Possessed by an Immortal. Sharon Ashwood
needs come first?”
She cursed so softly he almost missed it. “I need to think.” She scooped Jonathan into her arms and walked back to the front room, cradling him against her shoulder. The boy’s dark eyes watched Mark from over his mother’s back.
The sudden silence in the kitchen jarred. Mark stared at the litter of doctor’s instruments on the kitchen table and cursed. He was trying to help, but something wasn’t right. Too many questions crowded into his mind, and he had a feeling none of the answers were pleasant. Why involve yourself with their troubles? You were at peace with just the other beasts for company.
But the one human attribute that still plagued him was curiosity. Bree and her son obviously had a story, and he wanted to know what it was. With speed born of long practice, he tidied away his medical equipment. After that he found some cans of tomato soup in the cupboards. He never had visitors, but kept a small stock of human food for emergencies. He probably should have offered food first, but he’d forgotten many of those small courtesies. Such were the hazards of living mostly among his own kind.
Mark returned to the sitting room, about to ask if he could make tea or coffee. Bree was slouched in his chair, Jonathan—now in dry clothes—asleep in the curve of her arm. Mark’s step hitched, caught for a moment by the peaceful tableau. Mother and child. It never got old.
She rose to her feet, a graceful unfolding of her long, slender legs. Mark watched with appreciation until she brought his own Browning pistol into view, aiming straight for his chest.
A lightning glance saw the weapons cupboard standing open. She’d picked the lock. By all the fiery hells! Shock soured to bitterness. “So you are here to kill me.”
“Paranoid much?” He could hear fear in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to kill you. I just want your car keys and all your cash.”
Chapter 3
Nerves dried Bree’s mouth to cotton, making her words clumsy. The cold metal of the gun chilled her hand, driving every scrap of the stove’s warmth out of her blood.
The doctor named Mark stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, stark surprise on his handsome face. Disappointment flooded his dark eyes, making Bree’s throat clutch with regret. He didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry. You’re kind, and I’m horrible, but I have to run.
Mind you, this was the guy who’d dropped from the trees Tarzan-style and scared off a cougar. He was six-foot-plus of steely muscle, and she was very glad she had the gun.
His face dropped back into what seemed to be his usual expression—a wary, keep-your-distance frown just shy of an outright scowl. He’d cheered up when he was dealing with Jonathan, but the frown was going full blast right now.
“You’re robbing me?” he said, voice heavy with incredulity.
A flicker of annoyance bolstered her resolve. “Duh. Yeah.”
His upper lip curled with disdain, ruining the line of his perfectly sculpted lips.
Bree gulped, fighting her dry throat. With that face, he could have been a male model. Wavy dark hair, olive skin, perfect nose, dimpled chin. And a doctor. Even her mother would have approved, except—what was he doing out here? Dancing with wolves?
Though gentle with Jonathan, whenever he looked her way Mark was too intense, too raw. He scared her even as he fascinated. And just to complicate matters, she was coming to believe that he really meant to help. But there were always strings attached—strings she couldn’t afford.
Involving anyone else in her headlong flight meant trusting them. Trust meant risk. She would make fewer mistakes if she worked alone, and Jonathan would be safer—and her son’s safety was the bottom line.
The nose of the gun shook. To cover, she pulled the slide back, remembering it was a single-action pistol and she had to chamber a round. She knew the basics, but was no marksman. She frowned, doing her best to look tough.
“Have you done this before?” Mark asked in that silky tone he’d used in the woods. “Is this a new kind of home invasion?”
“Uh-huh.” Her heart pounded so hard her head swam. Behind her, Jonathan stirred anxiously. Her free hand groped behind her, catching his hand. Images flicked past. Bob the fishing guide who’d left her to freeze. The men who’d chased her from New York to these wild islands in the north. Her best friend and employer murdered, the studio where they’d worked burned to the ground. She’d heard Jessica scream that night, the sound coming shrill through the phone. The memory made her stomach roil.
This wasn’t a game. If Bree faltered, she’d be dead and Jonathan right along with her.
Dr. Bedroom Eyes didn’t know any of that. He just looked annoyed and—embarrassed? He’d probably never been threatened with his own gun before.
“You shouldn’t have wasted my professional time,” he said with deceptive coolness. “You should have just robbed me straightaway.”
Anger rose, and Bree’s hand stopped trembling. “I’m not an idiot. I know I need to find proper medical care. I was hoping you could just give Jonathan some medicine.”
“I can’t even diagnose him yet.”
“I thought you said you were better than the other doctors.”
His dark eyes flickered dangerously, sending a chill up her neck. There was menace just below that handsome facade. “I need the proper equipment. For that I need a hospital. You need a hospital.”
What Bree needed was someone—anyone—to understand. “Hospitals need names.”
Comprehension crossed his face. “You’re on the run. You’re in some kind of trouble.”
“You have no idea.” Men with guns. Men who would cheerfully take what she had and kill both her and her boy.
Mark took a step closer.
“Stay where you are!” she warned.
A second later, he was inches away from her, grabbing her gun hand and twisting her facedown against the back of the overstuffed chair. How had he moved so fast?
The edge of the chair back dug into her flesh. His hands were cool and horribly strong. Rough cloth grazed her cheek as her arm was wrenched behind her. The gun slid out of her tingling hand.
“Jonathan!” she wailed. Where had he gone?
With an inarticulate cry, her son threw himself against the doctor, pounding his fists against the man’s legs. Jonathan’s face was twisted with fury, tears streaking his cheeks.
“No!” Bree forgot the pain snaking up her arm.
Jonathan kicked the doctor’s ankle. With a curse, Mark released her, stepping back and removing the clip from the pistol in a single move. Then he ejected the cartridge from the chamber with practiced ease. “Enough!”
Bree fell to her knees and grabbed her son, who was ready to relaunch his attack. “No, baby.”
Jonathan threw his arms around her neck. With a mother’s instinct, she knew he was offering protection and needing comfort at the same time. She closed her eyes, her heart squeezed with dread for whatever was going to happen next.
Her arm and shoulder throbbed. “I’m sorry. Please, please don’t take it out on him.” She looked up at the doctor, putting her soul into her eyes. “Let us go.”
His gaze narrowed, his expression unreadable. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Bree balked, but she had no cards left to play and everything to lose. “Okay.”
She stood, setting Jonathan in the big, stuffed chair. The boy slumped into the cushions, his face still red and wet with tears. She kissed his cheeks dry. Then Bree turned to