One Night Scandal. Joanne Rock
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He was breathing, but he remained stone-still.
Two production assistants were suddenly beside her, leaning over him, informing her not to move him.
Because she was flustered and scared, it took her a moment to process why. He had a head injury. He could have a concussion or much worse. A spinal injury would be...
Oh, God. She laid her hand over his, taking his fingers—careful not to move his arm—and squeezing them gently.
“Call 911!” she shouted, even as one of the wardrobe assistants flashed a thumbs-up sign as she spoke into her phone.
Someone was already taking care of that.
The minutes stretched out endlessly as they waited for an ambulance. In the background, Hannah heard the second director yelling at the production staff while someone swept up broken glass. Hannah debated how to reach Brock’s family to let someone know what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to let go of his hand.
He’d told her someone was threatening his relatives. Blackmailing them. He’d been upset about it—to the point there was even suspicion of her in his eyes—before that light had hit him. Did he suspect her of blackmail?
The thought chilled her even more.
Had he told his family about them? About his night with her or the way she’d reacted when he mentioned the McNeill name? What if they blamed her for the accident?
None of it should matter now when Brock was hurt. But she couldn’t afford to get caught up in a scandal that had nothing to do with her. Brock might suspect her of something, but she knew she wasn’t a blackmailer. She only wanted evidence against Antonio Ventura, but she couldn’t possibly share her secret agenda with his family. Not even to clear her name, if it came down to that.
In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was getting closer.
Relieved that help was on the way, she let one of the director’s assistants know that she was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Because no matter how awkward things had gotten between her and Brock, this was still the man who had kissed her senseless the night before. The man who’d publicly told off Antonio.
She needed to be there for him until someone from his family arrived.
“You’re going to be fine,” she assured him even though he couldn’t hear her. She stroked her free hand over the subtle bristle of his jaw. “The ambulance is almost here.”
The siren grew louder. Nearby, the production team cleared a path between the doors and Brock, moving aside equipment.
Hannah told herself she should step back out of the way, too. But before she could, she felt Brock stirring.
Relief rushed through her.
“He’s waking up!” she shouted to no one in particular, her eyes remaining on him. “He’s coming out of it.”
She squeezed his hand tighter, watched as he lifted his head ever so slightly. Then, as if he found it too heavy, he rested his head back on the ground, but blinked his eyes open and stared up at her.
“Are you okay?” she asked him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “It’s probably better if you don’t move just yet.”
She searched his face, looking for clues to any sign of discomfort or injury. Needing him to be okay.
Brock frowned, a scowl wrinkling his forehead as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and deep, his tone oddly distant.
“Who are you?” he asked, his blue eyes never wavering from her face. “Do I know you?”
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