Last Call Read Free Page A

Footsteps retreated.
    Nick didn't turn around. He didn't want to
risk a second confrontation with the gunman, and Nick couldn't see
anything in the dark anyway. Holding his breath, he knelt beside
Rhys. She wasn't wearing enough for the weather. Her shirt was
tugged to one side, allowing him a glimpse of the bandage at her
shoulder — the same one he'd shot. He winced.
    "Rhys? Rhys !" His urgency funneled into a
hoarse whisper.
    Her eyes fluttered open, then widened.
"Nick?"
    He swallowed and leaned close, cradling her
head. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" The words felt like the
lamest line ever.
    "Wood…" Her eyes rolled back in her head, then
drifted closed.
    Nick palmed his cell but stopped short of
dialing. Calling an ambulance probably wasn't on his new boss man's
list of approved activities, but if he was willing to go to such
lengths to keep Rhys alive, Nick doubted she'd have been dropped
off in dire health. Her wound dressing — what he could see —
appeared to be clean and neatly applied. Her heartbeat was steady
and her eyes focused on him, however briefly. Still, the
temperature hovered near freezing and the mixed precipitation left
the air damp. The warehouse provided shelter from the rain — less
what breached the high, broken windows — but the bitter wind
swirled through, stirring dirt and the rancid smell of
soot.
    "Nick," she whispered, tugging on his shirt
with her good arm. "Want you."
    Want him to what? Blindly, his mind went to an image of her sitting
alone drinking at their table in Bart's bar. His heart
leapt. You moron .
He gave himself a mental shake. For all he knew, she wanted him to
get the hell away from her. And that, he wouldn't do.
    Nick shrugged out of his sweatshirt and helped
her to a sitting position. Then he slipped the fleece over her
head, threading her good limb through the sleeve and leaving the
other cradled against her stomach. With one arm steadying her, he
stood and drew her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him, offering
warmth against his long sleeve tee.
    He bit back a frown. For all the times he
imagined her in his arms, he'd only twice managed getting her
there. Once when he'd shot her, and again when someone else had. Or
he assumed the latter, though the media obviously had this one
wrong. She was very much alive, and his suspicions were more on
point than ever. The entire situation screamed cover up, but if the
cops wanted to purport her death — something not unprecedented when
it came to protecting a witness or an undercover operation — it
made zero sense a thug with a gun would be the one handing her over
to anyone, let alone Nick.
    That last part had been a mistake. A big
one.
    Detective .
    Someone was operating on misinformation. And
in a high stakes game, even the smallest miscalculation could be
deadly. He knew that far too well.
    Half leading and half carrying Rhys, he exited
the warehouse through the same door he'd entered. The wharf's
desolation hadn't waned, he thought wryly. Granted, the deserted
landscape meant a lack of concerned citizens to report him dragging
around a woman in the middle of the night. That worked very much in
his favor; on the flipside, borrowing a car would be a lot easier
if there was one around. Looking for one without drawing attention
would be almost impossible, and a return bus trip was out. After
Rhys's stint on the evening news as a murder victim, half the town
would recognize her.
    Rhys shivered and trembled against
him.
    He had to get her out of the weather. He
glanced around — a line of fishing boats caught his eye. "Can you
walk? You hanging in there?"
    "I'm okay," she mumbled. She didn't sound it,
but she was a damn good cop before he took her out of the business
— she'd say she was okay whether she was or not. He liked that
about her, but it made having her life in his hands an epic
guessing game.
    "Good," he said, leading her in the direction
of the boats. "Pretend you adore me and we'll be fine."
    He could