by Irene Hannon
This was her window to run.
But he recovered too fast. As she began to swivel, preparing to dash back toward the building, he came at her again.
Letting her reflexes take over, she kneed him in the groin.
He grunted, doubled over, and spit out a string of words that scorched her ears.
But his fingers remained locked around her wrist, digging into the flesh like a vise.
The guy wasn’t giving up.
As he once more stood upright, she countered with a wrist sweep to break his grip . . . poked him in the face with her key, aiming for his eyes . . . and punched him in the throat with her fist.
He yowled and released her.
She bolted for the building, screaming at the top of her lungs, praying her counterattack had deterred him.
It hadn’t.
His steps pounded behind her . . . and the door was too far away.
Better to face him than let him grab her from behind.
She swung around, prepared to kick and punch again.
That’s when she saw the knife.
Oh, God, help me!
She might be able to defend herself against a physical attack, thanks to the rudimentary tips she’d learned in that self-defense class she’d taken last summer, but she was no match for a sharp blade.
“Just take my money if that’s what you’re after.” She threw her tote bag at him.
He batted it aside, eyes glittering with a wild rage.
The kind that could be drug-induced.
Her lungs locked.
Drugs would double or triple the danger.
“You hurt me, lady.” The accusation came out in a guttural growl. “Nobody does that and walks away.”
He lunged at her, knife blade glinting in the overhead lights.
She dodged him and screamed louder.
“Shut up!”
He sprang at her again, the point of the knife aimed at her heart.
Fear cycloned through her as she tried to sidestep him. If only she could buy herself a few precious seconds to get to the door, flip the inside lock, and call 911.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Because even though she managed to twist away from his grasp, the blade of the knife sliced through the flesh of her left forearm, leaving a long slash that immediately filled with blood. In seconds, rivers of crimson were running down to her hand, coating her palm, her fingers.
As shock rippled through her, the sudden wail of a police siren shattered the night air. It was close—and moving in fast.
After a minuscule hesitation, the guy turned, picked up her tote bag, and sprinted in the opposite direction of the siren, disappearing into the darkness.
Flashing police lights came into view, and the car swung into the school parking lot, the headlights blinding her.
Help had arrived.
She was safe.
As Trish raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh light, her shaky legs gave way and she sank to the blood-spattered pavement.
But there could have been much more blood. Would have been, if someone in one of the nearby houses hadn’t heard her screams and called for help. If the police hadn’t arrived precisely when they did. If the guy hadn’t decided to run for it instead of making one more thrust that could have connected with a vital organ or artery.
As all of those ifs cascaded in her mind, the truth slammed home.
She’d almost been killed.
And with that stomach-churning realization, she lost her dinner.
“I think that covers most of the topics on our agenda. Any questions?” Kristin folded her hands on the papers in front of her and surveyed the small group gathered at the table in the church meeting room.
Rick slid some drawings in front of her and the two of them began hashing out scenery issues. Then the costumer wanted her to weigh in on a handful of fabric samples.
Colin leaned back and peeked at his watch. How the female member of the Treehouse Gang had managed to rope him in to do lights and sound for another one of her annual kids’ shows was beyond him. Every year, he vowed it would be his last—and every year she guilt-tripped him into signing on again.
How could he say no to a few meetings and a one-week commitment during tech week, when she devoted months of planning and preparation to a project that built kids’ self-esteem? He had the easiest job on the production crew.
Meaning he’d caved, as usual.
“What about you, Colin? Any questions?”
Rick, the costumer, and the publicity person were all looking at him, as was Kristin.
“Uh . . . no. It’s the same physical setup as last summer. I’ll use the same equipment suppliers. We should be good.”
“How are you going to mike the Beast?”
“I’ll figure that out once I see the costume.” That would be the only challenge with the nonmusical version of Beauty and the Beast Kristin had chosen to direct for the church’s youth theater production this summer. The rest of the stuff he could work out during tech week.
Kristin narrowed her eyes . . . but said nothing more. After all the kids’ shows she’d directed, and all the years she’d conned him and Rick into helping with the technical stuff, she knew he’d come through.
“Okay. One more item before we break.” Kristin riffled through her papers again.
As Colin stifled a groan, his phone began to vibrate.
Yes!
He’d take any excuse he could get to escape for a few minutes.
But as he pulled the cell off his belt and glanced at the screen, he frowned.
Why would Mac McGregor be calling him at nine thirty on a Wednesday night? It wasn’t as if they socialized during off-duty hours. Now that he had a gorgeous wife waiting for him at home, Mac preferred spending his free time with her.
Go figure.
Colin managed to corral his grin as he stood and lifted the phone. “I need to take this. Someone from work.”
He pressed the talk button, put the phone to his ear, and moved toward the corner of the room. “What’s up, Mac?”
