Time stretched, slowing, moving at half speed as a black van inched down the street. A man stuck a Heckler & Koch MP5 out the window.
Dutch didn’t have much time to think, to assess. They were all in serious trouble standing in front of the plate glass window with nothing to stop the rounds that were about to tear through them.
The man lifted the MP5 and let it rip, spraying the front of the gallery. Bullets shattered the plate glass, stitching in a fiery line toward them. Dutch grabbed Isabel, whirling her away from the incoming fire, as he dove to the floor.
Brenda was hit instantly and sent spinning and falling. The vase burst. Jagged shards of glass flew everywhere like tiny projectiles.
Shielding Isabel with his body, Dutch forced her to low crawl toward the back of the desk. He feared the men outside would stop the vehicle and come into the gallery to make sure they’d finished the job.
Rounds were still being sprayed on full automatic, punching into the walls, shredding paintings. He and Isabel skirted behind the desk, beating the deadly fusillade by a blink of an eye. Bullets pounded into the solid wood, thuds reverberating through his body.
“Keep your head down,” Dutch said to Isabel and drew his weapon.
Flipping off his safety, he peered over the top of the desk and pulled the trigger, returning fire. Every shot he squeezed off was controlled and well aimed.
A hot slug slammed into the shooter, throwing him back into the vehicle.
The driver accelerated and the van hurtled forward with its tires squealing.
“Stay here.” Dutch raced to the front, out onto the sidewalk, and watched the vehicle speed away. He scanned for any other threats.
No secondary shooters on foot. Only terrified passersby.
He ran back inside and checked on Brenda. She lay on her back, rolling left and right. A red blotch on her abdomen seeped wider, dripping blood on the hardwood. Another bullet got her in the shoulder just under her collarbone. She was alive, but not for much longer if she didn’t get medical attention.
“Isabel, grab a towel, a piece of cloth, anything you can find.”
Glass crunched as she scurried to her feet. Seconds later she came to him, carrying a silk scarf. She screamed, a bloodcurdling cry that he’d never forget.
“Oh, God!” A choking sob left Isabel. “Brenda!”
Dutch snatched the scarf from her, tore it and pressed the pieces to Brenda’s wounds. “Put your hands here,” he said to Isabel. “Apply pressure. Don’t worry about hurting her. We’ve got to slow the bleeding.”
Isabel dropped to her knees with no care about the broken glass that bit into her skin and replaced his hands with her own. Dutch took out his cell phone and dialed 911.
Before he’d finished with the emergency dispatch operator, the sound of approaching sirens split the air. Someone else must’ve already called them. Help was on the way.
Brenda was still conscious, which was a good sign. Her blood wasn’t a dark red like her liver had been punctured, but the bullet might’ve hit her stomach. It was a nasty wound.
The ambulance and police arrived at virtually the same time. EMTs rushed inside while the police cordoned off the area, driving onlookers back from the scene.
Dutch holstered his weapon and flashed his badge to the cops. After the EMTs loaded Brenda on a stretcher, he helped Isabel climb into the back of the ambulance to ride along.
“I’ll give a statement and meet you at the hospital,” Dutch said. He’d call Draper and have him or Allison head over to keep Isabel safe until Dutch could get there.
Isabel swallowed hard and horror was stamped on her face. She brushed her hair back with a bloody hand, nodding that she’d heard him, but her glassy eyes were focused on her best friend.
“Brenda? Brenda!” Isabel took her hand, but her friend didn’t answer.
Fear speared him as Brenda’s head lolled to the side. She wasn’t conscious.
“Why won’t she wake up?” Isabel asked, her gaze bouncing from an EMT to Dutch.
His fear spread. If Brenda didn’t make it, the loss would crush Isabel.
The EMT put an oxygen mask on Brenda. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital now.” He closed the rear doors and the ambulance pulled away.
Life wasn’t cutting Isabel any slack. It had been one horrible thing after another. No matter how strong a person was, everyone had a limit. A breaking point.
Dutch didn’t think Isabel could take much more before she reached hers.
Even though she was justifiably ticked off at him, he hoped she’d let him be there for her to help her get through all this. She needed someone to lean on now more than ever.
He whipped out his phone and dialed Draper, updating him quickly so Isabel would be protected at the hospital.
“Sir,” a police officer said, approaching him with two others, as Dutch hung up, “we’re going to need to know exactly what happened here.”
The cops didn’t give Dutch a chance to catch his breath before they launched in with their questions.
“HORATIO HAAS IS definitely a US marshal,” the new PI said to Chad. “First, they went to the US Marshals Service building earlier and now he’s flashing a badge to every cop he speaks to about the shooting.”
That explained why the police hadn’t arrested him, giving Chad’s attorney the runaround and flimsy excuses. But why would the Marshals be watching Isabel?
She wasn’t into anything illegal and neither was her best friend, Brenda. But the Marshals had definitely been set up across the street from the gallery for a reason.
“Are you sure Isabel is okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She got into the ambulance with the other woman.”
