Breathless

by Nancy Warren

  The silence lengthened to the point of discomfort. She had no idea what the protocol was in a situation like this. All she knew was what she’d seen on TV and at the movies.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered.

  He continued to stare at her, and if anything his eyes grew colder.

  Another long silence passed.

  They couldn’t sit here all day staring at each other while the gun seemed to gain weight in her not-quite-steady hands. Action was clearly required. “I’m calling the police,” she informed him firmly.

  He didn’t argue, merely raised one eyebrow a fraction.

  Then she remembered. “Oh. My cell phone’s in my car.”

  “Use mine.” His voice matched his eyes. Cold, angry, clipped. He started to reach inside his jacket.

  “Freeze!” she yelled, waving the gun a bit in case he’d forgotten she was holding it. Did he really think she was that stupid? He probably had a whole arsenal inside his windbreaker. The very idea had goose bumps running up and down her spine.

  She’d reach in his pocket herself. How hard could it be? Keep the gun out of the guy’s reach, keep her eyes on his so he didn’t try anything funny and see for herself what was in his jacket.

  “Put your hands up where I can see them,” she ordered. Her voice was getting stronger by the second, she was pleased to note.

  She could have sworn he rolled his eyes, but she just glared at him until he complied. She lost a bit of dignity stumbling down the stairs in one medium-heeled cream leather pump and one stockinged foot.

  He muttered under his breath as she reached into his jacket and she could have sworn he said, “Hurry up.”

  It wasn’t that easy to search him while keeping her gaze glued to his. Her peripheral vision wasn’t all that clear, plus the expression in his eyes rattled her. Staring into a man’s eyes for any length of time was usually an intimate, romantic gesture—a trading of smoldering messages. Staring into her prisoner’s eyes was like staring into a fathomless frozen sea.

  She shivered as she slipped her hand inside his jacket. In contrast to his gaze, his body was startlingly warm. Her hand brushed his chest, rigid with muscle, the heart thudding against her searching fingers.

  For a second heat flashed behind the green ice of his eyes and she felt an instinctive quiver in her belly. His gaze moved lazily, insolently to her breasts, once more shoved into his line of vision as she bent forward to search him, and her response was almost as bad as when she’d felt his breath on her earlier. She usually kept her Marilyn Monroe breasts tucked away behind jackets and loose sweaters for work, but she’d left her jacket in the car.

  “Like the view?” she snapped, inordinately annoyed at her own response. She must be insane to find such a man attractive.

  “Spectacular,” he said, his gaze roving the contours of her chest with as much deliberate slowness as though he were using his tongue. She’d intended to admonish him. She should have known better. A man who wasn’t afraid to attack a woman wouldn’t care about being caught staring at a convenient pair of breasts.

  Her hand moved more rapidly, all business, feeling the outline of a pectoral muscle, a soft roughness that must be his chest hair and the small bump of his nipple.

  “Jacket pocket, not shirt pocket,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She felt hot and uncomfortable and wished someone would come to help her. “Sorry,” she whispered, her lips dry.

  She fumbled a bit, batting at the jacket lining, then found it. Not another weapon, but a cell phone tucked into an inside pocket, precisely as he’d said.

  Relieved to be able to get back to a safer distance from his deeply disturbing presence, she scuttled back to the stairs, found her shoe and slipped it on.

  “Who are you calling?” he asked as she flipped open the phone.

  “9-1-1.”

  “Get patched through to police. Tell them you’ve got Blake Barker.”

  Her eyes widened. Wow. He must be one of America’s Most Wanted if the police knew him by name. Her dashed ego was restored. What was a scraped hand and missing car when she may have single-handedly caught a desperate criminal?

  He must have read her thoughts, for his eyes narrowed. “Detective Blake Barker.”

  She almost dropped the phone along with her jaw. “Detective?”

  Something that might have been amusement flashed across his face as he took in her obvious horror. “I’m a cop.”

