Too Wilde to Tame (Wilde Security)

by Tonya Burrows

  “Andy, get my phone out of my purse and call 911.” She gently brushed a lock of his dark, overgrown hair from his face. “David, can you hear me?”

  He stirred and opened his eyes to slits but gave no indication that he’d understood her, or even that he was fully conscious yet “Help…” he rasped.

  “It’s okay.” She soothed more hair back from his face. “You’re okay now. We’ll get you to the hospital. I’ll call your brother, too. Your family has been so worried.” She started to turn away to see what was taking Andy so long, but a huge hand shot up and clamped around her wrist. She gasped. He stared up, his nearly black eyes focused intently on her face. Definitely conscious now, but possibly also delirious.

  “No. Hospital,” he gritted out between bloody teeth. “No brothers.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want…hospital. Or—my brothers.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Please.” His grip loosened as his eyes rolled back. A moment later, he was unconscious again. She sat back on her knees and stared at him.

  The guy was crazy. Completely nutso. He very obviously needed the hospital. Possibly a psych screening. And of course his brothers deserved to know he was no longer missing. How cruel to keep that from them.

  She shook her head and turned to her nephew. “Andy! Phone! He needs—” She broke off, shock freezing her to the bone. Andy clasped something in his bruised and bloodied hands, but it wasn’t her cell phone. He had a gun. A freaking gun! Her heart bungeed into her stomach. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s supposed to be dead.”

  She glanced from him to her unconscious neighbor and back. “Oh, God. Tell me you didn’t do this.”

  “Get out of the way, Aunt Tally. I need to finish the job.”

  “No.” She stood and positioned herself between the gun and David. “Think about what you’re doing. If you kill him, your life is over. Completely. There’s no turning back from that.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no turning back now.”

  “Fine. If you really think shooting him is your only option, do it. But you’ll have to shoot me, too, because I will not let you get away with this. I’ll go right to the cops.”

  The gun wavered in his hand. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t! What the actual fuck, Andy?”

  Tears filled his eyes, and the gun shook harder in his grip.

  She chanced a step closer. “This isn’t you. Put the gun down and let’s help him. Please. Do it for me.”

  “I can’t.” Andy whirled and ran down the stairs like the worst demons hell had to offer were nipping at his heels.

  Natalie sagged with relief even as her heart thundered against her ribs. She scrambled over to the spilled contents of her bag on the floor and found her phone, dialing 911 with shaking fingers. But she didn’t hit send. She glanced over at her neighbor, then at the stairs. If she called an ambulance, the cops would show up, and she’d have to tell them what she knew. She didn’t want to do that until she talked to Andy and found out what the hell was going on.

  She gazed back over at David. He’d said no hospital, so by not calling she was honoring his wishes, right? But she couldn’t leave him lying here, and taking him across the hall to his place wasn’t an option. For one thing, she didn’t have a key.

  So. He’d have to stay with her. Just until he was on his feet again. Hopefully that would give her enough time to convince him not to press charges against her wayward nephew.

  Cursing under her breath, Natalie got to her feet and stepped over him to unlock her apartment door. Jet was waiting there on the other side, but instead of his usual wagging tail and sloppy so-glad-you’re-home grin, he was lying on the floor, big head resting on his paws, brown eyes fixed on the door. He jumped up as soon as she had the door all the way open and bounded to David’s side, snuffling at his hair. Empathetic creature that he was, he’d sensed that someone was in pain on the other side of the door, and going by the claw marks in the wood, he’d tried to get through it to help. Sweet thing. She couldn’t even be mad at him for ruining any chance at getting her deposit back.

  Jet gently licked David’s face, then looked up at her with concern shining in his eyes when he got no reaction from his patient.

  She chuckled softly and rubbed his head. “He’ll be okay, buddy. We just have to get him inside.” She walked into her apartment, set her cell phone down on the kitchen counter, then went into her bedroom to find a sheet. She could roll him over onto it, then drag him inside.

  When she returned to the living room, she found him standing in her doorway, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship in stormy weather. “Oh.” She hugged the sheet to her chest. “You’re awake.”

  “I-I need…” He stumbled forward, gripping the wall as he went, and made it to the half bath in the hall only seconds before she heard him gag.

  She looked at the ceiling and said a little prayer of thanks that her apartment was the exact same layout as his. Otherwise, she doubted he would have been able to find the toilet in his condition, and she really didn’t do well with vomit.

  When the bathroom went silent, she crossed over and peeked inside. He was leaning over the toilet, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself for it. Stupid question, considering he just prayed mightily to the porcelain god and was currently bleeding all over her bathroom floor. “I mean…are you sure you don’t need the hospital? You, uh, probably have a concussion.”

  “No shit,” he snapped.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Excuse me? I’m trying to help you, but if you’re going to act like that, I’ll drive your ass to the hospital, dump you there, and call your brother.”

  He gazed up slowly, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was shock in his eyes before he hid it. “I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine.”

  “You look it.”

  “Just…need to sleep it off. Gotta get to my apartment—”

  She thought about her nephew and her stomach dropped. What was to stop David from calling the cops? “No!”

  He looked at her again.

