surprise.
Figuring it was time to follow her client’s lead, Mel grabbed for her gun. Mohawk read the move and intercepted it, twisting her wrist, wrenching it up behind her back. She didn’t waste time struggling. He was obviously stronger. Instead, she stomped down on his instep and applied her other elbow to his groin. Suddenly freed, she spilled onto the floor on hands and knees. Before she could gain any momentum on the slick tiles, large hands grabbed her about the waist, yanking her up. She kicked the man in front of her, taking him in the kneecap. As he crumpled, she drove back with her elbows, inflicting as much damage as she could. And that’s when her captor swung her around and the side of her head met with one of the support pillars.
Darkness swamped over her in a huge, sickening wave as she was hauled back up to her feet. She got a blurry glimpse of Xander dropping the case, his hands spreading wide in presumed surrender. His stare touched on the blood streaming down the side of her face, on the hands holding her, one by the throat and one groping roughly in search of her weapon. And she realized their attackers were wrong to think the danger was from her gun.
He moved so fast and purposefully they had no time to react. Gripping the knife-wielding hand, dodging its lethal thrust, he dropped his elbow down at the base of the man’s skull. A knee to the face as he was falling took him completely out of the picture. Even as Xander shoved away from the first man, he was intent upon the next, using combined strikes from the back of his fist and elbow followed by a hard upward drive with the heel of his other hand to dispatch thug number two.
Mel had never seen anything like him. She was familiar with bar brawls and self-defense but not this skilled form of controlled attack. He didn’t fight using a fisted punch but rather with fierce hard strikes, using every surface of his body with explosive aggressive force—knees, elbows, the flat of his forearms, even his head, to batter his assailants into submission. Without hesitation, without mercy. Until a roar from Mohawk checked him.
“Enough!”
The blade pressed to Mel’s throat effectively stilled Xander’s unexpected threat. He took a submissive stance, his hard glare riveted to the others as he issued a quiet promise.
“Cut her and I’ll end you.”
The deadly force behind that delivery gave Mohawk an instant of hesitation. Just enough for Mel to act in her own defense. She gripped his thumb, twisting it back until his fingers opened and the knife dropped. As she backed out of his slackened hold, she pulled her pistol free and jammed it into his kidney.
“Think about it!” Mel said.
He froze, apparently thinking hard.
“Run.”
He didn’t have to think twice about that one. He bolted and the rest of his group scrambled after him.
The pistol in her hand wavered wildly. The floor, walls and ceiling began a slow, determined roll. Mel was dimly aware of a firm grip divesting her of the gun, curling about her waist to ease her fall into blackness. After that, it was just dizzying snatches. The sight of an oxygen mask coming down from a backdrop of flashing lights. Of Xander’s immobile features filling her field of vision, a dark angel at her side. His small, tight smile of reassurance and the warm chafe of his hands over one of hers. And the gleam of metal from the courier case in his lap flaring bright as passing streetlights reflected off it. Then darkness, cool and complete.
They swarmed the E.R. like soldiers storming the battlements. Her family, her friends, pushing him out of the way. He shouldn’t have resented surrendering his seat at her bedside. And he wondered why he did.
He’d been sitting on the hard metal chair for the past four hours while emergency staff plugged her in and took her vitals. He acted as if he belonged there and after a while, they stopped questioning his right to be. He didn’t interfere with them, content to remain a silent sentinel, her hand within the curl of his fingers, his attention riveted to her pale features. All the alarm and fear that hadn’t surfaced while confronting the thugs in the hotel whispered through him now as he kept an anxious eye on the monitors and waited for her to wake up—this gutsy woman who would risk her life for him. The fact that she was well paid to do so never quite entered the equation.
They wheeled her out briefly to get a CT scan. While he sat alone behind the curtained walls, with sounds of weeping and suffering on either side of him, he noticed with an odd detachment the blood splashed on his shirtfront and hands. He stared at the dark patterns for a long moment before finally getting up to wash them off in the small sink. That’s when his hands started shaking, tremors spreading until they raced all the way to the soles of his no-longer spotless shoes. Delayed shock. A trickle-down of adrenaline. That’s all it was. His eyes squeezed tight. She could have died right then, right there, protecting his lie.
“Mel?”
Xander scooped a palmful of water and dashed it on his face. Using the sleeve of his ruined jacket to towel it dry, he turned to the anxious man staring at the empty bed in horror.
“She’s getting tests done.”
Relief dropped the older man to the chair Xander had vacated. He sat sucking air, his face pale as the lightweight cotton blanket folded at the end of the bed.
“I’m Xander Caufield.”
Dazed eyes lifted to register his presence. “Charley Parrish. Mel’s my niece. Is she all right? What happened?”
Before he could begin, there was a ruckus in the hall. Six men smelling of smoke and hard work pushed their way past the curtain, followed by a harried nurse. They all talked at once, addressing Charley Parrish as if he had the answers. No one paid Xander the least bit of attention.
Then Mel’s welcome voice intruded. “Hey, you guys mind keeping it down. There are sick people in here.”
They parted to allow room for the gurney carrying a pale but smiling Mel Parrish, then quickly closed ranks about her bed. Leaving Xander on the outside.
“They find anything in that empty head of yours?”
“What’s the other guy look like?”
“Like we don’t have enough to do without worrying about your sorry butt. Hey, Charley. How ya doing?”
“That was one helluva scare you gave us when we heard it on the scanner, One Night.”
“Give her room to breathe, fellas.”
Xander observed them, these big, gruff men all jockeying for the chance to clutch her hand within their dirty paws while she looked up at them with obvious affection. The scene acted strangely upon him. These were the ones who loved her and were loved in return. Hearing she was in trouble, they’d dropped everything to come running. Though they joked and grumbled about the inconvenience, the edge of worried concern was etched in each rugged face. That told him more about Mel Parrish than any amount of research he could have gathered.
“Hey, is this where the party is?”
“Sir, gentlemen, you can’t all go in there!”
“Hey, One Night. Whatcha doing on that bed all by yourself? Want some company?”
“Why? Do you have a good-looking friend?”
Laughter. Warm and rich with relief as more of the men shouldered their way into the small sterile space. Crowding Xander—with his bloodstained clothes and unfamiliar face—out. He lingered a moment longer, absorbing the sight of her surrounded by her fiercely protective posse of devoted comrades, her smile wide and reckless, her eyes shiny with emotion. Then he picked up his case and backed away unnoticed.
By all but one.
Chapter 4
It was her worst hangover squared.
Moving woke an Anvil Chorus between her temples punctuated by the cannons from the 1812 Overture. Every inch of her ached. She had no business crawling out of bed, except the business she had to take care