Bulletproof Hearts. Kay Thomas
her pinned to the ground.
“Your driver is doing a fine job of getting us away from the situation. I’m making sure we have help when we get to where he is taking us.”
“You haven’t told me who you really are, have you?”
He ignored her question and called to the driver instead. “You doing okay up there?”
The guy nodded.
“What’s your name?” asked Shaun. They were speeding along Rock Creek Parkway now. “I’m Carl.”
“Carl, I’m Shaun and you’re doing great. Donner briefed you, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, I need you to take us to that address I gave you.”
Carl nodded.
“What’s going on? Why won’t you tell me? Carl?” She turned her head to meet Shaun’s eyes. “Where are we going? To the police?”
They were nose to nose and she could see a tiny scar under his chin. His eyes seemed darker up close than she’d originally thought, with deep green flecks in the irises. She stared, determined not to look away or back down till she got answers.
“No police. But ’tis a safe place, where we’re going,” Shaun answered.
“Why no police?”
“Because I’m not sure they can help you right now.”
“And you can? Who are you?” she asked again. Fear was giving way to anger.
“A friend.” The snake charmer was long gone; he was cool and businesslike.
She shook her head and turned back to face the carpet. Some friend. No one had started shooting till she met him and up until two minutes ago, Carl had been her driver.
“Why should I believe that?” she whispered.
Chapter Two
Shaun heard the whisper of her voice but couldn’t catch what she’d said as he contemplated the back of Abigail’s blond head. She was so small, he had to be crushing her beneath him. Yet he felt compelled to physically shield her until he was absolutely certain that danger had passed. He rose up and checked out the window before hunkering down again. Carl had left behind whoever was shooting at them, but Shaun was still buzzing from the adrenaline rush.
In his mind’s eye he could see a bullet whizzing through the door. If Abigail Trevor hadn’t leaned forward when she did, he’d be dealing with another dead body.
He couldn’t think about that. He was surprised that someone had tried to kill her. He was expecting bribes, threats, intimidation. That was what his assignment brief had covered. The situation wasn’t supposed to turn violent—not yet, not without any warning first to make it clear to Abigail what was at stake. This was more dangerous than he had realized, which made it all the more imperative that he keep her safe.
“Can you get off me, please? I can’t breathe. I’m not kidding. I have asthma.” Her voice was thin but firm.
Ah, Christ. It wouldn’t do to save her from bullets only to have her die of asphyxiation. Careful of the glass, he rolled to the side and helped her turn over without cutting herself.
She took a wheezing gulp of air, sat up and coughed.
“Do you have one of those inhaler things?” he asked.
She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not sure. Probably not.”
“Why not?” His tone was sharper than he’d intended.
She glared. “Because I changed purses this morning and I didn’t think to put the emergency inhaler in my bag. I was burying my brother. I was not expecting to get crushed by a giant.”
Her voice had a distinct edge to it now, but her eyes glistened with tears. She was more upset than angry. This had to be a nightmare for her and surprisingly, he felt bad for her. Again his conscience was taking him unawares.
He didn’t have time for the demons of his own remorse and he couldn’t do anything about her hurt feelings. Instead, he took her miniscule purse from the seat and dumped it on the floor of the limo. The time for being polite or charming was long past. What mattered now was looking after her as best he could.
“Hey,” she wheezed.
Hairbrush, wallet, lipstick, cell phone, compact—nothing resembling an inhaler. Damn.
“I could’ve just reached in and looked for it,” she protested. Another coughing fit racked her small frame.
“Quicker this way,” he muttered. He tried to fit everything back in the impossibly tiny bag and was alarmed by the ferocity of her coughs. Naturally, the contents wouldn’t fit.
Women’s purses. He’d been all over the world, faced exotic things that had made grown men gawk while he stood unmoved. Still, a woman’s purse seemed just a bit forbidden and slightly mysterious.
He quit trying to shove in the hairbrush and pulled his cell phone back from his pocket. At this point, he’d be better off doing something he was capable of—letting Donner know about the new wrinkle in their situation.
“What kind of inhaler do you use?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“What kind of meds do you need for your asthma?”
“Who are you?” she repeated, breathless with confusion and discomfort.
“I’m someone who’s here to protect you and right now I’m your pharmacist. What kind of meds do you need?”
“An albuterol nebulizer and Symbicort.” She gave him the milligrams. “I think I could use an EpiPen, too.”
“All right.” He typed the instructions into his phone.
Donner replied immediately and Shaun grimaced.
He studied Trevor’s sister as she leaned her head back against the carpet. With all the shards of glass scattered about, it was easier for her to stay on the floor where she’d been originally. Her eyes were closed but he remembered their unusual color—like a single malt scotch.
He took the time to study her smooth, porcelain white skin. She had an exotic mole above her upper lip à la Cindy Crawford and features that were so delicate; she looked like a china doll—except for the wheezing that was growing progressively louder. He focused on her lips for any signs of asphyxia but they were still healthy and pink, not the slightest tinge of blue. Very soft looking, too. He looked away. Now was not the time to get distracted by a very kissable set of lips.
He debated explaining a bit more about what was going on but decided against it. She was struggling to breathe and she needed to be able to concentrate to understand the Pandora’s box that had been opened with her brother’s death. He settled for taking care of her instead. Over the years he’d found that actions tended to speak much louder than words, anyway.
“Do you need to see a doctor?” he asked.
She didn’t open her eyes. “If I get my meds, I’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t so sure about that. He reached for her wrist. “I want to take your pulse.”
She didn’t argue and that concerned him more than anything. He took her hand in his. It was small like the rest of her and her nails were free of polish. Her wrist felt impossibly fragile as he counted the frantic beats. Her eyes were still closed and he took the opportunity to stare at her once more.
Her black skirt was pulled up to midthigh; she obviously hadn’t realized that yet. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t getting an eyeful. He was so distracted by the fact that she wore stockings and a garter belt instead of traditional panty hose that initially he didn’t realize he was gaping. He contemplated the red lace straps attached to gossamer