Broken. Rebecca Zanetti
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Albert Nelson’s picture was taped over to the right with one thick line drawn through it.
She swallowed. Who were the other people? A group of seven young soldiers in the desert, smiling at the camera, caught her eye. Wolfe was in the middle, and he looked . . . lighter. Happier. Then her breath caught as she moved to the next picture, which showed five coffins in an airplane hangar, all covered with the United States flag. Another picture, this one blown up, showed one of the guys from the team picture. Various lines connected his picture to other pictures, notecards, and documents. “You must be Rock,” she murmured. Just as she stepped closer for a better look, the front door banged open.
“Dana?” Wolfe bellowed.
She jumped and ran back through the living room, where Wolfe was helping a bleeding Malcolm West to sit at the kitchen table. Blood flowed down Mal’s face from a cut along his temple. Her stomach lurched. “What happened?” Her legs trembled, and she looked up at Wolfe’s hard face, not seeing the blood dripping down his arm for a minute. It caught her eye as red splotches fell onto the tile. “You’re injured, too.” Without thought, she reached for his wrist.
He pulled away and strode to a drawer by the door to the garage, returning with a first aid kit and clean towels. Even though he moved toward her, he felt miles away, and his gaze remained on Malcolm.
Dana hesitated, oddly hurt.
Wolfe handed an orange striped kitchen towel to his friend. “I’m sorry, West.”
Mal rolled his eyes and pressed the material against his head. The cotton quickly turned a deep red. “Unlike you, I wasn’t even shot. Glass from the window cut me.”
“You were shot?” Dana breathed. “Those guys in the truck shot at you again?”
“No,” Wolfe muttered. “Somebody else—who was probably there to take care of those morons.”
Mal grimaced. “I’m not sure we provided a public service by warning them to get the hell out of town.”
This was getting worse by the minute. Were those guys after her or Wolfe? Had they been attacked because of Albert Nelson and Candy’s story? Or because of Wolfe’s super-secret case? Questions zinged around in her head, but she had to make sure both men were okay before getting down to business. “Did you see who shot at you this time?”
Wolfe shook his head. “No. They just scattered bullets and then got out of there. We had to run to the truck, which was a few blocks away.”
They’d run bleeding like this? Dana ignored the way the room seemed to be swirling around her. “Are you two injured anywhere else?”
“No,” Malcolm said.
“You were knocked out, Mal.” Wolfe’s eyes had gone a deep hue, and his movements were stiff. Though he stood near them, somehow he seemed far away. “It’s my fault.”
“No, it isn’t.” Mal wiped his forehead off, leaving a smear of blood across his eyebrow. “How bad is it?”
Dana turned and bile rose up her throat. The deep cut ran from his temple to above his eye, and it was still bleeding. Honestly, it was pretty ugly. She couldn’t see bone, but there was no way a bandage would keep that skin together. “You need stitches.”
Wolfe sighed. “Let’s get you to the doctor.”
“No. You stitch it up.” Mal pressed the bloody towel to his head again. “After you take off your shirt so we can see how bad you’ve been shot. We can go to the doctor for you, if you want.”
“I’m fine,” Wolfe all but snarled.
That was it. Just plain and simple it. The room smelled like blood and dirt, and she couldn’t take any more. Adrenaline raced through her veins, and her heart rate would not slow down. One or both of them could’ve been killed, and they were acting like it wasn’t the big deal that it really was. “Take off your damn shirt, Wolfe,” she ordered, pressing her hands to her hips. “You have two seconds. Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”
He turned then, stepping into her space, his body vibrating and his eyes ablaze. “Try it.”
Chapter Nine
Wolfe kept his stance wide as Dana’s pupils widened and then contracted. Her curvy body settled in for a fight.
“Wolfe?” Mal said mildly, slumped in the chair, blood matting his left eyebrow. “You’re being an asshole.”
“I’m aware of that fact,” Wolfe returned, unable to move away from Dana. An invisible force kept him in place, his muscles tight, his chest heated. He didn’t like himself at the moment, and that regret could later join his constant guilt when he regained control. The fact that he’d gotten Mal shot was yet more proof that everyone around him was in danger, and that definitely included the angry journalist trying to stare him down.
Her nostrils widened and she reached for the bottom of his T-shirt, her gaze daring.
He began to step back, and she tightened her hold, the soft pads of her fingers brushing his bare abs. A jolt shot through him, and he may have growled.
She sucked in air and her delicate jaw tightened. She yanked him toward her with the cotton and pulled it up, giving him no choice but to duck his head so she didn’t choke him. Oh, the stubborn woman was asking for it. What, he had no clue—but everything in him wanted to give it to her.
The shirt came over his head, and then she gentled her movements, making a sound of distress as his wound was revealed.
The soft noise pummeled straight to his heart and he shut his eyes against an unwanted wave of warmth. As soon as he made sure she was safe, he had to distance himself. Completely, even though she was a good friend. Temptation was a killer.
Then she held a towel to his arm. Pain centered him, and he took a deep breath, opening his eyes to survey the wound. “The bullet cut along my bicep but didn’t go in.”
“You need stitches.” She gulped and then looked up. Her eyes were the color of a spring meadow against her suddenly pale skin. She wavered.
He grasped her arm just as Mal kicked out the adjacent chair, and then he settled her down. “You’re okay.” Sometimes he forgot that not everyone was accustomed to blood and bruises. “Honest. I’m fine.” After making sure she was steady in the chair, he glanced down at his arm, which ached but wasn’t that bad. “A couple of stitches should do it.” He didn’t even need Mal’s help with that. “First, are you sure you don’t want to go to the doc, West?”
Mal nodded. “Just stitch me up, slap a bandage on me, and I’ll tell Pippa it’s no big deal.”
Oh. He was worried about frightening Pippa. Of course. “Stitches are stitches, so what’s the problem?” Why not have a doctor do it?
Mal swallowed and the blood on his throat cracked. “There’s a difference between having to go to the hospital and just having you bandage it. She won’t worry this way.”
Man, Wolfe really didn’t understand women. “You’re messing with your pretty looks,” he warned.
“What’s one more scar on my face?” Mal sighed, his torso too wide for the quaint kitchen chair that had come with the house.
Wasn’t that the truth? Wolfe rolled his shoulders and tried to focus, when all he wanted to do was go for a long, hard run. He hadn’t given Pippa a thought when he’d reluctantly agreed to let Malcolm provide backup, and look what had happened. Steadying his hands, he reached for the stitching kit he’d put together in the first aid box, pausing to check on Dana’s color. Still pale. “You need to look the other way.”
She blinked, tried to argue, and then just turned to stare out the window.
Kat meowed and rubbed against Wolfe’s leg before jumping into Dana’s lap. Her smooth hands instantly started to pet him, and his purr