  He must be yanking her chain. “But—but you pulled a gun on that poor woman.”

  “I was arresting that poor woman.” He grimaced and she watched a drop of sweat roll down his temple. “And you better tell them to send an ambulance.”

  Her heart thudded painfully. “An ambulance?”

  He glared at her once more. “You broke my damn leg.”

  2

  ONLY NOW DID Sophie notice that one of the man’s legs was twisted at an odd angle. “Oh, my. I’m—”

  “Just make the call.”

  Her fingers trembled as she punched in the numbers. Ignoring his instructions, she asked for an ambulance as soon as the 9-1-1 dispatcher answered.

  “What is the nature of the accident or injury?” a calm female voice asked her.

  “He has a broken leg.”

  She gnawed her lip, staring down at the injured man leaning back against the wall. Now that she was no longer pointing a gun at him, his eyes drooped, only to jerk open again as though he were fighting sleep. “I think he has a concussion, too,” she said, her stomach so heavy she felt as if she’d swallowed one of the cement stairs.

  “What is your location, ma’am?”

  “Location…” She glanced wildly around her, but of course there was no street sign. In this mean alley there wasn’t so much as an address painted on any of the grim buildings. She could be absolutely anywhere. “Just a moment,” she said to the operator.

  “Excuse me,” she said to her captive. It looked as though he’d dropped off to sleep, but she knew he shouldn’t sleep if he had concussion, so she called louder. “Excuse me. Mr…Detective Barker.”

  His eyes opened slowly. “You still here?”

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know about you. But I’m in hell.”

  “The…um…ambulance needs a location.”

  In a few terse words, he gave her the location and the closest main streets. She passed them on and then, giving him the benefit of the doubt, said, “The injured man claims he’s a police officer. He says his name is Detective Blake Barker.” She finished the call then settled down to wait.

  It would be easy enough to find out for certain whether he was telling the truth. If he was a cop, he’d carry ID, but the very idea of putting her hands in his pockets again was more than she could manage. She’d find out soon enough.

  She bit her lip, wondering if she’d be the one who ended up arrested. She was about to ask him when she noticed his eyes drifting shut again. “Hey, you mustn’t fall asleep. You could get brain damage.”

  He opened his eyes with an apparent effort, looking her up and down. “Unless you’re planning to finish the job and shoot me, put that thing away.”

  “Sorry,” she said and placed the gun on the step beside her, the barrel facing away from both of them. She wasn’t stupid, though. She only had his word for it that he was a cop. She wasn’t letting that gun out of her immediate reach.

  But, whoever he was, cop or robber, she had to keep him talking, to stop him from falling asleep. She remembered when Hank, her oldest brother, had that concussion after the big football game. The doctor had told her parents to wake him up throughout the night and ask him questions. His birthday, what day it was. That kind of thing.

  Blowing out a breath, she leaned her elbows on her knees and hoped the ambulance wouldn’t take long.

  “Detective Barker. When is your birthday?”

  He didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “You planning to buy me a present?”

  “Yes
. A book on manners.”

  His mouth crooked up in a tired smile. “May fifteenth. Nineteen-seventy.”

  She did the mental math and discovered he was four years older than she. Not that that meant anything, of course. He wasn’t an interesting possibility she’d just met at a party. Oh, how she wished he was, that they’d met under almost any other circumstances. “You’re a Taurus. Why am I not surprised? You know what the symbol for Taurus is? Detective Barker?”

  This time he opened one eye and pushed his hair behind his ears. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

  She nodded. “That’s what my brothers always say. I should warn you, I never give up, either, once I put my mind to something. Of course, that’s a good quality in a career-driven woman, but it can be very annoying socially. Do you know what the symbol for Taurus is?”

  “The bull,” he muttered. He must have got the message that she’d keep pestering him until he answered her questions. Maybe he even realized it was for his own good.

  “That’s right. Even on our short acquaintance, I’m inclined to think it suits you. Bulls are stubborn and, well, bullheaded, aren’t they?”