Good. Chad didn’t want anything to happen to his Isabel unless he determined that she deserved it. And even then, Chad would be the one to dispense punishment. Him and no one else.
“Find out why the Marshals are interested in Isabel.”
“That means pulling my surveillance on Haas.”
“Understood.” On that front, the PI had served his purpose, and Chad could track Isabel from her phone. “This is more important.”
“I still have a few contacts in the FBI. They might be able to find out something, but it’ll cost you.”
Tell Chad something new. He was used to paying to get what he wanted. “I need to know what the Marshals have on her. The cost doesn’t concern me. I want answers ASAP.”
ISABEL SAT IN the waiting room, wringing her hands, while Brenda was in surgery.
The two marshals she’d met earlier sat across from her, giving her breathing room. She didn’t want to see or talk to either of them right now. If they hadn’t insisted that their presence was necessary to ensure her safety, she would’ve thrown them out.
The nightmare kept getting worse, spiraling, growing bigger, darker, consuming every good thing in her life.
Brenda. What if her best friend died because of her?
Her bloody hands were shaking so badly she didn’t know what to do with them.
Dutch shoved through the double doors, carrying the purse she’d forgotten. Her eyes fluttered shut on an overwhelming wave of relief. Then it morphed slowly with each step he took toward her, changing into an indescribable need to be held. By him.
She stood, dizzy, aching from head to toe, and reached for him. He pulled her into his arms. It was all too much being thrown at her, life forcing her to drink from a firehose of crap on full blast. She was drowning. She needed his comfort and was too weak to turn it down.
The other two marshals stood and headed for the door. “Dutch, give me a call when you get a chance,” his boss said.
“Sure.”
Once they left, Isabel let fresh tears fall.
“This is my fault,” she said. “Brenda got shot because of me. Oh, God, she could die.”
“No, sweetheart.” Dutch stroked her hair, his voice calm and steady. “This is your uncle’s fault. His and no one else’s.”
The realization hit her that if Dutch hadn’t been there, if that stolen database hadn’t brought him into her life—even by duplicitous means—she and Brenda would both be dead. Victims of her uncle’s turf war.
Her knees gave out.
Dutch caught her and helped her sit in a chair. “Give me a minute.” He got up to leave.
“Don’t go.” She clutched his arm, something in her chest unraveling like a pulled spool of thread. “I need you to stay.”
He kissed her forehead. “One minute. Two tops. I’ll just be in the hall, a few feet away, and be right back.” Then he hustled out of the waiting room.
True to his word, he was back in two minutes, carrying a candy bar and a cup of coffee. He pushed both into her trembling hands. “You need to eat. We’ve got to get your blood sugar up and some caffeine in your system. It’ll help.”
She shook her head. The thought of eating repulsed her.
“You need your strength. For Brenda. Eat, honey.”
She bit into chocolate and caramel, not tasting it, and washed it down with a few sips of coffee. One nibble after the other, she ate the candy bar and drank the black coffee.
Her nerves were still scraped raw, but her jitters faded, and her legs felt solid again.
For hours, they sat in the small room that had muted colors, waiting for an update on Brenda. Dutch’s arms around her, enveloping her in his warm protectiveness, was the only thing holding her together.
Finally, a doctor came in, pulling off his green scrub cap. “Are you the relatives of Brenda Reaver?”
Isabel stood and Dutch was up on his feet beside her. “I’m her best friend, Isabel Vargas. Her parents live in Ohio, but I’m her emergency contact here in LA for everything. Is she going to live?”
“Your friend got lucky. One bullet broke her clavicle and the other just missed her stomach. She lost a lot of blood and we had to give her a transfusion, but she’s going to pull through.”
Isabel released the breath that had bunched in her lungs. “Thank God.”
“You’ll want to contact her parents and have them fly out. She’s going to need help for the next few weeks while she recuperates.”
Isabel had wanted to wait until Brenda was out of surgery to tell them their daughter would recover or...
“Okay. Can I see her now?” Isabel asked.
“The best thing you can do for her now is let her rest. Come by tomorrow.”
Isabel nodded, not liking it, but understanding.
“Let’s get you to the apartment so you can clean up,” Dutch said. “You’re covered in blood.”
She didn’t object when Dutch led her out of the hospital and guided her into the car.
While he ran into doggie day care to get McQueen, she called Brenda’s parents. The machine at their house picked up, which wasn’t surprising. For a couple in their sixties, they were active and social and were usually only home in the evenings, but Isabel didn’t have their cell numbers. She left a brief message, focusing on the fact that Brenda was going to recover and that they should fly out.
Despite Dutch’s assurances that this wasn’t her fault, guilt plagued her.
The door opened and McQueen leapt in, tail wagging, excited to see her, but she couldn’t even pet him. She was trapped in a miasma of fear and darkness. Dutch tossed a small bag of dog food into the back seat and she was grateful he’d thought of it. If not for him, poor McQueen would starve.
