Guarding Grace. Rebecca York
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“No specific destination in mind?” Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the front door.
They both stiffened, and he looked at the clock again. It was just after two. No time for a social visit. Or any kind of visit.
“Maybe you should ask who it is,” she whispered. Yeah, that was the logical first step. He walked toward the door and called out, “Who’s there?” “Ridgeway Security.”
He’d smugly assumed that Grace was safe in his apartment. And Grace had been acting as if she didn’t need his protection. But when she turned frightened eyes to him, he knew they’d both made major miscalculations.
He kept his voice steady. “Go into the bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall.”
As she hurried to the back of the apartment, a second knock sounded.
“Just a minute,” he called out, rubbing his hand through his hair to muss it up. He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Through the distorted lens, he saw two tough-looking men standing in the hall. Although it was hard to be sure, he thought he’d never seen either one of them before.
“Open up.”
“I’m getting dressed,” he answered, undoing the top two buttons of his wrinkled dress shirt.
When he opened the door, the men pushed their way past him and into the apartment.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask for permission to enter?” he asked.
“Didn’t you just give it to us?” “No. I want your names.”
The one who had been speaking said, “I’m Mosley.” “Kessler,” the other one offered. “Can I see your credentials?”
They both reached inside their suit jackets and brought out small leather cases with their cards and Ridgeway IDs. Unless the creds were fake, both of them worked for his brother’s consortium.
“What’s this about?” Brady asked as they put the credentials away.
“Your car was spotted in the vicinity of Grace Cunningham’s apartment earlier this evening. Is she here?”
He gave the speaker a quizzical look. “I think you’re mistaken. Who is Grace Cunningham?”
“She had an appointment with your brother tonight.”
“And?”
“Given the untimely demise of Mr. Ridgeway, we want to ask her some questions.” “She’s not here.”
“Do you mind if we look around?” “Yes, I mind.”
Despite that, Mosley walked past him into the living room. After opening the closet and looking behind the furniture, he searched the kitchen, then started down the hall. Kessler stayed with Brady by the front door, probably so he couldn’t escape or make a phone call, Brady guessed.
Brady stared after the man heading for the bedroom. He’d spent a lot of time with his brother, which meant he’d spent a lot of time around his security detail. They always followed procedure, and these guys were acting out of character.
His mind switched from the men to Grace. Had she found a hiding place where the intruder wouldn’t discover her?
Unlikely. Unless she’d climbed out the window again. Only, as she’d pointed out, they were too high up for her to find an escape route, unless she also worked as a circus performer or a cat burglar.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to give the impression of fatigue rather than tension.
If they found her here, what the hell was he going to say about it?
He barely knew Grace Cunningham. Yet if she was telling the truth about what had happened this evening at the consortium, he understood why she wanted to avoid falling into the clutches of these men. They’d said they wanted to ask her some questions. She’d said they were in the middle of a cover-up.
“I appreciate your going all out for my brother,” Brady said, angling for an opening to … He wasn’t sure what. “You seem pretty loyal. How long have you worked for him?”
“How is that relevant?” the man snapped.
“I haven’t seen you at the consortium.”
“I haven’t seen you, either.”
Down the hall, Mosley made a grunting sound.
He’d found her. Damn!
Kessler reached into his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol, then dashed toward the back of the apartment, intent on aiding his partner.
Without making a conscious decision, Brady stuck out his foot and sent the man sprawling. He landed on the wood floor, halfway down the hall.
While the guy was catching his breath, Brady lunged for the desk, grabbed a glass paperweight and brought it down on the back of Kessler’s head. He went still.
As he watched blood seep from the man’s hair, Brady knew he’d just stepped over an invisible line from harassed citizen protesting a home invasion to criminal. Scrambling over the limp body, he sprinted toward the bedroom.
Mosley was also on the floor—at the side of the bed. He was on top of Grace, trying to wrest his gun from her grasp.
Brady grabbed the man’s coat collar and yanked him backward, just as the gun discharged, the sound reverberating in the confined space.
Mosley went rigid. Brady yanked him off of Grace, tucked the gun into the waistband of his own slacks and rolled the man to his back. A bullet hole marred the upper arm of his gray sports jacket. When Brady pulled aside the guy’s coat, he saw that a bloodstain had spread across the fabric of his dress shirt. But it was seeping, not pumping from an artery.
Grace pushed herself up off the floor, saw the blood and gasped. “The gun … We.” She gulped. “I didn’t mean to hit him! I was just trying to keep him from shooting me.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Brady answered, wondering if it was true.
Grace’s eyes had taken on a glazed look. “I hit him.”
The security guy stared at her. “You bitch.”
Working methodically, Brady reached for the handcuffs clipped to the back of the man’s slacks and cuffed his wrists through the wooden bed frame.
Then he dashed back down the hall. Kessler looked dazed, but he was sitting up and fumbling for the weapon that he’d dropped when he went down.
“No, you don’t.” Brady grabbed his gun arm and twisted. The man yelped.
“I have your gun. Just don’t do anything stupid, and we’ll all be okay,” he ordered. Raising his voice, he called to Grace, “Get in here.”
When she didn’t appear, he called her again—more sharply.
She came around the corner of the hall, walking like a drunken sailor, and he knew she was still reacting to the scene with Mosley. And reacting to the knowledge that the whole situation was spinning out of control very quickly.
Did that mean she really was innocent? Regardless, he had to keep her functioning so they could get out of here—because now he was in this as deeply as she.
“His getting shot wasn’t your fault,” he bit out. “You were fighting for the gun, and it went off.”
“In court, that will sound like resisting arrest,” she answered, then made a strangled sound when she saw the blood dripping from the other man’s head onto the floor.
“Yeah, me too,”