She couldn’t leave him here. Not after what had happened between them. Didn’t she know what it meant?
He’d taken her, and she was his.
A growl, not quite human and not quite wolf, rattled deep in his chest.
Before the garage had completely opened, she backed his Beemer out, scraping the top of the car against the custom-built hardwood door. As the wood splintered, as the custom car paint peeled back with a horrible grating sound, he became totally human again.
Human, and unsure whether he was more concerned for her or the car.
Then he decided she was safe, and mourned the Beemer.
She backed up.
He ran out into the driveway. He had to stop her.
She put the seven-speed in first, hit the gas, and popped the clutch.
She killed it. She started it at once and did it again. The third time was a charm, and she hiccuped from first to second, her killing gaze fixed right on him.
He braced himself, prepared to jump sideways.
But God bless her, she didn’t quite have the nerve to run over his ass. She swerved into the grass, sinking into the mud, then veered back onto the pavement and drove around the house.
Turning, he raced through the house to the front.
Chapter 14
That POS. He’d taken her briefcase apart.
Ann had been carrying that thing, treasuring it, since Jasha had given it to her for Secretary’s Day the very first year she’d worked for him. And he’d cut it apart because he thought she . . . she . . . she didn’t know what he’d thought. But it wasn’t good, and he didn’t trust her.
Four lousy years she’d worked at his company, three lousy years of it as his administrative assistant, and he didn’t trust her.
The asshole.
She cleared the back corner of the house. She hit the gas.
The Beemer hiccuped, then sprang forward so fast the tires squealed on the pavement and she experienced a glorious jolt of adrenaline.
Jasha loved his cars. Right now, he must be cringing.
Maybe there was a time when she’d been less than careful, and the consequences had been deadly. But she’d been a child then, and everyone told her it was not her fault. Even Sister Mary Magdalene had called Ann to her classroom and with great severity told her she was not to blame herself.
So she didn’t blame herself, but she’d learned her lesson, and everyone who knew her knew that her name was synonymous with responsibility.
How dare Jasha not trust her?
She hit the front circle drive. All she had to do was drive the hell out of here, and she’d be free of him forever.
And Jasha burst out the front door and ran in front of the car.
That asshole had a lot of faith in her good nature.
She slammed on the brakes.
Justified good faith. Damn it.
She pounded on the steering wheel.
Damn it!
‘‘Listen to me,’’ he bellowed. ‘‘I need you!’’
‘‘Yeah, yeah,’’ she shouted back. He probably couldn’t hear her. The window was closed. But she liked yelling at him.
She reversed and headed for the other half of the circle drive.
He ran across the lawn, skidded in front of the car again. ‘‘Ann, stay with me.’’
She reversed again and, rebel that she was, contemplated driving across the wide circle of grass in the middle of the drive.
‘‘Ann . . .’’ He walked toward the front of the car, his hands outspread, a smile placing winsome dimples in his cheeks. ‘‘Please . . .’’
She wanted something, anything, to wipe that smirk off his face.
As if her wish had power, something flew past her side of the car and buried itself in his shoulder.
He staggered backward, fell over.
What was it?
Who cares? Get the hell out!
She gunned the engine and drove past him. She circled the drive, and glanced back.
He’d dragged himself to his feet and was standing, weaving as if he were drunk with—she slammed on her brakes. He had an arrow, complete with feathers, sticking out of him.
What? Should they circle the wagons?
He doubled over. He ran toward the porch in a crouch.
Good news. This gave her time to get away.
So why was she backing up, reversing, driving toward the house? Some idiot was shooting arrows out there.
She needed to run. Run away now. In the car. She was safe in the car.
Jasha had collapsed, his torso on the porch, his legs in the driveway.
She drove up next to him. Vaulting out of the passenger side, she grabbed him under the armpits, pulled as hard as she could.
He yelled in pain, but he didn’t budge. He was too heavy.
Then she heard a retort. The car’s front tire exploded.
Rubber flew; the car collapsed on its right side.
Gunshot.