  Either he was ignoring her or he’d fallen asleep again. She’d shake his shoulder but she was afraid he might do her injury, so she stuck with her bright conversation. “Do you have a favorite color, Detective?”

  “Pink.”

  She chuckled. If he was making jokes, even sardonic ones, his brain couldn’t be all that damaged.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “I have a headache. Would you just shut up?”

  Well, it wasn’t the correct answer, but so long as he kept talking she didn’t suppose it mattered much what he said.

  “Did you always want to be a police officer?”

  “Right now I want to be a murderer.”

  She put her hand on the gun beside her. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. She was getting chilled sitting on not-very-clean cement stairs without her jacket. The sun was out, but it was a pale reminder that fall would soon give way to winter.

  If she couldn’t keep him talking, she could at least keep him awake by talking herself. She took a deep breath and started babbling, keeping a careful eye on her prisoner/ patient. “My brother Carl always wanted to be a police officer when he was a kid. Well, that or a garbage man. He loved watching those guys jump on and off moving trucks.” She chuckled at the memory. “He ended up as a stockbroker.”

  No response.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters, Detective?” It was hard to imagine him with brothers or sisters or parents for that matter. Her first guess would be that he hatched from demon spawn.

  His eyes opened, but only so he could glare at her.

  So she told him about all her brothers. She’d launched into the story of how her parents met when she finally heard the blessed sound of a siren.

  She picked up the gun and ran up the stairs to signal. Her heart lifted with relief when she saw the ambulance turn into their alley—then sank when she noticed the police cruiser following it. She had an awful feeling she’d soon find herself handcuffed and tossed in the back of the cruiser for assaulting a police officer.

  BLAKE OPENED HIS EYES when he heard the siren, wondering what had taken them so long. He forced himself to focus on the woman who was hovering over him again. It wasn’t easy. She wavered before his vision like an unwelcome mirage.

  His leg hurt like a bitch, his head pounded and he couldn’t see straight. On top of that, there was a throbbing between his legs reminding him that Blondie may have prematurely ended his sex life. But worse than that, she’d helped Li’s girlfriend escape. The diminutive woman had at least six kilos of heroine in her shopping bag which she was delivering for her boyfriend. Blake had planned to arrest her and convince her to work with them. He’d seen the bruises on her face and the skittish look in her eyes, and he was hopeful that if they offered her protection she’d help them catch the elusive Mr. Li.

  But, thanks to Blondie here, not only had she escaped, but she now knew he wasn’t an ambitious dealer working his way up the ranks, but a cop.

  His cover was blown.

  His gut churned, adding one more unpleasant sensation to his overloaded system.

  “Please, it’s really important you stay awake.” She glanced over her shoulder then turned back to him. “Help’s almost here.”

  “Go away.” If she’d just shut up, maybe he could get his jumbled thoughts straight. Take a little nap. He leaned his head against the wall, letting the pale October sunshine wash his face. Just a little nap and he’d…

  “Detective, please.” She was shaking him again. Damn woman wouldn’t leave him alone. “Tell me…tell me about the woman.”

  “None of your business,” he said.

  “It is my business,” she said, indignation in her tone and sparkling in her eyes. Gorgeous eyes, he noted. A clear, unwavering blue, set in an angelic face. And yet there was something about the full-lipped mouth that hinted at devilry. An intriguing combination. Blond hair curled at her shoulders. Too bad her brain matched her hair color. “That woman stole my car,” she said.

  “My heart bleeds. Go jump on her and break some bones.”

  White teeth gnawed her lower lip. “The ambulance is here.” She paused and an expression of acute anxiety crossed her face. “And the police.”

  He merely grunted. Behind and above her he could make out the steady beat of the lights. They’d cut the sirens, at least, but he hated lying here in a heap knowing the ambulance was for him. He hated it almost as much as he hated the failure he could taste like blood on his tongue. No, damn it, that was blood he tasted. On top of all his other injuries, he’d bitten his tongue when the hellcat attacked him.

