacket. And felt my body get warmer in spite of the chilly air and misty rain. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I could zip up,” Rafe said, without making any move to actually do so. He held my gaze for a moment. “You want me to?”
“Are you cold?”
“Not when you look at me like that.”
“We should go home and get out of these wet clothes. Maybe get under the blankets for a while. To warm up.”
He grinned. “You want me.”
“Always. And I want to wash my hands. They’re bloody.”
His face sobered when I held them up. “You did a good job, Savannah. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.” That actually meant a lot, coming from him. Gave me a nice, warm glow inside, different from the glow I got from watching him naked under the black leather.
He put an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the Volvo. “Let’s get you home and cleaned up. Out of those wet clothes. And under the blankets.”
“You want me,” I said, even as I felt just a little bit stupid, and maybe a bit risqué, doing so.
He grinned down at me. “Always. And I gotta remind you why you picked me, don’t I, and not one of the doctors or lawyers?”
I hadn’t picked him because he was good in bed—although it hadn’t hurt—but I didn’t bother telling him so, just let him put me inside the car and close my door. If he felt the need to prove something to me, who was I to tell him not to exert himself?
I had gotten rid of as much of the blood on my hands as I’d been able to in the emergency room sink, but there were still traces of it stuck underneath my nails and my cuticles, and I didn’t want to touch anything until I’d washed with bleach and about a gallon of antibacterial soap. So I stood just inside my front door and watched Rafe shrug out of the leather jacket and hang it on the hook in the hallway. My knees went weak at the sight, and I wanted to touch him, to throw myself in his arms and have him take me to bed, but I couldn’t.
He turned to look at me, and he must have read the feelings on my face because he chuckled. “Let me help you with that, darlin’.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what ‘that’ was, whether he was referring to my frustration or the fact that I couldn’t get undressed, but he started by helping me out of my coat. He pulled it carefully down over my arms and hands and hung it, equally carefully, on a hanger so it wouldn’t lose its shape while it dried.
Then he got down on his knees in front of me, and pulled my boots off, one after the other. He shook his head over my shredded nylons and dirty knees, before he skimmed his hands up the outsides of my thighs under the skirt.
I lost my breath, of course, although all he did was peel the ruined pantyhose down and off. “Lift your foot, darlin’. Good girl. And the other one.”
I lifted each foot in turn, bracing my wrists on his shoulders since I couldn’t brace my hands there, and since I doubted I could have managed to stay upright without the support.
When he got to his feet again, I wasn’t sure whether I was disappointed or not. When his fingers went to the front of my blouse, I decided I’d reserve judgment.
He made short work of the buttons, and pushed the still damp blouse off my shoulders and down to the floor. The skirt was next: a quick tug on the zipper on his part and a hip-wiggle on mine, and I stood in front of him in a virginal white lace bra and matching panties.
He smiled, of course, even as I blushed and resisted the urge to try to cover myself. Two months of regular nudity hadn’t been enough to turn the good girl I’d been brought up to be into a wanton seductress. I was still a little uncomfortable with the way I wanted him. I had certainly never wanted anyone else the same way.
He tilted his head. “Did you and Bradley ever have shower sex?”
I shook my head. “I told you. Bradley was traditional in bed. That meant doing it in bed.”
“Good,” Rafe said and gathered me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck and hung on, monkey-style. “I won’t have to worry about measuring up.”
“You’ve never had to worry about measuring up.” The personal equipment that was currently nestled against the apex of my thighs, nudging me with every step he took toward the bathroom and the shower, blew Bradley’s out of the water. And he more than measured up in every other way too. I couldn’t imagine Bradley ever undressing me so sweetly and carefully, and with so much banked heat in his eyes. And I certainly couldn’t imagine Bradley ever turning on the shower to the perfect temperature before stripping off my lingerie and carrying me into the spray without bothering to take his own jeans off.
Not that Bradley had ever worn denim. He was a slacks-and-khakis sort of guy. No black leather, and no faded jeans hanging low on his hips, dipping ever lower as they took on water.
“What about...?” I gestured.
“Later.” He filled his hands with soap and began washing me, big, hard hands slipping slickly over my skin. The only blood was on my hands, but I wasn’t about to complain. “Over,” he mumbled, “under, below, between...”
Since action was suited to words, it was hard for me to get my voice to cooperate, but I managed a single word. “P
oetry?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. I wondered whether it was something he told all the girls—I wondered whether it was his first time for shower sex too, and decided it probably wasn’t; he was too good at it—and then I decided it didn’t matter. He was mine now, and he was obviously enjoying himself. Did it really matter what he’d done, and with whom, before?
When I reached for the waistband of his now soaked-through jeans, the muscles in his stomach quivered and he growled a warning. “Careful.”
“Why?” Doubt reared its head immediately, of course. Doubt and insecurity.
He pinned me with a glance. “The second those come off, it’s all over. They’re the only thing that stands between you and being nailed to that wall behind you.”
“But...” Didn’t he want me to return the favor? I’d rather been looking forward to soaping my hands and washing him, too. Over, under, below and between. All that soft skin and hard muscles under my now-clean hands.
“All I want is inside you,” Rafe said. “And the second you take those off, that’s where I’m gonna be. So you’d better make damn sure when you pull that zipper down, you’re ready.”
I grinned and pulled down the zipper.
“Did you get a look at the car?” I asked an hour later. We were naked, under the covers, warm and mostly recovered.
“Car?”
“The one the gunman at Fort Negley drove.”
“Damn.” He turned toward the night stand and swore.
“What?” I said.
He glanced around. “My phone.”
“It wasn’t in your pants pocket, I hope?” Because if so, it was dead by now, drowned in the bottom of the tub.
Chagrin flashed across his face before he shook his head. “Jacket.”
“Hallway.”
He slipped out of bed and padded toward the door. I watched, while I lamented the fact that playtime seemed to be over for now.
He came back a few seconds later, to toss the phone on top of the covers. “Tammy must be talking to Tim. Her phone went to voicemail.”
Change of Heart Page 24
