Raintree. Linda Winstead Jones
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she could slide back into her seat. “Wait,” Dante said, grabbing her arm. “There’s glass everywhere. You’ll cut yourself to shreds.”
“I have to move. This position is murder on my back.” But she stopped, because the mental image of what sliding across broken glass would do to her skin wasn’t a good one.
There were shouts from outside, coming nearer, as passersby stopped and ran to their aid. Someone beat on Dante’s window. “Hey, man! You okay?”
“Yeah.” Dante raised his voice so he could be heard. She felt his hand against her side as he tried to release his seat belt. The latch was jammed; he gave a lurid curse, then tried once more. On the third try, it popped open. Freed from its restraint, he shifted around, and she felt his hands running down her legs. “Your right foot’s tangled in the air bag. Can you move…” His hand closed over her ankle. “Move your knee toward me and your foot toward your window.”
Easier said than done, she thought, because she could scarcely maneuver at all. She managed to shift her right knee just a little.
The man outside Dante’s window grabbed the door handle and tried to pull it open, shaking the car, but the door was jammed. “Try the other side!” she heard Dante yell.
“This window’s busted out,” said another man, leaning in the front passenger window—or where it had been—and asking urgently, “Are you guys hurt?”
“We’re okay,” Dante said, leaning over her and pushing on her right ankle while he turned her foot.
The trap holding her foot relaxed a little, which let her move her knee a bit more. “This proves one thing,” she said, panting from the effort of that small shift.
“Point your toes like a ballerina. What does it prove?”
“I’m definitely—ouch!—not precognitive. I didn’t see this coming.”
“I think it’s safe to say neither of us is a precog.” He grunted, then said, “Here you go.” With one last tug, her foot was free. To the man leaning in the window he said, “Can you find a blanket or something to throw over this glass so you can pull her out?”
“I don’t need pulling,” Lorna grumbled. “If I can shift around, I’ll be able to climb out.”
“Just be patient,” Dante said, turning so he could slide his right arm under her chest and shoulders and support her weight a little to give her muscles some rest.
They could hear sirens blasting through the dry air, but still some distance away.
A new face, red and perspiring, and belonging to a burly guy wearing a Caterpillar cap, appeared in the broken window. “Had a blanket in my sleeper,” he said, leaning in to arrange the fabric over the seat, then folding the excess into a thick pad to cover the shards of glass still stuck in the broken window.
“Thank you,” Lorna said fervently as Dante began levering her upright into the seat. Her muscles were screaming from the strain, and the relief of being in a more natural position was so intense that she almost groaned.
“Here you go,” said the truck driver, reaching through once more and grasping her under the arms, hauling her out through the broken window before she could do it under her own steam.
She thanked him and everyone else who had reached out to help, then turned and got her first look at the car as Dante came out with the lithe grace of a race car driver, as if exiting through a window was something he did every day.
But as cool and sexy as he made his exit look, what stunned her to silence was the car.
The elegant Jaguar was nothing but crumpled and torn sheet metal. It had skidded almost halfway around, the front end crushed against the concrete barrier, the driver’s side almost at a T to the oncoming traffic. If another car had plowed into them after they hit the barrier, Dante would be dead. She didn’t know why no other vehicle had smashed into them; traffic had been heavy enough that it was nothing short of a miracle. She looked at the snarled pileup of cars and trucks and SUVs stopped at all angles, as if people had been locking down their brakes and skidding. There was a three-car fender bender in the right lane, about fifty yards down, but the people were out of their vehicles examining the damage, so they were okay.
She wasn’t okay. The bottom had dropped out of her stomach, and her heart felt as if someone had punched her in the chest. She had a very clear memory of Dante spinning the steering wheel, sending the Jaguar into a controlled skid—turning the passenger side away from the spew of bullets and his side toward the oncoming traffic.
She was going to kill him.
He had no right to take that sort of risk for her. None. They weren’t lovers. They’d met less than forty-eight hours before, under really terrible circumstances, and for most of that time she would gladly have pushed him into traffic herself.
How dare he be a hero? She didn’t want him to be a hero. She wanted him to be someone whose absence wouldn’t hurt her. She wanted to be able to walk away from him, whole and content unto herself. She didn’t want to think about him afterward. She didn’t want to dream about him.
Her father hadn’t cared enough to stick around, assuming he’d even known about her. She had no real idea who he was—and neither had her mother. Her mother certainly wouldn’t have risked a nail, much less her life, to save Lorna from anything. So what was this…this stranger doing, putting his own life in danger to protect her? She hated him for doing this to her, for making himself someone whose footprint would always be on her heart.
What was she supposed to do now?
She turned her head, searching for him. He was only a few feet away, which she supposed made sense, because if he’d moved any farther away than that she would have been compelled to follow him. He wouldn’t lift that damned mind control he used to shackle her, but he’d risk his life for her—the jerk.
He normally kept his longish black hair brushed back, but now it was falling around his face. There was a thin line of blood penciling down his left cheek from a small, puffy cut high on his cheekbone. The skin around the wound was swelling and turning dark. His left arm looked bruised, too; the span from his wrist almost to his elbow was a dark red. He wasn’t cradling his arm or swiping at his cheek, any of the things people instinctively did when they were hurt. His injuries might as well not exist for all the attention he paid them.
He looked in complete command of himself and the situation.
Lorna thought she might be sick, she was so angry. What he’d done wasn’t fair—not that he’d seemed concerned about fairness before now anyway.
As if he were attuned to her thoughts, his head turned sharply and his gaze zeroed in on her. With two swift strides he was beside her, taking her arm. “You don’t have any color at all in your face. You should sit down.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically. A sudden breeze blew a curtain of hair across her face, and she lifted her hand to push it back. Two RPD patrol cars were approaching on the other side of the highway, sirens blaring, and she almost had to shout to make herself heard. “I’m not hurt.”
“No, but you’ve had a shock.” He raised his voice, too, turning his head to watch the patrol cars come to a stop on the other side of the barrier. The sirens died, but other emergency vehicles were approaching, and the din was getting louder again.
“I’m okay!” she insisted, and she was—physically, at least.
His hand closed on her arm, moving her toward the concrete barrier. “Come on, sit down. I’ll feel better if you do.”
“I’m not the one bleeding,” she pointed out.
He touched his cheek, as if he’d forgotten all about the cut, or maybe had never noticed it in the first place. “Then come sit down with me and keep me company.”
As it happened, neither of them got to sit down. The cops were trying