“A BOLO alert came in on the radio a few minutes ago. I thought you might be interested.”
“Why are you tuned in to work stuff at this hour?” Colin squinted at the blank wall. “Aren’t you on days this week?”
“Yeah. But Simmons had a family emergency and asked me to switch shifts with him today. The case in question is a first-degree robbery—and the victim was Trish Bailey.”
Colin sucked in a breath and groped for the edge of the bookcase beside him. “Is she all right?”
“Yes—other than a mild case of shock and a bad laceration from the perp’s knife.”
Knife.
The word reverberated in his mind, his pulse ratcheting up with every echo.
Someone had attacked Trish with a knife.
“What happened?” He plunged his hand into his pocket, fumbling for his keys.
He listened as Mac filled him in on the statement Trish had provided to the city cop.
“Did they catch the guy?”
“Not yet. But officers are combing the area.”
Bad news. If they didn’t find this scumbag fast, they weren’t likely to find him at all. That’s how the odds worked, especially in that part of town.
“Where’s Trish?”
“According to the cop at the scene, the paramedics bandaged her up and tried to convince her to let them take her to the hospital. She refused. She said she’d rather get stitched up at an urgent care center. The officer got the impression she doesn’t like hospitals.”
Understandable, based on recent family history.
“So what’s the status?”
“She went to an urgent care center.”
His grip tightened on the phone. “You mean she drove herself?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“The paramedics and the cop let her get in a car and drive after everything that happened?” Fury—and a healthy
dose of alarm—nipped at his composure.
“Her injuries weren’t life-threatening, and the blood loss wasn’t severe. They couldn’t force her to ride in the ambulance.”
“One of the cops could have driven her.”
“She refused that too. They also suggested she call someone to come and get her. She said she had no family and it was too late to bother any of her friends.”
It wasn’t too late to bother him. He’d told her to call, day or night. Why hadn’t she taken him up on that offer?
A question he intended to ask her as soon as possible.
“Do you know which urgent care center she was going to?”
“Yeah.” Mac passed on the name and address. “She picked one close to her house.”
“Most of those places aren’t open past eight o’clock.”
“This one’s open until ten. The officer checked for her and alerted them she was coming. He also had one of the paramedics brief them on her condition.”
“How long ago did she leave?”
“Minutes. They kept her talking until they were comfortable she’d calmed down and was steady enough to drive.”
If she’d just left, he could probably beat her there.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Any time. Watch that heavy foot of yours on the way.”
“I’ll do my best.” No sense defending his driving habits. Most cops—and detectives—drove too fast . . . on or off duty. Including him. And tonight wasn’t going to be an exception.
“Let me know if I can do anything.”
“Thanks. Sorry you had to work nights—but it was a lucky break for me.”
“I doubt luck had much to do with it. God works in mysterious ways.”
Since he wasn’t up to a discussion about the enigmatic ways of the Almighty, he said good-bye . . . and turned to find Kristin and Rick hovering behind him.
“Are you okay?” Kristin laid a hand on his arm, the concern in her voice almost palpable.
He surveyed the room. It had emptied except for her and Rick, both of whom were regarding him with grave expressions.
“Yeah.” The word croaked, and he cleared his throat. “Why?”
“You went white as a sheet.” Kristin removed her hand but stayed close. “I thought you were going to pass out.”
Colin jingled his keys. He needed to get out of here. Fast. But how to do it without tipping his hand about his feelings for Trish?
Rick saved him the trouble.
“This has something to do with that woman you met, doesn’t it?”
Keeping secrets from these two was as futile as trying to control his heavy foot on the gas. Besides, since he hoped Trish would be playing a big role in his life going forward, why dodge the question?
Keys clenched in his fingers, Colin took a deep breath. “Yeah. She was mugged by a knife-wielding thug who sliced open her arm. One of my detective buddies called to tell me. She’s on her way to an urgent care center. I’m hoping to get there first.”
Kristin gave him a small push toward the door. “Go. Let us know how she is.”
“I will.” He started to walk away.
“Hey!”
He angled back.
Rick folded his arms. “What’s her name?”
“Trish.”
“Pretty.” Kristin waved him toward the exit. “We’ll want to meet her, you know.”
The last part of her comment followed him outside as he pushed through the door.
Introducing her to Rick and Kristin was inevitable . . . but it wasn’t a prospect he relished. She’d be in for an inquisition—and some ribbing, if they liked her. Which they would. How could anyone not like Trish—other than the mugger she’d tangled with tonight? From what Mac had said, she’d inflicted some damage of her own that would not endear her to him.
But she hadn’t slashed the guy with a knife. Trish had taken the brunt of their scuffle.
Gritting his teeth, he slid behind the wheel, tore out of the parking lot, and ignored Mac’s advice as he floored the Mazda. At this hour, and at this rate of speed, he should be able to make it to the urgent care center in ten minutes. Twelve, tops. Too bad he didn’t have his work vehicle, though. With the Taurus’s flashing lights and siren to clear his path, he could shave off a few more minutes.