  Dial it back, Tally.

  “You can’t be alone if you have a concussion,” she added, all reason. “You should stay here on the couch.”

  He said nothing for a moment. She stared at him, hands on hips. He glowered back with red-rimmed eyes. Finally, he grumbled an agreement. He seemed to do that a lot. Grumble. Then again, she’d never been beaten up like he was, so maybe she’d grumble in his situation, too. He pushed himself to his feet but had to grip the sink to keep upright as he twisted on the faucet and rinsed out his mouth.

  “Um,” she said. “I have a first aid kit. We should probably clean up those cuts.”

  He gazed at his reflection in the mirror over the sink and—well, he didn’t quite wince, but his lips tightened. “Already did.” He turned away from the sink and wobbled on his feet.

  “Whoa.” She darted forward and grabbed him before he fell, because once he went down, she wasn’t going to be able to get him back up. “Hang on. Let me help.”

  He grunted. Jeez. She knew he wasn’t much of a talker from past experience and, granted, he was hurting, but couldn’t he try communicating at least a few evolutionary steps above caveman?

  Shoulder wedged under his arm, she led him to the couch. He didn’t make a sound as he lowered himself to the cushion, but she saw pain in the way his jaw hardened and creases fanned out from his eyes.

  He needed more medical attention than she, with her rudimentary first aid knowledge, was able to give, but she’d do what she could. She sat on the coffee table opposite him and opened the kit, found an antiseptic pad. Then she hesitated.

  “You should probably take off your shirt.”

  “Probably.” But he didn’t move.

  “Do you…need help?” Please say no. Please say no. Please—

  He ground his teet
h together in obvious frustration. “I can’t lift my arms.”

  Oh, God. What had Andy done to him? And why? She just couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

  Swallowing hard, she stood again and helped push his arms through his sleeves. As gently as she could, she pulled the shirt off over his head. His chest looked worse than his face, bruises blossoming in deep purple splotches all along his ribs. There was already one dirty, bloodstained square of a bandage low on the left side of his chest. She hesitated, then gently pulled it off. The wound underneath was not new, having already been closed with a line of rudimentary stitches, some of which had popped open. It was angry and red and looked a hell of a lot like a bullet hole.

  He’d been shot. But not tonight. This wound was a couple days old, at least.

  She breathed out softly in shock and touched it without thinking. He hissed through his teeth. She snatched her hand back.

  “Sorry.” She went to work with the antiseptic pads, cleaning some of the smaller cuts. “What happened to you?” Maybe he could fill in the blanks for her. Andy couldn’t have shot him, but her nephew’s bruised knuckles did point rather ominously to a recent fight. Though she still had trouble believing it. None of Andy’s actions tonight jibed with the crazy-smart, sometimes mischievous, but never outright bad kid she knew her nephew to be.

  There had to be an explanation, but all Greer said in response to her question was, “I got mugged.”

  Yeah, sure. A big guy like him? She was tall—five-nine, which had at one time been the bane of her dancing career—and he still towered more than half a foot over her. He must have been close to six-five, all muscle, and she’d seen him leave his apartment in an Army uniform on more than one occasion. Intimidating wasn’t a strong enough word to describe him—not exactly the kind of guy most muggers would look at and think, “Now there’s an easy mark.”

  There was more to this story, but she had a feeling she would get answers out of Andy before him. He had the strong and silent thing down to an art.

  Once she cleaned his cuts, she re-bandaged the bullet wound. “Are you in pain?” she asked and began picking up the trash. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything stronger to offer than ibuprofen.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll live.”

  “Okay.” She closed the first aid kit and stood. “I’ll toss your shirt in the wash if you want.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s beyond saving.”

  Did that mean he was going to lie here on her couch half naked? “Um, okay.” Uncertain of what to say or do next, she rocked back on her heels. “I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll go home and—” He tried to stand and didn’t make it to his feet. He fell heavily back to the couch. Dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Fuck.”

  “Are you going to puke again?” What a stupid thing to ask. If he was about to, he wasn’t going to answer her with a polite, Why, yes, I think I might. Would you mind terribly if I did so in your trash can?

  Yeah, this guy didn’t do polite on his best days.

  She grabbed the trash can from under her desk and dumped the papers in it onto the floor. She took it back to him, and he dry-heaved over it for a few minutes. Finally, exhausted and pale, he leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. She waited a moment more, then gently pulled the bucket from his hands and set it on the floor next to him.

  “I’ll get that blanket and pillow,” she murmured. He said nothing in response. She had the feeling he despised his current situation, and probably her, too, because she was part of it. She made it halfway across the room but stopped and turned back. “David—”

  “It’s Greer. David was my father.” He peeled one eye open and squinted at her. “How’d you know my name?”

  “Oh. Uh, I’ve been collecting your mail for your brother. Reece.”

  He closed his eye and turned away. “He can’t know I’m here.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  Both eyes opened this time and pinned her with a dead serious look that chilled her to her core. “Because he’ll try to stop me from killing the man who killed our parents.”