Suddenly, she discovered the strength to pull Jasha toward the house.
He yelled again, but when she would have stopped, he gasped, ‘‘Get me inside.’’ He helped her, using his legs to shove himself along. His jeans caught on the rough stone floor of the porch.
‘‘Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.’’ Somehow her frantic prayer helped keep her moving, keep her mind away from the fact that somewhere out there, some guy had a gun and a bow. Or two guys had—oh, it didn’t matter. She just had to get Jasha inside.
And she did. She pulled him across the threshold into the entry, and slammed and locked the door. She ran for the phone.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ Jasha rolled around to look.
‘‘Calling the ambulance.’’ She shook the receiver. ‘‘I can’t hear the dial tone.’’
‘‘He cut the line.’’
She headed for her purse. Where was her purse? ‘‘My cell.’’
‘‘There’s no time. Get this arrow out of me.’’
"I can’t take it out. The EMTs—"
‘‘There’s no time. If I start to heal, whatever he put inside me will be a part of me, and I can’t have that.’’
‘‘Are you crazy? You won’t heal that fast.’’ She shouted at him—not because she didn’t believe him, but because she did.
‘‘I’ve got a knife in my pocket.’’
‘‘Which you always carry with you.’’ How in the hell had she managed to dredge up sarcasm now?
‘‘Well . . . yeah.’’ He sounded surprised.
‘‘I know.’’ She’d scolded him for losing two others to airport security when he’d forgotten about them. She’d figured it was a guy thing. She’d never figured she’d have to use one of the blades to cut an arrow out of his shoulder.
She couldn’t even believe she was using those words in a single sentence.
Grabbing one of the beautiful cotton throws off the couch, she ran back to Jasha and used it to stanch the blood that oozed out of his shoulder and onto the floor. ‘‘How do you know he put something inside you?’’ she asked. ‘‘Besides the arrow, I mean?’’
‘‘Honey, if he wanted to kill me, he would have used a rifle and a scope.’’
Dear God, Jasha had blood all over his T-shirt. His face was pasty white, and that arrow stuck straight out.
‘‘Well, if whatever it is, is nothing deadly—’’
‘‘It could be a drug that would make me cooperate with them.’’
Her imagination immediately sprang into action. ‘‘Or a slow-acting poison only they have the antidote to.’’
He grimaced. ‘‘I hadn’t thought about that.’’
‘‘That’s because it’s ridiculous!’’ she shouted. ‘‘It’s something out of a movie! This whole scene is out of a really bad movie!’’
‘‘Ann.’’ With his healthy hand, Jasha caught her wrist. When she focused on him, he said steadily, ‘‘Dig out the arrow.’’
She looked away. The arrow was in him. This was her fault.
&n
bsp; She brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.
‘‘Look at me!’’ He shook her wrist. ‘‘There’s no one else I can depend on. Only you.’’
She looked back at him.
Their gazes locked.
She steadied.
‘‘There’s always only you,’’ he said.
‘‘Shit-kicker. Flatterer. Damned, ridiculous, stupid man.’’ She could not do this. She could not. She knelt beside him, pulled the knife out of his jeans pocket. Her hands shook so badly she fumbled and dropped it. ‘‘It should be sterilized.’’ She sliced his T-shirt from his neck to his sleeve and laid his shoulder bare.
The arrow had desecrated the beautiful expanse of his smooth skin. Blood—old blood, new blood, stained everything brown and scarlet. She wanted to put her head between her knees. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry.
‘‘You can’t kill me with a germ.’’ He sounded way too sure of himself. ‘‘You can’t kill me at all. You’re going to widen the wound enough to back the arrow out without doing too much more tissue damage.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ And, Poison, she reminded herself. The sharp blade hovered, trembling, over the wound.
‘‘Drugs are most likely.’’ His voice vibrated with pleading. ‘‘Please, Ann, do this for me.’’
Tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away— and cut.
