Gabriel West: Still The One. Fiona Brand
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moment the doors of the elevator slid open. Relief flooded her as light flared across the bare expanse of concrete, spotlighting her in its beam so that she felt like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. West’s startled gaze locked with hers, then white light exploded in her head.
Chapter 3
West reached Tyler a split second after she crumpled.
After the initial kick of surprise, he was rock steady, breathing controlled. His mind shifted smoothly through his options, the change from civilian to soldier instantaneous.
Aside from the light pouring from the elevator and the stairwell, the car park was abnormally dark. Someone had knocked the lights out, which meant that the attack was planned. West eased forward to crouch over Tyler, at the same time straining to listen, to get some idea of the direction in which the two men had gone, but the rumble of the storm and the heavy drumbeat of rain effectively muffled sound.
A faint scrape of metal on metal jerked West’s head around. He probed the silent reaches of the underground car park, systematically examining the ranks of vehicles, his mind loose, open to peripheral data he might otherwise miss, open to that other sense that was as much a part of him as breathing. An icy calmness gripped him like a cold hand at his nape. The men who had attacked Tyler were still here.
A flash of movement drew his eye. The cough of a car starting bounced off the walls, and lights swept the gloom as the vehicle spun and accelerated toward the exit. Abruptly, the roar of the engine cut out as the car took the ramp up onto the street.
West switched his attention back to Tyler. A disorienting sense of déjà vu transported him back to a night one month ago and the disastrous meet with Renwick.
She was lying on her side, still and painfully exposed in the wash of light from the elevator, tawny hair a silky pool around her face, the short skirt of her tailored suit revealing a tanned length of elegant leg that made her seem both exotic and fragile against the grim crudity of the underground car park.
At first glance he couldn’t see any blood. West gently turned her on her back, as he searched for the wound. His heart slammed in his chest when he found the goose egg on the side of her head and felt the dampness of blood.
“West?” Tyler blinked, and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the multi-hued glare of light that shifted across her vision. She felt sluggish and sick, and her head felt strange—hot and cold, and prickling—and she was having trouble focusing. There were two of West, and in her opinion, one had always been more than enough.
The chill of the dusty concrete struck through the crumpled cotton of her suit, making her shiver. Awkwardly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring his sharp demand that she stay where she was. She needed to get up, get moving.
Her mind flinched from the fact that she’d been hit on the head, but there was no other explanation for her to be lying on the garage floor. Her right hand was numb, and her arm and shoulder hurt, but she managed to wobble onto her knees. She heard West’s soft curse, then his hands closed on her arms, steadying her, and she didn’t complain because she was having trouble orienting herself at all.
He cupped her chin, his fingers startlingly hot against her skin, and abruptly his face snapped into focus.
He stared intently into her eyes. “What’s your name?”
Bemused, Tyler answered.
“Today’s date?”
Pinpointing the date was more difficult, but that was mostly because she hadn’t paid much attention to dates lately. She repeated the date. “I don’t have any memory loss.”
As disoriented as she felt, she knew she’d been mugged and knocked out. The sequence of events was burned into her mind like a series of freeze frames. She could remember the moment her briefcase had been wrenched from her grip, the flash of light when she’d been hit.
A car swept into the underground garage and she tensed, her breath coming in sharply.
“Don’t hit me,” West murmured, and for the first time she focused directly on his face: hot gold eyes, tanned olive skin, black hair tumbled and loose around his shoulders—the glitter of a silver stud in his ear.
He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, sleepy and unkempt, as alert as a cat, and through the throbbing whirl of nausea and exhaustion she wondered—and not for the first time—if he slept alone.
Something grabbed in her throat, her heart, a hot pulse of emotion that shook her to the core.
Hit West? Now there was a fantasy…. She just needed her head to stop spinning first.
His fingers closed warmly around her clenched fist, making her aware of the numbing ache in her knuckles, the symphony of pain that stretched from her fingertips all the way to her shoulder, skipping her face, then throbbing somewhere deep in her skull.
“Let me see,” he demanded softly. “Open your hand.”
For the craziest moment she thought he’d said, “Open your heart.”
She couldn’t help the bemused smile that twitched at her lips. The pain aside, she felt ridiculous—giddy—like a drunk on a bender. “Last time I heard, you weren’t a medical doctor.”
His mouth curved in a quick, hard smile. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never that.”
Reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers. God, she hated it when she got hurt—hated to look at the damage. She heard his rough intake of breath.
“Oh, jeez, you belted him. Where in hell did you learn to hit like that?”
She ignored his question in favor of surveying her swollen knuckles, and the grazes decorating them. “I broke his jaw,” she said with satisfaction. “I felt it go.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She glanced around and saw her handbag lying beside her. With an effort of will, she snagged the strap. At least she still had her credit cards and her driver’s license, and they hadn’t gotten her car keys. “Yeah, in my heart. They took my laptop. The bastards took my laptop.”
She thought he said, “When did you get so tough?” then a wave of dizziness caught her.
She leaned into his shoulder and gulped down a deep breath, which didn’t do much to alleviate the dizziness or the pain, then wound an arm around his neck, searching for the leverage to get to her feet. It struck her that in the last five years West had never been so useful.
She pushed against his shoulder, but a warm palm cupped her nape, effectively holding her in place and making her feel as weak as a day-old kitten.
“Don’t you ever give up? Stay still. You’ve got a head wound and you’re bleeding. I’m going to check you out a bit more, then get you to a hospital.”
“I’m not going to a hospital. I hate hospitals.”
“That’s one thing we’ve got in common.”
As he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders, swamping her in heavy, soft warmth, the rich scent of leather, she worried at the oddness of the terse comment. As far as she was concerned the only thing they actually had in common was a marriage certificate. Blinking, she resisted the urge to let her forehead rest on his shoulder again, or even worse, snuggle into the curve of his neck. She wasn’t a leaner—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d leaned on anyone—but right now the temptation was almost too much. She’d been exhausted before the attack; now she felt as though she was swimming through molasses. “I feel…strange—”
“Stay awake.”
She felt his fingers moving gently over her scalp. He found a tender spot and she winced.
His breath stirred in her hair. “Oh yeah, he hit you good. You’ve got a lump, and a cut that’s going to need stitching. Go to sleep and I’ll