by Lakes, Lynde
“Oh, God, no!” Panic rose in Rusti and she screamed into the silent room. “Someone help me!”
Only a hideous silence met her plea. Rusti grabbed the bedside phone and dialed 911. Where were the police who had failed to keep them safe? The 911 dispatcher assured Rusti that an ambulance was on the way and told her to stay on the line.
At the crunch of glass, she looked up to see Officer Anderson, who apparently had climbed in through the broken window. “I heard you scream. You okay?”
“No. My friend’s bleeding!” As Anderson rushed to her side, Rusti told the operator that a policeman was with her now, and she hung up. Anderson bent over Petra and applied pressure near the wound.
Rusti could hardly breathe. “She’s still alive, isn’t she?” Please, God, let her be alive…
“She’s hanging in there, but losing blood fast. I’m—” An approaching ambulance siren drowned out his last words.
Within minutes, the EMTs had lifted Petra into the ambulance and closed the door. The rescue unit took off, lights flashing, siren wailing. Rusti, numb with grief, was left standing alone at the curb.
****
Razor had grown increasingly concerned about Rusti while talking to Terrilla, and after making a respectful exit, he rushed out of the mansion. The old Capo might think he had his men safely under his thumb, but if someone could slip into the Egyptia and kill René with so many people around, how could a few cops outside the condo keep a determined killer away from Rusti? Razor floored the gas pedal—he hadn’t done enough to protect the fiery little redhead.
Guarding Rusti was no longer just a job. In spite of his resolve to control his feelings, he already cared for her more than he should. Even if they’d met under different circumstances, he wouldn’t be worthy of her. He spent too much time in the company of gangsters, though it helped to remember that he had sent his share of them to prison, or to hell. He’d managed to keep his soul intact, but that wouldn’t be enough for a woman like Rusti.
Just once, he’d like to see her full, sensual lips break into a smile that held nothing back, see her eyes light up with joy. But he had to forget wishes like that and concentrate on keeping her safe. Razor wondered who Baxter had left at René’s place to protect Rusti. No police watchdog would be as alert to the situation as he was. He had to hang around himself, at least until morning.
Razor noticed that he was passing all the other cars and eased up on the accelerator—all he needed was a cop on his tail. He glanced in his rearview mirror; no cops were following. René’s was a quiet neighborhood. But suddenly he heard the scream of a siren over on the boulevard and turned on his police radio to check it out.
****
A panicked Rusti caught a ride to the hospital with Officer Anderson. We’ve got the perp cornered,” he said, probably in an attempt to distract her from her fears. “Officer Geary and our backup will get him.”
Rusti nodded numbly, unable to talk, unable to think of anything but Petra. Anderson seemed to understand and fell silent. By the time Rusti arrived at the ER, Petra was already in surgery. An agonizing lifetime later, the bleeding had been stopped and the wound sutured. Petra had lost a lot of blood and required a transfusion, but was now considered to be in a guarded though not life-threatening condition. Petra would recover. Rusti’s heart lifted at the news.
Rusti was allowed to see Petra. And when she couldn’t bring herself to leave or even let go of her friend’s hand, the nursing staff seemed to understand and worked around her. Petra stirred. Rusti squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to say anything, sweetie, just squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Petra’s fingers moved.
“I’m here, I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”
“Ms. Collins?” Officer Anderson stood in the door. He inclined his head toward Petra. “I heard she’s going to make it.” He paused, then said, “Thought you’d like to know we caught the guy. He’s at headquarters now. I’ll keep you posted.”
Rusti smiled faintly and nodded. Petra’s eyes were open. “They caught the man who did this, Petra. Did you hear?”
Petra reached out a hand. “No, Rusti…” Then she drifted away again, muttering something unintelligible.
Still holding Petra’s hand, Rusti finally dozed off herself, her head resting on the edge of the bed.
