Arielle grabbed for the purse she’d placed on the floor. “Good day,” she said in a clipped tone. As she stood, he noted a betrayal of emotions—heightened color stained her cheeks. “I can see you’re very busy.”
She swept her gaze over him, and he was suddenly conscious of his attire: cutoff shorts, faded T-shirt, deck shoes and a nine-millimeter automatic comfortably nestled in a shoulder holster.
She’d placed her purse strap over her shoulder and ran from the room before he had a chance to apologize for his thoughtless comment.
Whatever her trouble was, it was real to her.
With a soft curse, he followed, several precious seconds lost when he stopped to pull on a sweatshirt, with large holes cut where sleeves used to be. Guns might be a common enough sight these days, but he didn’t like attracting undue attention.
He turned his key in the lock and ran down the hallway and across the lobby.
Doug caught a glimpse of her gleaming ponytail as she pushed through the revolving glass door.
He vaulted over a Wet Floor sign and headed to the side door. He’d apologize, once he caught her—and he would catch her—and then he’d make arrangements for Yarrow to check out the situation and provide a guard and surveillance, if necessary. Doug would be on his way, beneath sunny and cloudless skies, before the hour was out.
“Miss Hale!” He pushed through the door and lengthened his stride to a virtual jog. He didn’t intend to lose her on the crowded lunchtime sidewalk. “Arielle, wait!”
She didn’t pause.
He pursued.
Several seconds later, he clamped his hand around her upper arm, swinging her back slightly into a halt.
“No!”
Her eyes were terrified, and her whole body convulsed with silent sobs. “Arielle,” he said in a controlled tone, the pitch low, calm.
She gulped in a breath of hot, humid air. Doug moved them closer to a nearby building, out of the way of pedestrian traffic, backing her toward a plate-glass window.
He cursed himself for a thousand kinds of fool. He’d been an insensitive idiot. “That crack, about the cafeteria—”
Brilliant light flashed, halting his words.
He looked again in the window.
Sunshine. On metal.
Adrenaline slammed reaction into instinct.
Doug pivoted. He shoved Arielle down, placed his body between her and the barrel of the unseen gun, reached for his automatic and drew it with deadly speed and controlled accuracy.
“Clear the area. Now!” he yelled.
Glass shattered. Arielle’s scream was accompanied by others.
Chaos reined. He shouted the order again. Pedestrians pushed, shoved, and scattered.
Noise and panic surrounded them, then faded into the distance as the crowd responded to his commands, clearing the sidewalk.
He cursed, chasing away emotion and acting solely from years of training.
He smelled something.
Fear. Intent.
Desperation.
The second bullet missed his skull by a fraction of an inch.
Getting Arielle to safety was paramount.
Seeing a passenger lean over to pay a taxi driver, Doug crouched, reached behind him to find her arm. “Let’s go for a spin.”
Gun ready in one hand, he darted his gaze from side to side, not relaxing, although he’d calculated the odds and decided the would-be assassin wouldn’t risk a third shot. Wouldn’t have enough time to get away.
He pushed the disembarking man aside and shoved the shaking Arielle into the cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Doug slammed the door. “The docks!”
His gaze on Doug’s gun, the man nodded and followed the command.
“Jeez,” Doug said as they pulled into traffic, cutting off a car. The cabdriver sped through a yellow light, buying them a few seconds of comfort. “Wasn’t ready to play cops and robbers.”
Arielle had huddled against the far door. Loosened hairs fanned her face. The soft curtain couldn’t hide her abject misery. Holstering his gun, he pulled her close to him. Safer that way, he told himself. But for whom?
“Arielle?”
Her teeth chattered, and goose bumps prickled her arms.
“If I’m going to be putting my butt on the line for yours, you better tell me why someone wants a piece of it.”
The driver gestured wildly and shouted in a language Doug couldn’t decipher. He turned to look out the back window. Cargo van. White. No license plate.
Just his luck.
He had a beautiful woman beside him, he was heading for open water, and someone wanted to have a tea party.
Through the van’s dark tinted glass, Doug could see only the silhouette of the driver and a passenger. And the distinctive outline of a gun. “Step on it!”
The man responded, and the taxi lurched forward. Shoving Arielle low, Doug swiped his nine-millimeter from its holster again, keeping one eye carefully focused on the van.
It moved into the right lane. Accelerated.
“Hold on!” Doug braced against the back of the seat, steadying his shooting arm. The street was thick with traffic. Which meant he couldn’t get off a clean round. He cursed. Endangering civilians was something he’d been taught not to do. And if he fired, he’d do exactly that. Swearing again, he kept his aim trained between the driver’s eyes.
The van kept coming, crashing into the right rear bumper, shoving them sideways.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” Arielle’s cries seemed to come from a great distance. Her fervent prayer mixed with the cabdriver’s curses, the sickening scent of burning rubber, and the crunch of metal against metal.
The van attacked again, colliding with the taxi on Doug’s side, knocking him backward. The taxi spun out of control.
Doug ground his back teeth together as they headed into an intersection and oncoming traffic.
As he regained his balance—wrapping a protective arm around Arielle and bracing—he had one thought.