  Before the paramedics got to him, one of his handlers, Detective John Holborn, vaulted down the steps, weapon drawn. “What the—”

  The hellcat gave a squeak of alarm as John grabbed the gun they’d both forgotten she was holding and shoved her against the wall, slapping her hands above her head.

  She gazed at John as if he’d sneezed and forgotten to say excuse me.

  In spite of his misery Blake wanted to laugh. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Get your hands up where I can see them,’” he informed John in a loud TV cop way.

  She glared at him over John’s shoulder, pinkening under his mocking stare. “It’s what they say on TV.”

  He chuckled, amazed he was capable of it. Bloody amateurs. “Let her go, John. She was…” Her gaze snagged on his and he saw the embarrassment, pride and a touch of fear. She must know attacking police officers was not going to earn her a public service medal. He shook his head, knowing she must have done his brain a serious injury since he was going to let her off. “She was trying to help.”

  “How hard did you hit your head?” John asked him, frowning, his weapon still trained on the woman. “She had a gun.”

  “My Beretta. She was…” It was tough to think through the throbbing in his head, leg, groin and most other parts of his body. “She was keeping watch. Wai Fung Li’s girlfriend’s in the neighborhood. She just stole this woman’s car. Get the details, maybe we can apprehend her.”

  John hesitated then nodded brusquely, holstering his own weapon.

  Eyes wide and nervous, she slowly lowered her arms. He might be damaged, broken and concussed, but he was still able to appreciate the sight of her stretched out against the wall. Her elegant blouse was missing a crucial button, which he hadn’t bothered to tell her about. Now that the silky fabric gaped, he got a glimpse of full creamy breasts cupped by a lacy white bra. Nice long waist, he noted, a swell of hip and then the skirt which hid her thighs, but not the shapely calves and ankles.

  He and John exchanged a glance, but they’d been partners long enough to communicate on less. Nice rack, they agreed.

  There was a smear of blood on her blouse and he wondered what other part of him she’d injured, then he noticed her hand was scra
ped raw. “Get somebody to look at her hand.”

  Before John could protest, another figure jogged down to join the party. Vaguely Blake recognized the uniformed paramedic. A young guy still new at what he was doing and enthusiastic about it. Just his luck. The medic crouched at Blake’s side, ran gloved hands over his head then shone a flashlight in his eye.

  He flinched. “I broke my leg, you idiot. Not my eye.”

  “Is it a very bad concussion?” the woman asked over his head, as if he was a little kid or someone who didn’t speak the language.

  “Hard to tell,” the paramedic answered her. The hands kept moving over him, down his side, behind his back. No doubt they were checking for more damage, but it made him feel foolish, especially with those clear blue eyes watching every move.

  When the paramedic’s hands moved up his inner thigh, he’d had enough. He clamped a hand on the guy’s wrist. “One more inch and you’re a dead man.”

  “Just doing my job.” The medic shot a glance at John and said, “Cops are always the worst.”

  “Tell him the family jewels came through just fine,” he told John, since no one seemed to want to speak to him directly.

  It wasn’t entirely true. His balls still throbbed thanks to Miss Citizen Crusader. His gaze settled on hers. “Well, mostly fine,” he amended, and she blushed scarlet.

  John had his cell phone out. “We’ll see if we can track down your car, ma’am. Give me the make and model number.”

  She and John stepped to the side while the perky paramedic chatted to him in his best stretcher-side manner. “Can’t give you any good drugs, Detective. They’ll have those at the hospital. We’ll just stabilize you and put you in an aluminum splint. Have you out of here in no time.”

  “Color?” John asked Blondie.

  “Blue.”

  Blake wondered foggily if her car color matched her eyes.

  After John had relayed the information, including location and time of the theft, he pocketed his phone and turned back to Blake. “So, Li’s girlfriend did this to you?” His face creased in puzzlement. “You should have called for backup.”