****
When the call of the assault blasted in over his police radio, Razor immediately called the hospital. Rusti had not been admitted. Fearing she’d been killed or was DOA, he raced to the hospital. By the time he arrived, his stomach was in knots. To complicate matters, cops were crawling all over the place. Darting into a linen closet, he dressed himself in green scrubs, complete with mask—which he left half-dangling around his neck. The half mask and cap hid his features to some degree. It was the best he could do but fell short; the first mirror he passed practically shouted that Razor Jones was on the ward. But no one paid the least attention to him, not even when he followed a uniformed cop up to the surgery floor.
Another cop, one he’d seen at René’s condo, was hanging over the surgery desk, talking to the charge nurse. Razor’s heart pounded. Dear God, the victim must be Rusti. She could have been admitted under an assumed name so the perp couldn’t find her to finish her off. He edged closer and stood with his back to the nurse and cop, pretending to study a chart board that was lying on the counter. They were talking about the hospital coffee shop, and laughing. Would a cop who’d been assigned to protect Rusti be laughing if she weren’t okay?
He couldn’t ask, and he had to know for sure. He checked three rooms before he found her sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head on the edge of the bed, holding the patient’s hand. Relief shot through him. He’d never been a religious man, but he’d been bargaining with God from the moment he first realized Rusti was in danger. Let her be safe and I’ll… He had no idea what he’d been promising in exchange for her life. Not that it mattered. He’d give anything. He leaned over the bed to see who the patient was.
Rusti stirred, then looked up at him through sleep-clouded eyes. Razor pulled off the mask and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Razor!” Rusti cried. She released Petra’s hand and rose straight into his arms. An expression of astonishment must have crossed his face, because she said, “I’m sorry, it’s just that…” As suddenly as she’d thrust herself into his arms, she withdrew.
“Hey, don’t go away,” he said. “You don’t know what a relief it is to find you’re okay.” He pulled her back into his arms. “I heard the call over my police radio, feared it was you,” he murmured, burying his face in her silky hair.
Rusti held on to him like she’d never let go. “It’s Petra,” she said, “my best friend. But she’s going to be okay.” Looking self-conscious, Rusti released him, taking her soft warmth with her.
Razor glanced at the monitor, trying not to show his doubt about Petra’s chances. “What happened at the condo?” he asked.
“Petra must have awakened and surprised the intruder.” Rusti shuddered. “I saw him, Razor. He was tall and thin, and dressed all in black.”
“Can you identify him?”
“I didn’t see his face. But they caught him.”
Razor stiffened, jolted by instinctive wariness. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Baxter has him down at headquarters right now.”
Razor took Rusti’s hand and gave it a light squeeze of reassurance. But he wasn’t at all assured that they had the right guy. The cops would grab anyone in the area who looked suspicious. He intended to keep Rusti close by until the cops had some reliable evidence that they actually had the killer. Even after. There was still Terrilla. “Can you leave?” he asked. “You’re wiped out.”
She shook her head, her hair lightly dusting her shoulders. “I want to be here when Petra—”
The shriek of Petra’s monitor cut off her words. A crash team rushed a cart into the room. Razor yanked Rusti out of the way. With wide, horrified eyes, s
he watched the team work on Petra. Orders were called out, medications administered, defibrillation paddles applied to Petra’s chest.
Razor tried to lead Rusti from the room, but she shook him off. “I’m staying,” she said sharply.
He wanted to protect her from further trauma, but her healthy dose of anger told him she needed to be here, whatever the outcome.
“Again!” the doctor with the paddles called out. “Now!” The monitor didn’t change. “Again!”
“Give it up,” another doctor quietly said. “Call it.”
“No,” Rusti cried. “Keep trying, keep trying.”
Razor drew her close again, wanting to block her view.
The doctor manually massaged Petra’s chest. The team took turns spelling him. They continued for another twenty minutes. Finally, sweating profusely, the doctor stopped and looked up at the clock. “Time of death: 5:27 AM,” he said.
Rusti collapsed in Razor’s arms, sobbing. “No, no. Not again.”
“I’m so sorry, Rusti.” He stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
After a few moments, Rusti looked up at him. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she said softly. “The police have someone in custody, but Baxter still wants to talk to you about René.” She paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t let them catch you. I want you out there chasing the killer—now more than ever.”
