Reclaim Me

by Ann Marie Walker

  Julian turned and Allie’s breath caught. In one hand he held the prenuptial agreement, and in the other hand he held a gun. “Why do you have a gun?” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get the words out.

  He walked toward her, oozing arrogance. Allie’s heart rate spiked as he drew closer.

  “Never hurts to have incentive,” he said, coming to a halt in front of her and setting the paperwork on the desk. “After all, you’re of no use to me if you don’t sign.” The pleasure he took from her fear was obvious in his tone. He stroked her blond hair, curling a strand around one of his fingertips. “So be a good girl and don’t make me kill the golden goose.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Hmm.” A leering grin curved the corner of his mouth. “That’s what I like to hear.” Releasing the lock of her hair, he ran his index finger down her throat, tracing the wildly throbbing vein in her neck. “Perhaps this arrangement won’t be so intolerable after all.” His tongue darted out to lick his lips as his finger trailed to the deep V of her blouse. Allie tensed beneath his touch. If he went much lower . . .

  Julian’s fingertip slipped inside her blouse and his hand stilled. His nostrils flared and his face contorted with rage. “What the fuck is this?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was pitch-black as Hudson brought the DB9 to a stop at the perimeter of the Lake Forest estate. He’d killed the headlights about fifty yards back and stayed deep enough in the shadows so as not to be spotted. From what he could see, there was only one car parked in the driveway, a piece of shit we’ll-pick-you-up Lexus rental. He’d half expected to be greeted by a welcoming committee of Julian’s thugs, but so far all he’d been met with was silence. It was quiet, too quiet; just the hissing and ticking of the car’s engine cooling.

  He’d been in the bowels of the garage beneath his building when he got Allie’s text. The damn thing had rebounded him into pissed-off territory and left him feeling frustrated and powerless. The only advantage he had in this impromptu recovery mission was the burner phone that had allowed him to track her. But what the fuck was she doing meeting with that asshole alone? Her safety was Hudson’s top priority, and this move was a direct contravention of the proposed and agreed upon plan.

  Goddamnit.

  He ran a hand through his hair, then checked his watch. Where the hell was Max? Needing to do something besides cool his jets, Hudson pulled out his cell and punched the speed dial. Max picked up on the first ring.

  “ETA?” Hudson’s voice was low but still razor sharp.

  “Twenty out.”

  Too fucking long. Hudson ended the call with a curse. His gut twisted at the thought of Allie in such close proximity to that sociopath, and the oxygen he was sucking down burned his already dry throat. Christ, the depravity Julian was capable of was limitless, and he had no remorse over its execution.

  As if on cue, lights flared in a room at the far end of the house. Hudson knew from the crime scene photos that it was the study where Allie’s father had been shot. Anxiety jacked the rate of his heart until he felt like the thing was going to explode out of his chest. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there and wait, not while Julian was doing God knows what to his wife.

  Hudson yanked on the door handle and made a quick lunge to get out of the car. At a mission-critical pace, his long strides took him in the direction of the brick mansion and toward the pair of French doors flanking the study. He dodged a bird bath that was dry as a bone and hopped over a row of low-lying bushes. Damn, there was a lot of glass. But the outside garden area was an unlit sanctuary of low-hanging branches, affording him the perfect cover.

  He lined himself up flat against the house and listened. There was no sound of anyone approaching from the sides or the back. Inside, the sharp inflection of a French accent fired up Hudson’s temper. He shifted, and what he saw was someone writing his own obituary. Julian was standing only inches from Allie, who was backed up to a massive desk. Her face was frozen in a mask concealing what he knew was a replay of the gruesome scene she’d walked in on not long ago.

  Impulse told him to storm in there and assume control of the situation. But as much as it killed him to admit it, he had to wait. Still, the urge was damn near overwhelming, and the feeling only intensified as he watched the scene play out in front of him.

  Julian pivoted and crossed the room to a safe concealed in the bookcases. Hudson’s eyes refocused, his gaze tightening on the iron box as Julian spun the dial—right, left, then right again. He swung the door open, and when he turned back around, Hudson’s blood went ice cold. It wasn’t the papers in Julian’s left hand that did the deed, but the glock gripped in his right.

  Hell no. Hell motherfucking no.

  Allie’s chest rose and fell with each breath, and her body trembled. Julian was even closer now, direct-contact close, and the rank joy on his face was a kick to the head. The prick looked like he was in the throes of some orgasmic rush.

  Hudson shifted his weight, bracing his feet in the patches of snow that clung to the earth. His spine straightened, his stance widened, and his glare narrowed on the guy who stood precariously close to the edge of his own death.

  One fucking move . . .

  Then he was touching her. Julian’s fingers twisted in Allie’s hair before trailing down her neck. Abruptly his expression changed and his face contorted with rage. Allie flinched as he ripped down the front of her blouse with a sharp jerk, leaving the delicate garment in tatters and exposing the recording device tucked inside her lace bra.