The skin was tough. The muscle was like meat. Meat slippery with blood. She used the point to follow the arrow down to the point. It took her a minute to realize . . . ‘‘I’ve hit bone. The point is buried in the bone.’’
‘‘I know.’’ He sounded as if he were being strangled.
She couldn’t bear to look at his face, to see his anguish. If she did that, she’d never be able to finish. ‘‘How do I get it out?’’
‘‘You pull.’’
‘‘Oh, come on!’’ Now she did look at him.
His lower lip was bleeding—he’d bitten it through. ‘‘Pull it straight out,’’ he instructed. ‘‘A hard, fast jerk. Straight up and out. Ann, that’s important. If you pull at an angle, you’re going to tear more muscle.’’
Obviously. ‘‘I know!’’
‘‘Stand up, put your foot next to the arrow, and pull.’’
This was a nightmare. Her nightmare.
Before she could stand, he caught her hand again. ‘‘Listen. After we get done here, if I pass out or go wonky on you, call 911 on your cell, get the paramedics here. But don’t go out. Promise you won’t go out.’’
‘‘I won’t go out.’’
‘‘Make sure all the doors are locked. Take the icon and go to the linen closet beside the guest bathroom—there’re bottles of perfume. Break one on the floor. It’ll confuse his sense of smell.’’
Dumbfounded, she stared at him. Had the drugs taken effect?
‘‘Why do you think I don’t like cologne?’’ For a man with an arrow in his shoulder and possibly drugs in his system, he sounded quite sensible. ‘‘Then go down the stairs to the vault and lock yourself in. Even if they set the place on fire, there’s air piped in. You remember the combination to the vault, don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ she said faintly. ‘‘But I don’t think I can drag you that far.’’
‘‘Honey, I’m the one who’ll keep him occupied while you hide.’’
That pissed her off. ‘‘Not while I’m alive, you won’t.’’ Standing, she placed her foot on his shoulder. Bending down, she grasped the arrow close to his skin, got a good hold, and yanked as hard as she could.
For a horrible second, the arrow didn’t budge. Then it broke free.
Jasha screamed.
She staggered backward. She held it up and stared. Stared at the iron shaft.
The arrowhead was still in his shoulder.
‘‘No. No. No.’’ She dropped to her knees beside his writhing form. ‘‘Lie still!’’ With her fingers, she probed inside the wound.
‘‘My God. My God.’’ He shuddered in agony every time she moved her fingers.
She felt the outline of the arrow. It was traditionally shaped, a triangle with a point firmly embedded in the bone. ‘‘I’m going to have to walk it out.’’
‘‘Do what you have to.’’ He strained, desperate not to jerk away from her.
She wrapped her palm over the wide base, her fingers over the slick, chipped sides. As gently as she could, she rocked the arrow back and forth. At first it scarcely moved. Then the arc got wider.
Still it wouldn’t come out.
She had to get it out.
And finally, she felt the faintest snap as it came free.
He felt it, too. ‘‘Hurry. Now!’’
She pulled. Her hand slipped. Her fingers skidded across the sharp sides. The corner punctured her palm.
The bite of stone through her tender flesh was instant and agonizing. She jerked her hand away. Tears sprang to her eyes. No mere cut should be so painful.
And he arched off the floor with a silent cry of torment.
‘‘Sorry,’’ she said breathlessly. Sorrier than she could say.
‘‘What the hell happened?’’ he rasped. ‘‘That burned!’’
‘‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’’
‘‘No. I guess not.’’
Ignoring her misery, she went back in and pulled again. The arrow backed up. Slowly, laboriously, she slid the awful thing free of his muscles, his bones, and his sinews.
As soon as it was loose, he said, ‘‘Let me see it.’’
She handed it to him.
‘‘It’s obsidian,’’ he said. ‘‘Black glass rock. Did you know that a chipped obsidian edge can be sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel?’’
‘‘Do I look like I care?’’ She cradled her cut hand.
