Fit for a Sheikh. KRISTI GOLD
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of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.
Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.
Tommy Stokes. The ex-con had escaped from Texas but no doubt he would be back in Vegas by now, frequenting his favorite haunts, keeping company with less-than-upstanding citizens. Places where anyone could get anything, if the price was right. Business was good for a man with a thirst for blood and the absence of a soul.
He didn’t have money to pay Stokes, but one thing was working in his favor—the thug hated lawyers. Stokes would agree to off Sutter for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer as payback for the attorney who hadn’t saved him from a five-year prison term. Now he would just have to find the ex-con, and he would. Tonight.
As it had been all of Roman Birkenfeld’s life, people had tried to thwart his goals. They hadn’t succeeded until now. His medical career was a bust, all the years of hard work and struggle gone down the tubes because of some determined East Coast loan sharks and a woman who’d enlisted a group of Texas vigilantes determined to destroy him. It always came back to a woman, in this case, Natalie Perez.
Natalie was out of reach this time, but Shakir wasn’t. Someone would have to pay. It might as well be him.
Two
Fiona had finally composed herself enough on the drive to the apartment to stop shaking and help Frank out of the car. Well, she’d wanted some adventure, and she’d definitely gotten it when she’d been rescued from a crazed criminal by a dark stranger with biceps bulging from his iron-man arm now thrown over her shoulder. Thank goodness she lived on the first floor of the complex. No way would she have been able to drag him up the stairs. At least she was still in one piece, thanks to him. If he hadn’t come along, the guy might have killed her. But she sure as heck hadn’t intended to give up without a fight, especially when he’d held her down. Fiona could not tolerate being held down, and that had been more frightening than his knife.
After leaning her savior against the wall outside her apartment, she said, “Hang on a sec,” then turned the lock, pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by Carlotta, her slobbering, over-fed, Shar Pei who possessed enough wrinkles to keep spray starch in business for years. She stopped long enough to pat the dog’s tan head and ask, “Hey, Lottie, what did you destroy today?” The answer to the question came in the form of random scraps that had once been a textbook scattered in the corner on the living room floor.
Fiona pointed a finger at the guilty hound. “Bad, bad girl.” As usual, Lottie responded to the scolding by feigning innocence.
Taking Lottie by the collar, Fiona guided her into the lone bedroom and closed the door on her mournful expression before going back to Frank.
Frank. Ha! That just didn’t fit. In fact, she hadn’t bought that bogus name any more than she was buying his story about being a Texas cop. But she really hoped he was a member of some law enforcement agency and not some drug dealer from the back side of the law. She’d already taken a huge risk by not taking him to the hospital. And she’d be taking a bigger one if she allowed him in the apartment. But she couldn’t in good conscience leave him bleeding on her doorstep. He was hurt and he needed her help. Maybe she might even earn some commendation for valor. Just getting a good look at him in the light would be enough reward.
On that thought she turned around to find he’d already made himself welcome on her green chintz sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back against the cushions, his dark lashes fanning out below his closed eyes. The man was just too gorgeous for his own good. He also looked a little pasty, and she worried he’d passed out from the loss of blood. If that proved to be the case, she was calling 911 whether he wanted that or not.
Fiona closed the front door and double locked it in case the creepy criminal had followed them. Or had she locked herself in with a criminal?
Fiona, you are a fool. But she had to trust her instincts and her belief that she was safe with her friend, Frank.
She stood over him, her gaze coming to rest on the gash at his thigh where she’d fashioned a tourniquet with two bar towels, there and around his ankle. She took a seat next to him to get a closer look at his injured side, pulling back the jacket a bit to find the bleeding had been minimal. She couldn’t be sure about his thigh unless he took off his pants. Considering they’d only met a few hours ago, disrobing him didn’t seem at all appropriate. But it was pretty darned tempting.
Slowly Fiona lowered her hand toward his fly then drew back. She couldn’t do it, but she could take a peek at the cut by removing the towel, or at least until she had permission to take off his clothes. His pants, she corrected. Only his pants and only to administer some first aid.
As she gingerly gripped the knotted towel with her fingertips, his large hand clamped her wrist with the speed of a cobra, causing her to nearly jump out of her own skin or at the very least, off the sofa.
“What are you doing?” he asked without opening his eyes or releasing her wrist.
At least he wasn’t comatose. “I’m trying to look at your wound. It needs to be cleaned up.”
He raised his head and stared at her with those intense black eyes that made her want to squirm and sweat. “Do you have any antiseptic?”
“You’re in luck. I have that and some bandages.” And limited first aid knowledge thanks to her one-year stint as a volunteer member of Shadowvale, Idaho’s, fire and rescue unit. Of course, she’d probably been on three whole calls during that time, none that had involved knife wounds. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.”
“I would appreciate any assistance you might give me.” He gave her a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re not injured?”
She was moved by the sincerity in his expression and his worry over her well-being. At least he had that much honor. “I promise, I’m fine. Nothing more than a scratch or two on my back.”
“I’m relieved. I was afraid he might have cut you, as well.”
“He tried, but I managed to keep him from doing it.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself.”
“But you saved me. I doubt we’d be here now if you hadn’t come along.”
“Had it not been for me, you would not have been put in that position.”
Fiona didn’t care to debate the workings of fate, so she said, “Uh, you might want to get comfortable. I mean, you might need to take off…” Why couldn’t she just say it?
He lifted a dark brow. “My pants?”
“Yeah. So I can see it better. Your cut. The one on your thigh. And your boots and socks, of course.”
“Should I remove my shirt, as well?” He sounded almost amused, but then she sounded like a blithering idiot.
Her traitorous gaze picked that moment to land on his fly. “Sure. Or I could just lift it up.” She yanked her attention back to his face. “Your shirt, I mean.”
For a minute she thought he might actually smile, but it didn’t happen. “Anything else you require of me?”
“Can I have my hand back now?” she asked.
“Most certainly,” he said as he released his grip, but not before he brushed the inside of her wrist with a fingertip. Or at least that’s what she thought he’d done. Maybe she was just hovering in imagination overdrive.
Attacked by a sudden case of the chills, Fiona came to her feet and pulled the throw her grandmother had knitted from the