He gently took her arm and guided her toward a chair. “Come on. We’ll go together. You can’t go back to René’s. I’ll take you to my place.”
“I hadn’t thought about where to go…” Rusti’s voice was barely a whisper. She half sat, half fell into the chair as though her legs could no longer support her.
Razor spied a Red Cross counselor and asked her to stay with Rusti while he got her some coffee.
“I’m fine,” Rusti said, dully.
Razor had never seen anyone more vulnerable. The counselor agreed to stay with Rusti, and Razor ducked into a stairway exit with more on his mind than coffee. He had to get them both out of there without arousing suspicion. If someone questioned her now there was no telling what she might say. He passed a laundry cart on the second floor landing, stripped off his disguise and chucked it in with the soiled linens.
When he came back with the coffee, Rusti was at the nurses’ station by the elevator door, watching. Rusti looked dead on her feet, her face so drained of color he thought she might collapse any second. She was leaning against the counter with only the doctor beside her. He had to chance talking to the doctor. He strode forward, boldly, and asked for a sedative to take with them so they wouldn’t have to stop at the pharmacy.
The doctor took him aside and gave him a small sample bottle. “Give her one of these, Mr. Collins,” he said. “It’ll help her sleep. You can get the prescription filled tomorrow.” He looked sympathetically toward Rusti. “But don’t overdo it on those pills. She needs to grieve. It’s important.” He glanced at the stain on Razor’s shirt, but didn’t ask any questions.
Razor put his arm around Rusti and she leaned into him as though seeking his strength. With her head against his shoulder, he walked her slowly down the empty hall toward the waiting elevator.
At his apartment, Razor got Rusti to eat a few bites of toast and take one of the pills with a glass of orange juice. Then he had her relax in his black leather chair while he tided up his bedroom and put clean sheets on the bed. By the time he’d finished, she had already drifted off. He was bone tired and emotionally drained himself, too tired to continue to deny his real feelings. When Rusti woke up, she would need comforting, and since he didn’t want anyone else involved, that would be up to him.
He carried her into the bedroom and began removing her clothes, revealing more of her lithe dancer’s body with each discarded item. He’d seen her in the wispy belly dancer’s costume, and while her sensuous movements and the sexy glitter of beads and coins had aroused him, seeing her now in her lacy bra and panties made him feel much more than mere lust. His carnal desire was tempered by a need to protect her, even from himself.
Still, he wondered what it would be like to make love to her. Would the prim, disciplined schoolteacher fade at his touch and release the sensual woman he’d seen dancing? Heat rushed to his groin, and he uttered a silent curse as he gently tucked her into his bed and tenderly kissed her soft lips.
He drew a chair up close to the bed and sat beside her, studying her features. Something about her was subtly different from René. The planes of her face were softer. There were dark shadows around her eyes, but her skin was flawless. God, she was beautiful. Her coppery hair was more forgiving than the black wig had been. Or René’s dye job. But there was something else. A dewy quality of innocence. He groaned inwardly. Would it still be there when all this was over?
Chapter Twelve
Rusti opened her eyes to a fuzzy world where everything was out of sync. Her throat was dry, her mouth cottony. She wasn’t sure where she was and tried to get her mind to function. The bed was not her own. Her blurred gaze drifted. She blinked several times, and the room, cast in shadows and dim lamplight, slowly took shape.
Razor was asleep in a chair drawn close to the bed. His hand rested loosely on hers. Rusti vaguely remembered falling asleep in a chair in his living room. How had she gotten into bed? His bed! Who had removed her clothes? She attempted to sit up, but the room spun like a runaway merry-go-round with a locked gear.
Razor opened his eyes. “Well…Sleeping Beauty has awakened, I see. How do you feel?”
“Like you slipped me a mickey.” Rusti rubbed her dull, throbbing head, wondering if she looked as bad as she felt. “You said good morning. How long did I sleep?”
“Since yesterday. Don’t you remember? I gave you a couple of those pills the doctor gave us.”