  Chapter Three

  Greer’s eyes felt glued shut, and it took several tries to pry them open. Everything was blurry—unfocused splashes of an unfamiliar setting. He didn’t remember falling asleep and didn’t know where he was. Syria? Was he still lying in a pile of rubble, bleeding out from a bullet wound, waiting for death? Or, no. He vaguely remembered pulling himself out of the wreckage of the former CIA safe house, stitching himself back together, and catching a ride on a cargo jet to the States.

  Yes, that was right. He’d come home because he had a mission. He couldn’t die without avenging his parents.

  Christ, he was hot, as if he was baking in an oven. In Texas. On a hundred and ten degree day. Sweat poured off his forehead, beaded on his upper lip, and he threw off the blanket covering him. Cool air kissed his bare chest, but it wasn’t enough.

  Why was it so hot?

  Maybe he was in hell. Not Syria, which had been very hell-like, but the real deal. Fire and brimstone and all that. If he wasn’t there yet, then that had to be where he was headed. Why else would he be so fucking hot?

  Abstract splotches of color and shadow moved around him. He turned his head, focused on one swirl of pink and gray, spinning, spinning, spinning. He watched until it stopped moving, and before his eyes it took on the shape of a woman. A ballerina in a pink leotard and gray tights, all long lines and grace as she flowed through the movements of her dance.

  He stared, mesmerized. Couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

  Yes, he must be dying. It was the only thing that made sense. He was dying and this was his angel, sent by his mother to collect him. He wasn’t a good man, didn’t deserve heaven, but Mom must have pulled some strings to make it happen. Why else would his angel of death arrive on ballet slippers? Mom wanted him to know it was all okay and he didn’t have to fight anymore. He didn’t have to be afraid.

  And for the first time in recent memory, he wasn’t.

  He’d seen so much bad in this world, had witnessed the horrible things people did to each other when they believed they were right and everyone else was wrong. So much hatred and blood. He’d lived more than half his life mired in that darkness, sometimes so deep he thought he’d never see light again…

  But the woman dancing in front of him sparked with light and color.

  His angel.

  She’d take him home, and he’d see his parents again. He no longer had to worry about avenging them. He’d tried and failed and he was tired. So very tired.

  He reached for his angel, wanting nothing more than to touch her, absorb some of her light into his dark soul. If he could just get to her, she’d save him…

  …

  Crash!

  Natalie stumbled a Grande Jeté, nearly twisting her ankle as she landed. She spun toward the noise and found her neighbor sprawled on the floor. He was conscious, his hard face flushed an unhealthy red, his eyes glazed. He kept muttering something that sounded like “angel,” but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Hey. Shh, you’re safe. You’re going to be okay.” She shut off her iPod and hurried to his side, clasping his outstretched hand. His skin was on fire. She didn’t need a thermometer to know he had a fever. A high one, at that.

  Dammit. He needed a hospital, but he’d been so adamantly opposed to going she hated to betray the trust he’d put in her by taking him. Then again, that trust wouldn’t matter a whole lot if he died on her living room floor.

  She had to do something.

  She all too easily pried her hand from his grip and scrambled to her feet. She’d put his brother’s card in the ceramic dish on the kitchen counter where she kept bills waiting to be paid. She shuffled through the papers, found the card settled at the bottom of the pile, and picked it up.

  Reece Wilde.

  She’d call him and wash her hands of this whole me
ss. After all, living next to Greer didn’t give her the right to make decisions about his medical care. His family needed to know.

  She picked up her cell phone and dialed the number on the card, but never hit send.

  Except…there was Andy to consider. She hadn’t been able to get a hold of him in the last twenty-four hours. Nor had she found him when she checked his usual hangouts. And she still had no idea how he was involved in all this. If she called Greer’s brother, the police would investigate and…well, neither of them wanted that. Sighing, she set the phone down and looked over at her patient. He’d once more lost consciousness.

  If he died…

  No.

  She grabbed the phone again and called the only person she could think of—Raffi, her best friend from her days at Juilliard. His older brother was a top-secret soldier-slash-spy or something like that. Raffi would know what to do.

  “Hey, Tally,” Raffi answered after two rings with a smile in his voice. “Funny, I was just talking about you and the time you got stuck in the pumpkin carriage during our first performance of Cinderella.”

  She smiled a little at the memory. Her “horses” had dragged the carriage too far into a narrow hallway offstage, and she hadn’t been able to get the door open. She would have missed her next cue if Raffi hadn’t rescued her. “You’ve always been my knight in shining pointe shoes, Raf.” She glanced over at her patient and winced. “And I, uh, could actually use a little help now.”

  “Girl, don’t tell me you’re stuck in a pumpkin again.”

  “No. This is…” She searched for a way to explain, came up blank. “God, this is so far above my pay grade, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Natalie?” The humor faded from his tone, replaced with real concern. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Honestly? I’m not sure. Yesterday morning, I came home from work and found my neighbor unconscious in front of my door. Someone had beaten him up badly. He’s also been shot, but he refused to go to the hospital and—” She decided not to tell him the part about Andy pulling the gun on Greer. “And, well, now he’s passed out on my couch. Or on the floor in front of my couch. He’s running a fever. He woke up delirious a few minutes ago.”