by Nika Rhone
Oliver’s grip slackened as he let out a pain-filled grunt, his hands automatically going to his face. Thea stepped forward with a tiny wobble, turned, and put her shoes to their second-best use after dancing. The kick she delivered to his crotch landed with satisfying force, driving a metal-tipped stiletto deep into soft flesh. It wasn’t a grunt Oliver gave this time, but a high-pitched scream.
She let out a yell fueled by rage and fear as her second kick—this time with the pointy toe—connected with his arm and knocked the gun from his slack fingers as he dropped to his knees, curling protectively over his wounded groin. The gun disappeared into the darkness. Thea considered looking for it before deciding she’d do better to run for the front of the building and find help while Oliver was still incapacitated.
Help found her first.
Ironically, it came in the form of her least favorite bodyguard. At that particular moment, all past offenses were forgotten. She all but knocked Simon off his feet as she ran into him. The primitive part of her brain could only think safety.
“Oliver.” It was difficult to talk past her heart, which has somehow crawled up into her throat. “It was Oliver.”
“Where is he?” Simon tried to peel her off of him as he asked, his eyes tracking over the darkness around them.
“B-back there.” She allowed herself to be moved but still hung onto his arm, wanting, needing, the contact to keep from shattering into hysterical pieces. “He has a gun.”
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Simon was shoving her away, down behind him. There were two gunshots, almost on top of each other, and she watched in horror as Simon’s body jerked with the impact and fell beside her on the ground, unmoving.
Chapter Thirty-One
“It’s hers.”
Doyle closed a fist around the diamond-tipped hairclip Daryl had handed him, fighting back the primitive urge to roar out his anger and frustration. Precious minutes had already been wasted convincing that fuckhead Don Rogers to allow Doyle’s team into the building to search. Too many minutes. Only the intervention of the Westlake’s security chief, Paul Kent, had kept Doyle from shooting the bastard.
Francine had been located, alive but incapacitated, in one of the empty offices beside the withdrawing room where Thea had last been seen. Kirsten and Rick had headed toward the kitchen, Doyle and Daryl the back hallways, while Paul ordered up a medical evac for Francine and put his own team on high alert. The rest of Doyle’s team remained stationed outside in case Pratt managed to make it out of the building with Thea.
Now, Daryl had turned up their first clue. Doyle recognized the hairclip as being one of a pair nestled in Thea’s thick hair earlier that evening. He should. He’d spent enough time fantasizing about pulling them out and letting that glorious mound loose as she rode him to completion in his bed.
Now, it was a symbol of his failure to protect what was his responsibility—no, his right—to protect. And it was eating him alive.
Tightening his grasp until the tip bit into his palm, Doyle tried very hard to keep his mind from picking at the possible reasons it had come to be laying in the hall. None of them were good, and he needed to concentrate on what he needed to do to get Thea back rather than all of the ways he’d screwed up.
Later, when she was safe, then he’d have plenty of time to dissect his failures and wallow in self-loathing over them.
Slipping the clip into his pocket, he signaled for Daryl to continue down the hallway. They cleared each room they passed with quiet efficiency. All empty. Finally, there was no place else to go except through the steel door with the glowing exit sign above it.
It was pitch dark outside. A glance up showed the bulb missing from the fixture above the door. Doyle’s heart thumped. That simple act of preparation meant that this wasn’t a spur of the moment act. Pratt had planned to take Thea tonight. That meant he’d also have planned for his escape. He of all people would know how much security would be on the premises that evening.
And exactly where it would be.
Son of a bitch! That meant he’d have stashed a vehicle of some kind to make his escape. Doyle gave a terse update into the mic, ordering Sam to have all exits from the parking lot blocked. It was doubtful Pratt would have been stupid enough to leave his vehicle there, but Doyle wasn’t taking any chances.
The dark walkway curved around the back of the building. The location of both it and the door meant it was a service entrance, and one not much used, judging by the state of the cracked concrete. That meant there was none of the impressive illumination the walkways through the cocktail garden and around the pond and waterfall boasted, but for that Doyle was actually grateful. They knew whom they were chasing, but Pratt didn’t know anyone was following. For the moment, the advantage was theirs. With luck, the darkness would keep it that way.
Suddenly, the sound of raised voices echoed from further down the path. Using hand signals, he directed Daryl to his left as they broke into a run.
There was a strange high-pitched squeal followed by a primal, gut-wrenching scream that had him putting an extra burst of speed on. If that bastard had hurt her…
The sight that greeted him wasn’t what he expected. A dozen yards in front of him was a man on his knees, curled over on himself, whimpering in pain. Several yards further away was Thea trying to climb Simon like a monkey. Simon was doing his best to peel her off, but Doyle knew firsthand she was a lot stronger than she looked.
Doyle slowed to a cautious walk. For a second, just a second, he forgot everything else and simply savored the sight of her, whole and unharmed. He had no idea what had happened to Pratt—that had to be who the asshole on the ground was—but he knew he’d take great pleasure in hearing the details of it. Later.
