“We can’t sit here waiting to be found.”
“Maybe they’ll go away.”
“No, they won’t. Stay down. I’m just going to look and see what direction they’re heading.” He eased away, moving so silently Morgan heard nothing but the rapid pulse of her blood and the rasping gasp of her breath.
She waited a few seconds, her heart slamming against her ribs. At any moment one of the men who’d held her captive in her own home, who’d beaten her unconscious and left her lying bleeding on the kitchen floor, could find her and it would all be over. All the hard work she’d put into opening her gallery, Clay Treasures, all the years she’d spent dreaming of reuniting with her siblings, all the time she’d spent searching for them, would end on the pavement of a parking lot in a small town she never would have come to if not for her ex-husband. Trusting Cody, letting him into her heart had been the biggest mistake of Morgan’s life. She’d vowed after her divorce to rely only on herself, yet here she was, sitting in the darkness, waiting for someone else to save her life.
The air seemed heavy with tension, the night thick with expectancy. Morgan eased up from her hiding place, peeked over the top of the shrubs and saw nothing but darkness. Fear spurring her on, she broke free of the prickly shrubs and ran to the corner of the building. For one brief exhilarating moment, she was sure she’d succeed. That somehow she’d escape the parking lot and make it out onto the street without being seen. There were neighbors who would let her in and call the police for her. All she had to do was make it to one of their doors.
Behind her, someone shouted, the sound breaking through the silence. Morgan dodged to the right, screaming as wood siding splintered inches from her face.
“Get down!”
The words barely registered as Morgan was tackled from behind. She landed hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a quick, painful rush.
“Are you crazy, lady? I told you to stay down!” He rolled away, and Morgan stayed put, barely able to breathe, much less move. She turned her head, trying to see what was happening, and saw her would-be rescuer pull something from beneath his jacket.
A gun! He had a gun!
He aimed at something behind him, fired and grabbed Morgan’s hand, pulling her up and into a dead run before she had time to realize she was moving. Something exploded inches from her feet, bits of asphalt flying up and hitting her calf. She screamed again and again, her throat raw from it.
“Come on. Faster!” The man beside her nearly yanked her off her feet as he sprinted into the street.
Morgan’s lungs burned, her legs shaking as he pulled her up the stairs and to the front door of the nearest house. He banged on the wood, his fists pounding hard enough to shake the door.
Morgan wanted to tell him that the woman who lived inside was eighty-five, hard of hearing and unlikely to open the door even if she heard him banging, but the words wouldn’t form. Darkness edged in, blurring her vision and stealing her thoughts. She swayed, knew she was falling but couldn’t seem to right herself.
“Whoa! No passing out. I can’t hold you and fire a gun at the same time.”
The grumbled command was the last thing Morgan heard as she fell into oblivion.
TWO
Jackson Sharo pulled the unconscious woman up against his chest, shielding her from the street as best he could. Gun in hand, he shifted his stance, glancing over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He’d come to Lakeview, Virginia, for his friend’s wedding. He hadn’t come for trouble. Unfortunately, trouble had found him.
He scowled, kicking the door.
“Open up. I’ve got an injured woman out here. We need help,” he shouted, wishing he still had the right to call himself a police officer. That was a lot more likely to get a door opened than kicking it and shouting would.
A light in the house went on and a shadow passed in front of the window to the left of the door.
“I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute,” a shaky voice called out.
“Call an ambulance, too. And open the door. We need help,” Jackson responded, tensing as a car passed by on the street behind him. A bullet in the back wasn’t the way he planned to end the night.
The woman he was holding stirred, pushing against his chest, her soft hair brushing Jackson’s chin as she raised her head and mumbled something he couldn’t hear.
“What?” he asked, looking down into her face. A dark bruise covered her left jaw. Another marred her cheek. Blood seeped from her forehead and shadowy marks on her neck hinted at other injuries. If he hadn’t shown up, she’d be dead by now. The thought made him cold with rage. He’d seen injuries like hers one too many times during his years as a New York City homicide detective, had experienced firsthand the devastation of losing a loved one to violence. No way would he let it happen to someone else.
“I said that her name is Mrs. Richardson. Tell her Morgan needs her help. She’ll open the door,” she repeated as she tried again to lever away from Jackson’s chest.
“Mrs. Richardson? I’ve got Morgan out here with me. She’s hurt.”
A face pressed against the window, and Morgan twisted in Jackson’s grip, offering a quick wave that seemed to reassure the elderly woman.
The door opened, and she hovered in the threshold, white hair puffed around a powder-pink face that nearly matched the color of her flowered bathrobe. “Morgan?”
“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said, her voice shaky.
“Come on. Inside.” Jackson kept his hold on her waist and urged her into the house, not waiting for further introductions or an invitation.
“What in the world happened to you?” Mrs. Richardson put a hand on Morgan’s arm, her gaze darting to Jackson and to the gun he held, her eyes widening with fear.
“Some men came into the gallery right before I closed. They—”
“I’m going to look for them,” Jackson cut in. “Close and lock the door when I leave. Don’t let anyone but the police inside.” There were two armed men on the loose and no time for chitchat.
“You can’t. They could kill you.” Morgan grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Her bruises looked darker in the stark fluorescent light, her eyes pale silvery-blue, the pupils dilated. Trembling with fear or with shock, she didn’t look capable of staying on her feet, let alone arguing with Jackson. Somehow, though, she was managing it.
“The police should be here soon.” Jackson pulled off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders, hoping to warm her.
“But—”
He didn’t let her finish, just walked outside, pulling the door closed, his gun still firmly in hand. The sense of danger and urgency he’d felt while waiting for Mrs. Richardson to open her door had dissipated, and Jackson jogged back to the gallery, knowing the men were already gone, the opportunity to bring them into custody gone with them.
Except for his car, the parking lot was empty, light from the upstairs windows spilling onto the pavement. The gallery’s double doors yawned open, inviting Jackson to explore the darkened area beyond. If he hadn’t spent nine years as a police officer, he might have, but he knew that contaminating the evidence would make prosecuting a lot more difficult.
He turned away from the building, searching the area for any signs of the men who’d been there. There was nothing. No bullets. No casings. No tread marks, cigarette butts or trash. Everything clean and tidy and free of clues.
Jackson had just completed a circuit of the area when a squad car raced into the parking lot, lights and sirens off. An officer jumped out, her frantic energy freezing Jackson in place. No way did he want to get shot by a police officer, and