‘‘No, that’s good. It doesn’t do as much damage going in. Yes, for some reason, they want me alive.’’ Carefully he examined the tip. ‘‘There it is.’’ He sighed in relief. ‘‘You got it out. See?’’ He held up the arrow. ‘‘See that tiny tracking device? It’s formed right into the tip, and there’s a perforation where the tip should break off in the bone. With my metabolism, the bone would knit and they could follow me wherever I went.’’
She turned her head away. She couldn’t stand to look at the bloody thing. She was sickened, afraid, in pain, barely hanging on to consciousness.
‘‘The important thing is, you don’t have to go back in.’’ He sounded encouraging.
Her head shot around to him. ‘‘Go back in!’’
‘‘If it hadn’t come out—’’
‘‘Oh, for the love of God—’’
‘‘Perhaps not God—God doesn’t look favorably on us—but for the love of my family. They’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but they would do anything to help me, and I would do anything to save them.’’
Family? Are these the kind of sacrifices family requires? ‘‘I should have kept driving.’’
‘‘But you couldn’t leave me.’’ He stroked Ann’s arm. ‘‘Or her.’’
‘‘Her?’’
‘‘The Madonna.’’
Ann pulled the icon out of her pocket and showed him. ‘‘I didn’t leave her.’’
He laughed, but faintly, and closed his eyes. ‘‘The entry is a good place for us to stay right now. The board is over one window, the leaded glass makes it difficult to look in, and the siren will sound if anyone breaks in. The local cops are probably pretty sick of hearing my alarm, but out here, they don’t have anything else to do, and I put a lot of money into their retirement fund. They’ll come out.’’
She looked around. Yes. She felt relatively safe right now. Going to the wall, she set the alarm.
‘‘Stay low,’’ Jasha said.
‘‘I know.’’ When had she acquired a siege mentality? Outside, it was still morning—how was that possible?—and she thought the sunlight made an attack unlikely.
An attack. She was a modern woman. Why was she worried about an at
tack?
She looked at Jasha. Because she’d just pulled an arrow out of a man she’d seen turn into a wolf.
This was all a hallucination, because none of it made sense.
But whether it did or not, Jasha looked like hell. Smeared with blood, pale, and sweaty. In shock. ‘‘I’m cold,’’ he said, and shivered.
She comfortingly pressed her hand on his chest, then rose, went to the couch, and grabbed a pillow and another throw.
When she returned and lifted his head, his eyes opened, angry yellow and rimmed in red.
But when he saw her, he relaxed. ‘‘Thank you,’’ he whispered. ‘‘For everything.’’
Like she had a choice. She shoved the pillow under his head and tossed the throw over him. ‘‘Explain to me why I’m not calling 911 right now.’’
‘‘Because when they arrest the hunter for shooting me with an arrow, he’s going to tell the sheriff I’m a wolf. When they question you, you’re going to blush and stammer the way you always do when you lie. When I heal as quickly as I do, the hospital’s going to think there’s something very strange about me. And we don’t want anyone thinking there’s anything strange about me.’’ He fixed his changeable eyes on her. ‘‘Do we?’’
‘‘No. I guess not.’’ Sadly, the whole thing made sense to her, and that, more than anything, told her how far she’d come from yesterday. ‘‘It wasn’t the drunk hunter, was it?’’
‘‘It was. The drunk hunter, plus one of my cousins.’’
She didn’t ask how he knew. But she believed him. ‘‘Why would your cousin try to kill you? And don’t tell me because your parents got married.’’
‘‘If he’d wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead.’’ Jasha’s voice was growing fainter.
‘‘You think these guys are related to the Ukrainians?’’
‘‘I think they are the Ukrainians.’’
Her anger rose again. ‘‘And you think I’m in league with them.’’
‘‘No, I think they planted a tracking device on you and urged you to come up here so they could find out where I lived.’’
‘‘That’s dumb!’’ At least in the real world, it was dumb. In a world where Jasha turned into a wolf and his cousin shot him with an arrow, it made sense.
‘‘I’m still cold,’’ Jasha murmured. ‘‘I know it’s not comfortable, but would you lie with me?’’
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