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, his instincts screaming that something bad was about to happen. Even as he thought it, he started to raise his gun, but not before Pratt had lunged awkwardly off to the side to grab for something on the ground.
It was one of those moments he’d experienced in the Corps, one of those life and death moments where time slowed to a crazy, frame-by-frame speed and everything happened so slowly you thought for sure you had plenty of time to see what was happening, adjust, and react, but in reality everything had sped up to the point where you didn’t even know you’d reacted until after the whole thing was already over with.
Doyle fired at almost the same instant Pratt did. He knew his bullet found its mark. Knew that Pratt was dead before his face even hit the ground. Compared to some of the shots he’d had to make in combat, this one had barely rated any effort at all. But the price might have been the highest he’d ever had to pay in his life because he couldn’t tell which of the two people lying on the ground past Pratt’s limp body had been shot.
Trusting Daryl to take care of Pratt, Doyle ran for Thea, who—thank you, God!—was back up off the ground and was kneeling at Simon’s side. Even in the moonlight he could see the blood glistening on the front of Simon’s dark suit and on Thea’s hands as she pressed against the wound, trying to stop the flow. He yelled into the mic for help and an ambulance and then dropped to his knees on Simon’s other side so he could assess the damage. Thea looked up at him, eyes wide with shock.
“He got shot for me,” she said, her voice incredulous at the thought. “He pushed me aside and took the bullet.” A tear overran her welling eyes and slid down her face. “The idiot.”
There was a smear of blood on her chin that he wasn’t certain was Simon’s. Rage welled in him, but he fought it back. He’d check her inch by inch for injuries later. Now, he needed to concentrate on the wounded man on the ground in front of him.
“He did his job.” It was a lot more than that, and Doyle made a mental note to see that the kid knew it. Hell, he’d throw him a fucking parade. How did you repay the man who’d saved the life of the woman you loved?
Loved?
Well, shit. It’s a hell of a time for that damn light bulb to finally
go off, he thought viciously as he stripped off first his specially tailored tuxedo jacket and then the low-profile holster that went beneath. Popping the studs, he pulled his shirt off and folded it into a thick pad.
“Move your hands, sweetheart.”
She did, making a small keening sound of distress as he examined the wound. Judging by the size of the hole, Pratt’s weapon had been a small caliber, and it had struck high on Simon’s left shoulder. With luck, it had missed both bone and vital arteries.
Simon roused with a moan as Doyle pressed the makeshift bandage onto the wound, putting more pressure on it than Thea had. He blinked up first at Doyle and then at Thea and managed to look satisfied. “Din’t screw up.” His words slurred. “Safe.”
“You did good,” Doyle said.
“Got shot.”
Doyle almost grinned at the disgust in the words. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to work on that part.”
“Thank you, Simon.” Thea squeezed his hand as she blinked back tears. “I’m sorry you got shot because of me.”
“Th’job.”
“No, it was my fault. The first thing out of my mouth should have been that he had a gun. I’d knocked it out of his hand, so I didn’t think…” She broke off on a shuddery sob. “I’m so sorry.”
Doyle took a second to digest her words. “You knocked the gun out of his hand?”
She nodded, sniffling. “After I kicked him in the balls.”
“After you…” Doyle let out a rueful laugh. “You’re an amazing woman, Cynthia Fordham.”
She smiled up at him a bit mistily. “It’s about time you noticed.”
Other words crowded his tongue, trying to force their way out before another chance of losing her arose, but he bit them back. Not the time. Not the place. First there was Simon to get to the hospital and then the mess with Pratt’s death and the shitstorm of fallout that was bound to follow. A ballroom full of reporters would make a meal of the night’s events, and there were two senators that weren’t going to be happy about it.
It was going to be a long night.
****
Chaos reigned outside the reception hall.
The lights from all of the police cars and ambulances bathed the night blue and red. People were shouting, talking, asking questions, but it was all just background noise, making no sense to Thea’s ears. Sitting on the back bumper of one of the ambulances, she watched it all with numb detachment, wishing Doyle was at her side.
Logically, she knew she was perfectly safe. Daryl and Sam were there to make sure of it. But that didn’t mean that she felt safe. In truth, she felt exposed.
Betrayed.
Violated.
The solicitous EMT who had just finished checking her over must have noticed her shiver, because he draped a thin blanket around her shoulders. She wanted to thank him, but she couldn’t muster up the energy. She couldn’t seem to do much of anything.
“Oh, my dear Lord, Cynthia!”
Suddenly her parents were there, her mother hugging her and sobbing, her father looking in turns furious and teary. The warmth of her mother’s embrace helped to thaw some of the freezing cold of shock that was holding her captive.
“Are you all right?” Her mother smoothed back Thea’s wild hair, making a pained sound seeing the reddened swelling on the side of her face from when Oliver had hit her.
“I’m fine,” Thea said, even though her cheek throbbed in time with the pounding in her head. “Really, I am. I’m just a little bruised and a lot scared.”
“I’ll believe it when a doctor tells me,” her father said. His tone left absolutely no room for argument.