  Fueled by hatred and protective instinct, Hudson surged forward at a dead run. His shoulder slammed into the door, smashing it back against the wall and shattering the glass into a million pieces. Julian’s head shot up at the unexpected interruption, with the business end of the gun following his line of sight. With that hardware in his hand, Hudson knew Julian was a man with a purpose. But so was he. And anyone who got in his way was putting themselves in front of a speeding fucking train.

  On a crash course, Hudson launched himself at Julian with brutal force. The two men collided, and using the full weight of his body, Hudson shoved Julian hard against the mantel. Picture frames clattered to the floor and a crystal vase took a dive. One hand wrapped around Julian’s throat while the other caught his wrist. The veins in Julian’s neck bulged and Hudson tightened his grip, hoping like hell the fucker would go hypoxic on him. But the son of a bitch wasn’t going down without a fight. He locked eyes with Hudson and twisted the gun between their bodies.

  * * *

  Allie’s world stopped spinning at the sound of the gunshot. The thundering noise echoed in her ears, and the smell of gunpowder burned her nostrils. For several agonizing seconds she stood frozen, watching the two men locked in a violent embrace with a gun lodged between them. Then a scream was ripped from somewhere deep within her as Hudson fell to the floor, blood soaking through his shirt in an ever expanding circle.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. His eyes were closed and his body was so still. “Hudson . . . stay with me.” The words lodged in her throat as she tried to choke them out. “Please. Don’t leave me.” Tears blurred her vision as she placed both hands over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. Beneath her palms she felt no heartbeat, no rise and fall of his chest, only a wet pool of crimson.

  Julian grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her flesh as he tried to pull her away.

  “No.” Allie struggled against his hold. “Let go of me.”

  “Get up,” he snarled, yanking her to her feet and shoving the barrel of the gun beneath her ribs.

  “We can’t just leave him like that.” Tears flowed hot and steady down her cheeks as he dragged her down the hall. “We need to call an ambulance.”

  Julian ignored her, but she could see the panic in his eyes. Sweat had formed on his brow and upper lip, and his breath came in short, shallow pants. If she could reason with him, even offer him a way out, maybe it wo
uldn’t be too late.

  “Please,” she cried, sobs racking her entire frame. “Don’t do this. He might still be alive. Let me call for help.” Her words tumbled out in a desperate plea. “You can leave with Philippe. I swear, I won’t tell anyone you were here. I’ll say someone broke in, or that it was an accident, just please . . .”

  “Shut up,” Julian shouted. Lashing out, he backhanded Allie across the face. The force of the blow spun her toward the table, and she landed with a crash atop a place setting of china. “And stop crying, for fuck’s sake. I need to think.”

  In the reflection of the cracked mirror Allie watched as Julian reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. He jabbed the screen with his thumb and almost immediately began barking orders. “Bring the car around back . . . No, in the garage. There’s a situation I need you to clean up.”

  Allie pushed to her feet. Everywhere she looked she saw blood. Her mother’s, streaked across the wall in front of her; her own, dripping from the cut on her face; and Hudson’s, smeared across the white linen where her hands had tried to break her fall. Down the hall her husband lay dying, or maybe he was already dead. She needed to be by his side. Julian had taken her parents from her. There was no way she was letting him take the only man she’d ever loved.

  Julian ended the call and strode to where she stood, her arms braced against the table. She drew a shaky breath as he reached for her, and when his fingers curled in her hair, hers curled around the knife resting alongside the cracked plate.

  “Let’s go,” he growled. He yanked Allie up by the roots of her hair. She turned, ignoring the look of terror that registered in Julian’s eyes as she plunged the knife into his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Allie rode with Hudson in the ambulance. At first they’d tried to tell her she had to follow in a different car, but after a few quietly spoken words from Max, she’d been ushered to a seat in the corner of the rig and told to stay back and allow them to work. She had no idea what he’d said to them, or to the police for that matter, but he’d made it possible for her to stay with her husband, and for that she would always be grateful.

  Max had arrived shortly after she’d called 911 and immediately took control of the situation. His confident and calm demeanor was her lifeline amidst the bedlam that erupted after what had seemed liked hours but in reality had only been a matter of minutes. Paramedics and police, loud sirens and flashing lights. Allie blocked them all out and kept her focus on the man Hudson trusted most in the world, relying on him to see her through the darkest moment of her life.

  The ride to the hospital was a blur. Allie sat in the corner as instructed, wearing the jacket Max had given her to cover her torn blouse, and offering silent prayers. A team met them when they arrived, and she watched in fascinated horror as the scene before her played out like one of Dick Wolf’s television shows. Words that had no meaning to her were barked by men and women wearing hospital scrubs or white coats. There were a million questions she wanted to ask them, but before she had time to form even one, Hudson was being whisked through a set of double doors.

  She followed his gurney down a wide hallway and into a large trauma room. Once inside the room, the team moved at a pace that could only be described as organized chaos. To her it looked like total confusion, everyone moving in different directions and all talking at once, but to them it was a series of well-choreographed maneuvers. And at the center of the storm was Hudson. She could barely see him through the mass of bodies, but at one point she caught a glimpse of his left hand. It lay unmoving at his side, unadorned of the platinum band she’d slid on his finger only nine days before.