“Doctor?” Rusti stared at him, unable to ground herself. Then it all came flooding back. Petra… René… everything. Although curiously calm, a cold rage rode her grief. “Why weren’t you more careful with my sister’s life? You shouldn’t have handed over the microfilm without René’s personal okay. That’s what drew us into this nightmare.”
Razor rested his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up, his eyes haggard with grief. “I know that. It’s the worst blunder of my life. I’ll never get over it.” He paused, seeming to consider his next words. “I’m sorry if I appear unfeeling. But right now I can’t deal with my remorse and guilt and still function. I have to get to the bottom of this. For all our sakes. Trust me, at least, to do that.”
His plea sounded heartfelt and sincere. She couldn’t forget or forgive his part in her sister’s death, but she sympathized with his feelings of guilt. She had her own litany of ifs: if she hadn’t danced in René’s place, if she hadn’t left Petra alone in the bed, if she’d told Baxter the truth. And she faced a big if right now. If she kept punishing Razor, she might lessen his effectiveness. She had a choice to make. Move on or destroy the man she’d come to count on most. “What’s the latest word about the man they caught outside René’s place?” she asked.
“Last I heard, the cops were interrogating him.” Razor went to the dresser, pulled out a clean T-shirt and tossed it to her. “You hit the shower while I make some coffee and a couple of phone calls. If the police have the right man, this will soon be over. If not…”
She shivered. He didn’t need to say more.
Minutes later, Rusti stood under the stinging needle spray of his shower until her head began to feel less balloon-like. She washed her hair with his scentless shampoo. The same brand René used. It was still hard for her to think of René as an undercover agent. She towel dried her hair and dressed in her own clothes. No way was she going to spend the morning lounging about with Razor dressed in nothing but that T-shirt. She had things to do.
While she’d showered, Razor had put together a better than makeshift breakfast. Perfect scrambled eggs. Crisp microwave bacon. Buttered toast.
Rusti was mollified by the warm food;
it was the first meal she’d eaten since this whole nightmare began.
She jumped at the ringing telephone.
Razor grabbed the receiver, looking worried. “Hello?” Suddenly, his cautious tone changed to one of amusement. “No, I’m not surprised. Are you?” He winked at Rusti. “She’s okay. She’s here with me. Thanks, I’ll tell her.”
“Tell her what?” she asked as he hung up.
“Sure you want to know? That was Terrilla himself, my other boss. L.A.’s top drug lord. He sends you his condolences.”
“His condolences?” This was too much.
“There’s more. The cops had to let their suspect go.” He shook his head, then gave a humorless laugh. “So now you’re officially under Terrilla’s protection. He gave me direct orders not to let anything happen to you.”
“That doesn’t make sense. What are you talking about?”
“Terrilla didn’t order the hits on Kincaid or Bull. Or on René. The killer could be someone in our outfit acting independently, or it could be, as he suspects, some renegade from another gang. Whatever the case, he wants to be sure you’re protected at all times. He thinks if René was involved in a plot against us that you might know something about it.”
“Us?” Rusti’s heart thudded.
“The cartel. I volunteered to stick by you like a lover until I find out what you know. If anything.”
“Lover” echoed in her head. But the “us” bothered her tremendously. “What about Baxter?”
“He’s on his own. All he needs to believe is that I have the hots for you.” Razor paused and grinned. “You probably know that’s not a lie.”
She did know. “You aren’t my type,” was all she said, hoping to pass off his comment as a joke.
But it wasn’t at all funny. She was confused by her feelings for Razor. She felt drawn to him, but every time she saw his gun she was reminded of how Dane died. He’d been as tough as Razor, and in spite of that, he’d been killed just two weeks before they were to be married. It wasn’t only Razor’s gun that bothered her. It was the way he became a different person when he was talking to that crime boss on the phone—so believable. How could she be sure he wasn’t a double agent? She needed to know for her own piece of mind. They could never be a couple; still, he was the first man who had stirred up her feelings since Dane died. But she’d get over it. She had to.