Which she wasn’t about to do, since the hospital was right where she wanted to go. She needed to find out what was happening with Simon and Francine, both of whom had already been taken away by ambulance. No one knew what had happened to Francine or if they did they weren’t telling her. She needed to find out. She needed to be there, making sure they were getting the best possible care. If either of them died…
She shoved the thought away. No one would die tonight.
Except for Oliver.
“Thea!”
The shout barely gave her time to brace for the impact as Lillian threw herself at Thea, hugging her tight before pulling back to make way for Amelia. It wasn’t until Amelia pulled away and Thea saw the smear of red across her friend’s ice-blue gown that she remembered she was covered in blood. Simon’s blood.
She shivered again.
“I ruined your beautiful dress.” A tear leaked down Thea’s face as she stared at the stain, unable to look away. There had been so much blood.
“Forget my dress,” Amelia said. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“You don’t know?”
“We heard bits and pieces, but none of it made any sense. Someone said one of the guards was shot!”
“Simon,” Thea replied, her voice cracking. “Simon got shot. Protecting me.”
“From Oliver.” Lillian sounded incredulous. “I can’t believe it was him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” Amelia asked. “I’m your friend, for God’s sake. You should have told me.”
“I didn’t want to give you something else to worry about before the party. I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.” Thea gave a short, horrified laugh. “I guess that was a great big fail, huh?”
“Like any of this was your fault.” Lillian leaned in to hug her friend again, whispering, “I’m glad Doyle killed him.”
Clearly, Lillian knew more than she was letting on.
“Me, too,” Thea whispered back.
“Where is she?” The strident voice cut through the surrounding din, making Thea cringe. She didn’t think she was the only one, either. The last person she wanted to deal with right at that moment was Mrs. Westlake. The craven part of her thought just for a second about escaping into the back of the ambulance and shutting the doors, but she toughed it out and waited for Amelia’s mother to appear.
When Mrs. Westlake rounded the back of the ambulance, she zeroed in on Thea immediately. “Cynthia Fordham. How could you?”
Thea blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I knew it was a mistake allowing my daughter to associate with you, but this…this is beyond inexcusable! Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?”
Amelia gaped. “Mother! Thea is the victim here.”
“And you.” Mrs. Westlake turned to her daughter. “You should be inside helping Charles deal with the press, not out here with…” She trailed off with a horrified gasp. “Your dress! What have you done to your dress?”
“It has blood on it, Mother,” Amelia said, her voice flat and angry. “Blood from the man who was shot protecting my best friend from the crazy man who tried to kidnap her.”
“Oh, no, no, no, this won’t do. You can’t go back inside looking like that. If someone were to get a picture of you like that…no, absolutely not.” Mrs. Westlake spun to glare at Thea again. “You have ruined everything! Do you have any idea how much work it took to arrange for this kind of press coverage? How much exposure this was going to get for Charles’s primary bid? And now the only thing the morning headlines are going to be talking about is how one of your security people shot and killed someone during the party. If they make any mention of Charles at all, it will be as a footnote.”
“Mother,” Amelia said, “shut up.”
Mrs. Westlake stiffened. “I beg your pardon, young lady?”
“You heard your daughter, Meredith.” Thea’s mother took a step toward the other woman, putting herself almost between her and Thea. “Shut. Up.”
There was an almost comical moment when Mrs. Westlake gaped at her in surprise. Evidently, she hadn’t noticed the rest of her audience. Then her mouth snapped shut and she drew her arrogance around her like a cloak. “Evelyn. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s obvious. You were too busy chastising my daughter for something that wasn’t her fault ins
tead of begging her forgiveness.”
“Now, see here—”
“No, you’ve had your say. Now you’re going to listen to me. My daughter has been terrorized, kidnapped, assaulted, and very nearly”—her voice wobbled—“very nearly killed tonight and you have the nerve to complain that your future son-in-law isn’t going to be getting enough of the headlines? Are you insane?”
“Well, of course, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Has it occurred to you that it’s your fault that all of this happened?” Evelyn took another step closer, finger pointing in accusation. “The man stalking my daughter was in your employ all this time, after all. If you want someone to blame for tonight’s disaster, you might try yourself.”
Panic flashed over Mrs. Westlake’s face before she caught it and wiped it away. “Oliver Pratt was never in my employ. He was a member of the Davenport staff.” Then, as though realizing that it might sound as though she were blaming them, she said, “If there’s any fault to be found, it belongs with the head of their security team for allowing him to be hired in the first place.” She looked pleased with her conclusion, which deflected all blame away from both families and back onto the hired help.
“Do you think I care who signed the man’s paycheck, Meredith? He was in your house. Yours. And he was here tonight. So any way you look at it, you put my daughter in harm’s way.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, you didn’t, did you? You didn’t think to offer an apology. You didn’t even think to ask if Thea was all right, which she is, thank God, and no thanks to you or your ridiculous excuses, or about the two people who are on their way to the hospital in who knows what condition. You just thought about yourself and how all of this was going to affect you and your precious political agenda.”