Now it was personal.
Chapter 2
Terror choked off the scream that rose in Arielle’s throat. Grabbing a fistful of cotton fleece, she squeezed, burying her face into the taut muscle that lay beneath the fabric.
The faint scent of woodlands and spice penetrated her numbed senses, her shocked mind.
Memories and images flashed, in no particular order.
The house in Vermont where she’d grown up...where her parents still lived. Danny. Her dear brother, Danny! Exorbitant medical bills. Her childhood. The mortgage on a house that had been paid for in full once. Retirement that was now, for her parents, only a dream.
Dear Lord, she had to survive this. She had to. She couldn’t bear to see her parents’ hearts broken. Not a second time.
Horns blasted and tires screeched as their driver gunned the engine. The battered taxi lurched forward. Arielle winced, fully expecting to feel another impact.
Doug’s curse, immediately followed by a sarcastic comment, had her struggling to sit up, but his arm, like a band of steel, forbade the motion.
“Pull over. Right here,” Doug ordered the driver a couple of minutes later.
Only when he shifted to reach for his wallet did Arielle dare move. Extracting a couple of large bills, he shoved them into the driver’s hand and opened the door.
“Hardly enough to cover damage to the poor man’s car, not to mention the near miss on his life,” Arielle remarked as she scooted across the seat after Doug.
“Well, now, sweetheart, that’s not my fault. Is it? Did you want to hang around and discuss insurance coverage, or would you prefer to make tracks in an attempt to save your hide?”
Arielle glared up into sparkling sea green eyes as she alighted. Defensive, knowing she had no right to be and at the same time knowing she’d had more than enough of his sarcasm, she couldn’t help adding, “Are you always this charming to potential clients?”
“Only when a pro tries
to scalp me.”
“Professional?” She swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her fragile hold on her composure. Somehow, in that moment, she realized that it was Doug’s wise-guy- act—irritating as it was—that strengthened her nerves. If he showed sympathy, she might crumble under the stress. “How can you tell he’s a professional?”
Doug’s eyes darkened, and Arielle wasn’t at all sure she was ready for his answer. She was living a nightmare. None of this could possibly be real.
“Determination. This guy has something to prove.”
A shiver chased along Arielle’s spine at his matter-off-act tone. His words provided an eye-opener to a side of life she’d managed to ignore. And now she was smack in the middle of it. She, a seventh-grade schoolteacher whose life, by comparison to Doug’s, had been comfortably dull. Terminally safe.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got jogging shoes in that suitcase you’re carrying?”
She shook her head, envying him his deck shoes and shorts.
In the stifling heat, her stockings stuck to her legs like a second skin. She reached up, releasing the button at her throat. Silk wasn’t much better.
Doug grabbed her hand. “Let’s move.”
His touch was impersonal. Her reaction, anything but. Hastily Arielle denied the tingling warmth that raced up her arm. Denied that her inability to catch her breath had anything to do with him, that it had since the moment she walked into his office.
Denied that she was even remotely attracted to a man who obviously couldn’t wait to pawn her off on his associate.
Determined to keep up, she paced herself to Doug’s long strides. No easy task, when the straight skirt she wore confined her legs. And her new high-heeled pumps were already a painful reminder of why she rarely made the investment.
She grimaced when he led her down a narrow, semidark alley, the scent of rotting trash permeating the air. Hugging the wall, Doug urged her along with a none-too-gentle tug on her hand.
“Where are we going?”
He answered without turning, making it difficult to hear. Something about destiny. Well, she certainly hoped his was more promising than her own.
Struggling for breath, she grimaced when he tugged on her hand. Not wanting to initiate him further, she kept her silence and did her best to keep his pace.
Arielle couldn’t have said that Shannen hadn’t warned her. Doug’s tactics might be a bit rough around the edges at times, but he was definitely Arielle’s man, Shannen had said. And the only one, besides her husband, Rhone, that she would entrust with her life.
Shannen hadn’t minced words, either, in her description of the man who, at the moment, was casting an impatient glance over his shoulder because the heel of Arielle’s shoe had caught in an iron grate.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling it free.
She saw his glance track over her head.
“Aw, hell.”
Before she could turn to see what had caught his attention, Doug shoved her into a doorway. Straight ahead, on painted gray steel, were the words Freight Only.
Her back against the wall, Doug’s hands rested against the concrete on either side of her head. Green eyes met blue, defying her to look away.
Determinedly Doug clipped out, “I don’t know who the hell wants you dead, or why. Before this day ends, I will know every gory detail. I’ll have answers, Arielle. In the meantime, you’re a mark he’s determined to hit.”
Arielle gulped, tried to swallow and couldn’t “You saw the van again?” she croaked.
Doug peered around the corner. “Yeah. It looked real similar to the one that just backed up and is turning in.”
Without ceremony, Doug forced her into a crouching position, pushed her around the corner and shoved her into the narrow space between a huge, overflowing Dumpster and the wall.
“Lay down,” he commanded. His expression devoid of any emotion, he withdrew his gun.
“Are you kidding? The ground is filthy.” Even as she protested, she did as she was told, gagging on the pungent odor.