As for Trish thinking it was too late to bother any of her friends—that might be true. But he was aiming to be much more than that.
And before this night was over, she’d know that beyond the shadow of a doubt.
11
She should have let the police officer drive her to urgent care.
As Trish guided the car down the final stretch, the dark splotch on the thick dressing the paramedics had applied to her injured arm continued to spread. To make matters worse, the cut throbbed and burned.
A lot.
A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye as she traveled the last half mile. There were acquaintances she could have tapped who would have come to her aid. Matt, for one. And Colin had told her to call at any time.
But she wanted no more personal encounters with Matt—and while Colin might have made it clear he’d like to get to know her better, thrusting him into the middle of a messy emergency wasn’t the best way to start a relationship.
She could handle this herself.
Blinking back another tear, she slowed . . . executed a wide, careful swing into the urgent care parking lot . . . and angled into a spot near the front door.
She’d made it.
Barely.
Exhaling a shaky breath, she shut off the engine and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The last hour had seriously sapped her stamina. The door might be only a short distance away, but she needed a minute to—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
At the gentle knock on her window, she jerked upright.
Colin’s taut face stared back at her through the glass.
What in the world?
“Unlock the door.” His muffled words seeped through the glass.
She reached across with her uninjured arm and groped for the automatic locks. The instant they clicked, he pulled open the door, hunkered down beside her, and gave her a fast but thorough sweep, his worried gaze lingering on the stained dressing before lifting to scrutinize her face.
“We need to get you inside. You’re still bleeding.”
“Not too much.” A chill rippled through her despite the balmy late-May air. “The paramedics wouldn’t let me leave until they were confident it was under c-control.”
“It may have been then. It doesn’t appear to be now.” He stood and extended a hand.
She swung her legs out of the car and grasped his fingers. They were solid and strong and warm as he pulled her to her feet.
Good thing, because much to her disgust, she swayed.
“Whoa.” He moved in close and grasped her shoulders.
“I’m f-fine. My legs are just . . . they’re a little shaky. But I don’t have far to go.”
Instead of responding, he bent, slid an arm under her knees, and swept her into his arms.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Carrying you in.” He shut her car door with his hip and strode toward the entrance. “You look ready to fold, and you don’t need a fall on top of a knife wound.”
Since that made perfect sense, she decided not to object.
Besides . . . it felt like heaven to be held against his broad chest while his heart hammered a staccato rhythm against her ear.
“How did you know about this, anyway?” The cotton of his T-shirt was soft beneath her cheek, and she burrowed deeper, inhaling the rugged scent that was all male.
“The colleague who came with me to your house last week is on night shift and heard the report come in. He called me.”
“Why?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “He assumed I’d want to know.”
Before she could ask anything else, he pushed through the entrance of the buil
ding, into bright lights that made her squint.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Ms. Bailey.” A thirtyish man in scrubs loomed in front of her.
“Where do you want her?” Colin tightened his grip. An endearing, protective gesture on his part . . . or wishful thinking on hers?
“First door on the left.”
He continued down the hall to the room, where he gently sat her on an examining table, the scrubs-clad guy on his heels.
“You can stay if you like.” The man directed the comment to Colin as he began unwrapping the dressing the paramedics had applied.
“Yes. Please.” Trish touched his arm.
In response, he moved beside her, far enough back to give the guy room to work but close enough to touch her—and to see what was happening with her arm.
The nurse or technician or whomever the man was worked in silence until he’d removed the dressing.
When he took off the last strip of gauze, Trish’s stomach heaved at the same moment she heard Colin’s sharp intake of breath.
The oozing slice was six inches long, and it gaped open.
“That is one nasty cut.” The scrubs guy deposited the soiled dressing in a waste disposal container, his tone conversational. “But the paramedics did a first-class job. Most of the bleeding has stopped. I’ll clean it up, the doctor will suture it, and you’ll be good to go.”
His calm manner helped, as did the doctor’s friendly demeanor once she entered. The woman introduced herself, donned some latex gloves, and examined the wound.
“You were very lucky. It looks worse than it is. If it was any deeper we’d be dealing with a more serious scenario. Go ahead and lie flat. This won’t take long.”
As she swung her legs up, Colin shifted his position and rested one comforting hand on her shoulder.
She winced while the woman administered the shots to numb her arm, and he gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
The doctor went to work, explaining each step. The flush with a saline solution to remove any dirt. The application of antibacterial ointment. The types of sutures she was using. Once she began to stitch, she made small talk.
It wasn’t a bad bedside manner, but Trish was too weary for conversation. Having Colin inches away was the only reason this night was bearable. That, and the numbing shots that had vanquished the pain.