  “You can’t be in here,” someone called out.

  Allie didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe.

  “Ma’am, you need to wait outside,” a man said from beside her.

  “There’s so much blood,” she murmured. The room shifted beneath her feet and she swayed.

  Hands gripped her shoulders. “Let them do their job. And come sit down. You don’t want them to have to stop because you’ve passed out, now do you?” the man said, gently coaxing Allie back out into the hall. “Here, have a seat. Someone will be out to update you as soon as we know more.”

  She took a seat on a padded vinyl chair at the nurse’s station, but kept her eyes trained on the closed trauma room door. No one came in or out, yet she knew that despite the room’s calm exterior, inside the team of professionals was still working hard to keep the man she loved alive. Or maybe it was over. Maybe they had lost him, and instead of an update someone was going to come out of that room at any minute to tell her she was a widow. Tears brimmed her eyes as she rocked back and forth in her seat, willing them not to fail. Please . . . please save him . . .

  Behind her the automatic doors swung open on a sharp buzz.

  “Allie!” Nick jogged toward her. His hand was linked with Harper’s, and even from where she sat Allie could see his white-knuckle grip. “What’s going on? Max’s message said to meet you at the ER, but he didn’t tell me what the fuck happened.”

  She stood and took a deep breath, trying to find the strength to say the words out loud. “Hudson was shot,” was all she managed to squeeze past the lump in her throat.

  The blood drained from Nick’s face. “How bad is it?”

  Allie blinked away her tears. She had to be strong for Nick. No matter what the outcome in the room behind them, Nick was her family. And just like Hudson, she would do anything for him. “I don’t know yet,” she said, trying her best to keep her voice level. “They’re still working on him.”

  Nick ran a hand back through his hair. “How the fuck did this happen?” The nurse at the station looked up from her computer monitor and Nick lowered his voice. “My brother doesn’t live in a world where people get fucking shot.” His head snapped up, and Allie saw realization dawn. Guilt flashed in Nick’s eyes. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “Is this because of me?”

  “No.” Allie shook her head emphatically. “It’s my fault. Your brother is lying in there because of me.” A commotion at the end of the hall stopped her from explaining any further. The door to the trauma room opened and a young doctor in blood-splattered hospital scrubs approached.

  “I’m Doctor Weber,” he said, glancing between Allie and Nick. “Is one of you Mr. Chase’s next of kin?”

  Allie took a step forward. “I’m his wife.” Behind her she heard an audible gasp escape Harper’s lips and a mumbled Fuck from under Nick’s breath.

  “Your husband lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. That much she knew already. What she didn’t know was if he was going to be all right. The man standing before her had the ability to give her hope or bring her world crashing down around her. Time ground to a halt as she waited for him to tell her if the man she loved was still alive. “The bullet missed the hilum of the lung, which is a good thing.”

  Allie nodded as though she understood. But in reality all she clung to was the word “good.”

  “However, a pulmonary injury of this nature can still be very serious. The chest tube we put in is filling with a lot of blood, but we won’t know the extent of the injuries until they get him into the OR.”

  “He needs surgery?” she asked.

  “Yes. They’re taking him up now.”

  As if on cue the double doors swung open. Several people rushed alongside the gurney as they wheeled Hudson down the hall. He was so still, too still, and covered with tubes that at the moment were the only things keeping him alive. Allie’s hand flew to her mouth as they passed by, holding in the sob that silently racked her small frame. If she let it out, she didn’t think she would ever be able to stop.

  “We’ll know more once they can see the damage.” The doctor continued talking, explaining how the lungs were extremely vascular and how they were essentially sponges filled with gas. Allie listened, trying to take in the complicated medical jargon he was tra
nslating into layman’s terms. But all she could think about was Hudson, in a room somewhere above them, being prepped for surgery by a team who quite literally held his life in their hands.

  “But they can fix him, right?” Nick’s heartfelt words broke through the fog of fear that clogged her mind. His question was simple and straight to the point, and really the only one that mattered.

  “Doctor Katz is doing the surgery. She’s one of the best in the world.”

  Allie wondered briefly if it was a coincidence that a world-renowned surgeon just happened to be on hand. “How long before we’ll know anything?” she asked.

  “Surgeries like these can take anywhere from four to six hours, depending on how extensive the repair. There’s a waiting room for families on the same floor as the OR. The surgeon will come out to update you as soon as Mr. Chase is taken to recovery.”

  “Alessandra.”

  Allie turned to find Ben Weiss standing behind her. The sight of him nearly took her breath away. He looked so much like her father, easily passing for a real uncle and not just the kind you called by that name because he was such a close family friend. It was too much. This time, when her eyes brimmed with tears, she could do nothing to hold them back.

  “I had the Ingram helicopter pick up Elena Katz,” he said. “They landed on the hospital’s helipad a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hugging the man who had been a constant source of quiet strength the past few months. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His eyes crinkled in a weak smile. “And did I hear congratulations are in order, Mrs. Chase?”

  “We planned to tell everyone. But with everything that’s been going on, it was . . . complicated.”