“Next time you want me to save you, I’ll make sure the Trump Tower isn’t booked.”
Closing her eyes, she fought a wave of nausea, determined not to lose the tiny bit of lunch she’d been able to force past her fear.
“Dirt washes out easier than blood,” he offered. Too big to join her in the narrow space, Doug stacked a couple of smaller trash cans in front of him and jerked empty boxes closer to block the gap.
The van approached, and Arielle held her breath. She held it consciously, as if the driver might hear her breathe.
When it slowly passed, she started to give a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, the van stopped.
In the silence of the alley, she heard a door open. Clapping both hands over her mouth, she turned her face toward the wall. She drew her knees up when she felt Doug’s weight push against her feet.
Eyes closed, Arielle fought to hold back the panic demanding to be let loose.
A spray of gunfire ripped metal with deafening persistence. Her body jerked violently, as though she’d been hit. Horrified, she knew she’d never forget that sound of cold-blooded intent.
After what seemed an eternity, sirens screamed across the sky. Seconds later, she heard rushing footsteps and the slam of a door.
Tires squealing, the van took off.
Doug. Oh, God, was he hurt? Or, worse, was he—?
“I’m going to get that bastard.”
The sheer venom in his voice was music to her ears. With a shaky laugh that caught on a sob, she managed to rise to a semisitting position. She took Doug’s hand when he held it out to her.
On legs that felt like rubber, Arielle collapsed against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist. Relief flooded her, and she hugged him tightly, unable to stop the flow of tears.
“I don’t carry hankies.”
Despite that, he wrapped his arms around her. Terror and guilt choked her—because of her, he could have been killed-blocking off rational thought.
“Arielle?”
Hearing the impatience in his tone, she tried to tamp down the tears, tried and failed.
“Shh, it’s okay.”
Despite his reassurance, her sobs still racked her body. Her palm rested on his chest, and she felt him sigh. Doug, his touch tender, traced the outline of her cheek, stopping when his finger was beneath her chin. He tipped back her head, and she saw that the cool distance had faded from his eyes, replaced by something she couldn’t have named.
Then she couldn’t think at all, as he lowered his head toward her.
She sucked in a breath.
His lips claimed hers in a hard kiss.
Under his commanding assault—one that flooded her senses—clawing fear gently subsided.
When he finally released her, she was able to drag in a drink of air.
“You okay?” he asked, his tone gentler than she could have imagined possible. This wasn’t the same man whose office she’d entered. He was so much more real, powerful, tender.
She told herself he’d kissed her to calm her, nothing more. Why, then, did her heart keep thudding? She was a logical person, conservative. Not one given to flights of fancy. Certainly not one to let a man she barely knew kiss her. And like it.
But then, logical and conservative people didn’t have professional gunmen trying to kill them.
Dear Lord, what had she done?
Doug slid his thumb lightly down her cheeks, wiping away the tears. Continuing lower, he outlined her lips, which were swollen from his touch. The corner of his mouth tilted slightly. “Feeling stronger? We still have a couple blocks to go. Or do I need to kiss you again?”
A wave of emotion crashing over her, leaving her adrift on feelings she couldn’t have begun to name, she nodded.
“Is that a yes to the kiss?”
Good God, not that. “No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m ready.”
Taking his hand once again, she ignored the tr
emor in her knees and followed close behind.
Obviously, he’d meant the kiss as nothing more than a means for her to regain control, to shock her back to the present. She shot a glare toward the broad shoulders that filled her line of vision, berating herself for imagining—secretly wishing—that it could have meant something else.
With each step, Arielle winced in pain. The balls of her feet throbbed and burned, and her arches ached. Friction had long since rubbed tender skin raw. Worse, though, was the stench that wafted around them, and she knew it clung to her.
To keep her mind off what she hoped was temporary misery—though thinking about that was better than facing the reality of her situation—Arielle switched her thoughts to another topic, and was not surprised when her focus returned to Doug and a conversation she’d had about him with Shannen.
Her friend had described Doug as a private person, not one to openly or willingly share his innermost feelings. Shannen had laughed, saying that, like Rhone, Doug could be stubborn, a hard man to read. And, too, like Rhone, Doug was loyal, totally trustworthy and completely capable.
Already, Arielle could see the likenesses, could see how Doug and Rhone had once worked together in perfect tandem.
Shannen had volunteered more, her tone carrying a thread of warning. Unlike Rhone’s, Doug’s softer side lay much deeper, residing beneath layers of his life experiences, protected against discovery and exploitation by a sometimes cynical attitude.
Don’t let that bother you, Shannen had said, before going on to add with a smile that behind every good man was his female equal. It was high time Doug found his. Shannen’s meaning had been clearly evident in the pointed look she bestowed on Arielle.
Not for one minute would Arielle fool herself into believing she could be Doug’s equal in a relationship. Their backgrounds were opposite in the extreme.
Undoubtedly, their views on life and their thoughts about how they wanted to fulfill it were different, too.
Arielle wanted a home, a family. The works. She wanted to trade in the white picket fence for split-rail and live in the country. Wanted to provide a wholesome environment for the babies she’d dreamed of having for so long.
One Night At A Time Page 2