At the apartment building, Dutch parked away from the burned spot where his motorcycle had been torched. She drifted into the building, into the elevator, through the apartment, bedroom and found herself in the bathroom.
Kicking off her shoes, she started the shower. Her chest was tight, a crushing pressure building, coiling, winding deeper.
She stepped into the shower, fully clothed, sat under the spray and tucked her knees into her chest. Letting the hot water cascade over her, she prayed it might warm her. She was cold, so very cold, and trembling uncontrollably.
Everything she’d been through with Chad, everything she’d learned over the past twenty-four hours turned over in her mind. A sick feeling ballooned in her stomach. With a flash of panic, it dawned on her that life as she knew it was over.
The water slid from hot to lukewarm. She had lost track of time with no way to tell how long she’d been in there.
Dutch knocked on the door. It was still open. She’d never closed it. He peeked inside. The expression on his face was a heartbreaking mix of worry and affection. He came in, pulled off his boots and socks and climbed into the shower.
He lifted her from the tile floor, peeled off her top and skirt, leaving on her underwear. Then he washed her. Lathered her hair with shampoo, ran her bath sponge over her face, scrubbed the blood from her hands, checked for embedded glass in her legs. Holding her up under the spray, he rinsed the suds from her body.
No one had ever cared for her like this. Completely. Tenderly. Asking for nothing in return. There was no reason for him to go to such trouble unless he felt something real for her.
He turned off the water, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. Stepping out of the shower, he looked down at his sopping-wet clothes. A grimace crossed his face as he undressed like he wished there was a better alternative than tracking water through the apartment.
Keeping on his boxer-briefs, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Dutch laid her down and threw the bedspread over her. He sat on the floor beside her, with his back against the nightstand, and stroked her hair, over and over, driving her mind to empty.
She was tired and aching and wanted to give in to the exhaustion that clawed at her. To surrender to Dutch’s soothing caresses and close her eyes, to sleep. But she couldn’t.
Pain churned, rubbing coarse as sandpaper against her insides.
Her heart wanted him, and her brain longed for an escape, but her body needed a release. “Dutch,” she said, her voice hoarse and low, “make love to me. Help me forget every horrible thing that’s happened for a little while.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t want you to regret this later.”
“I’d only regret it if the way you say you feel about me is a lie.”
“It’s not. I swear. But your emotions are running high. This might be a bad idea.”
“I’m an adult. I know what’s best for me, what I need, what I want.” Tugging his hand, she urged him up from the floor.
No resistance given, he slipped into the bed. “If you change your mind at any time and want me to stop, I will. No matter how difficult that might be. Just say the word.”
This was why she trusted him in that moment, sought refuge and comfort in his arms. Even though he was strong and powerful, to the point of imposing in a scary way, and could be violent when necessary, she was safe with him, wasn’t afraid of him.
There was no doubt in her mind that if she asked him to stop, he would. Every woman deserved that kind of sound assurance from the person they were with, but this was the first time she had it.
“I can just hold you if you want,” he said, offering her another out, and it was another first.
She cupped the back of his head and brought his mouth to hers. In an instant, he covered her with his body, the contact lighting up her nerve endings.
Raising her hips to meet his, she telegraphed her urgency. He looked into her eyes, and she saw passion and heat and a similar plea for connection, for communion, that they were both powerless to deny.
Her whole body screamed for friction, for the need to have their bodies joined, for a release that could only be found in his arms.
He removed the little remaining physical barriers between them. There was heat and need in his gaze. He ran his hands over her body and moaned as if he’d been longing for this, too. Her nipples peaked and tightened beneath his tongue, and she was amazed by how quickly her body responded to him, growing soft and pliant and wet.
Moving his hand down to the welcoming spot between her legs, he slid his fingers between her folds. He watched her face, reading her responses for what she liked and didn’t. His thumb circled her tight bundle of nerves and she gasped with pleasure.
He kissed his way down her body, diving beneath the sheet, his face settling between her thighs, treating her yet again to another first.
The sensation of his tongue, his fingers and lips all converged, swelling, cresting. It was devastating in the best way possible as an orgasm tore through her. She clutched at his hair, wishing the strands were longer, the backs of her knees over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back, and screamed his name.
Once she settled, he crawled up and hugged her to him. Her breath slowly steadied, and she remembered her name.
Brushing the hair out of her face, he looked down at her. “Should we stop? Or should I grab a condom?”
An ache drilled deep into her heart. She’d never been with anyone so generous and kind. Who’d disregard their own needs for the sake of hers.
Never had she felt more connected to another. Cherished. This was what she wanted, someone who saw through the superficial and desired her despite her flaws. Someone who’d put her ahead of anything else.
If only she could get over the humiliation of being used, the betrayal that gutted her.
Hope welled inside her but didn’t scare her. Quite the opposite. In a way, it was setting her free from her past and opening the door to possibilities she’d never dared entertain before.
She caressed his cheek and kissed him, hot and needy for more. For everything he had to give. At least for tonight. “Condom.”