Hard To Tame

“Sara Parker.”

The words turned the rivers of rain on her skin into instant sheets of ice. For the space of an instant she almost convinced herself that she’d imagined them.

Until they were repeated.

“Sara Parker from Chicago.” The voice was louder this time. The man was right behind her.

After a barely imperceptible hesitation, she quickly masked her reaction. Survival instincts, well honed, surged to the surface.

She schooled her expression to a politely quizzical mask before she turned. “If you’re talking to me, you’ve got the wrong person.”

The man smiled, a menacing grimace. “I don’t think so.” His arm raised and her throat seized. Her focus narrowed to the yawning black muzzle of the gun he had pointed at her head. “Victor Mannen sends his regards.”

Time slowed, then froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Distantly, she heard a shout, but didn’t look away. She couldn’t. The slow-motion sequence of death had her in its grip.

She was oddly unsurprised at the way she’d meet her end. It had only been a matter of time. Hadn’t she always known it? But it seemed curiously ironic that only a few minutes ago in Nick’s arms she’d felt more alive than she had in years, and now she was going to die.

The man’s words were almost gentle. “Goodbye, Sara.”

Tearing her gaze away from the finger squeezing the trigger, she ducked, swung one of her bags, hitting his gun hand. She heard a shot as she stumbled away, waited for the agonizing pain to tear through her.

And instead staggered as the man tumbled forward against her, his hands clutching at her before he crumpled at her feet.

She stared, transfixed by the crimson stain spreading from the tear in his slicker. Heard the groans emanating from him as he struggled to his knees. And then her mind flashed back to the scene in the safe house in Chicago. The bodies crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. And Sean, sweet sad Sean, with his eyes wide and lifeless.

Abruptly, she dropped her bags, her purse, and ran. Blindly. Wildly. Away from her attacker and away from the images still vivid and raw after six years. And when strong arms came around her, halting her flight, she reacted like a thing possessed, struggling madly.

“Amber, it’s over. It’s over now.”

It was the soothing tone that registered, rather than the words themselves. Nick. She sagged against him, unable to control the shudders racking her body. His arms were a safe harbor in a storm-tossed sea. Her mind grappled with incomprehensionable fragments. His presence in the alley. The gun still clasped in his hand. And the words he murmured over and over as his lips brushed her hair.

“Nothing will be allowed to hurt you, ma petite. No one. I promise you that.”

“And you didn’t recognize this guy? Had never seen him hanging around the café, on the street…?” Detective Matt Chatfield’s narrowed blue regard was unwavering.

Sara shook her head. Someone had found a wool blanket for her and draped it around her soaked form. She huddled into it now, wishing its warmth could banish the chill in her veins.

The detective’s gaze flicked to the man beside her. “How about you, Mr. Doucet?”

“I never got a look at him.” Nick reached over, took one of Sara’s icy hands in both of his. She gave it a discreet tug, but he held it firmly. “He never turned around.”

“So you shot him in the back.”

The detective’s voice was carefully expressionless. Nick’s was not. “I shot him in the center of the right shoulder blade so he’d drop the gun he had aimed at Amber. He did.”

Sensing some undertone at play between the two men, Sara gave up the struggle to free her hand and studied them. Physically, they were almost opposites. They may have been around the same age, but Chatfield was taller, broader. His face was as enigmatic as Nick’s, just as hard, but he was blond and blue eyed, in contrast to Nick’s darkness. There was no mistaking the cop’s toughness, but for some reason it was Nick who seemed the more dangerous.

“I suppose you have a permit to carry concealed?”

Silently Nick rose, withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. He passed it to the other man, who studied the permit before nodding, handing it back. “Where’s your weapon now?”

“I gave it to the first uniform on the scene.”

Chatfield raked him with a quick glance. “Ankle holster?” He waited for Nick’s nod before asking, “What did you say you were doing in the alley, Mr. Doucet?”

There was an unsettling glitter in Nick’s eyes, but his tone was civil enough. “Amber and I had parted several minutes earlier. I’d forgotten to give her back one of her bags.”

She looked at him, surprised. In her hurry to get away from him earlier that day she’d completely forgotten the sack of fruit he’d insisted on carrying for her. An involuntary shudder worked through her. If Nick’s kisses hadn’t completely shattered her logic, if she’d been capable of remembering to collect the bag before leaving him, she’d be dead right now. The cold certainty of that fact formed a brick of ice in her chest.

Settling back in his chair, Nick said, “Wouldn’t your time be better spent trying to find the guy who tried to kill her instead of going over all this information again?”

Imperturbably, Chatfield picked up his pen. “I’ve got uniforms canvassing the area. From the amount of blood he lost, I doubt he got far.” His gaze shifted to Sara again. “Ms. Jennings, let’s go over your statement again. You said the man didn’t ask for your purse, for money. Did he say anything?”

Her chest squeezed tight as she sensed the minefield ahead. “He said something, but I couldn’t understand it. I thought he was talking to someone else. When I turned around, I saw his gun.”

The detective scribbled a note. “Did you catch any of it at all?”

She manufactured a tired smile, strove to hide the tension in her body. “When I noticed the gun I didn’t pay attention to much else.”

“I think he mistook Amber for someone else. The name he called out was Sara. Sara Parker.”

Nick’s words sent a slice of panic tearing through her. She hadn’t guessed that he’d been close enough to hear the gunman’s words. It took effort to keep her features impassive as Chatfield raised his brows, looked at her. “Do you know who this Sara Parker is?”

She shook her head, but the detective didn’t look convinced. “She’s not a friend of yours, maybe? Someone who has an enemy? ’Cuz maybe this guy didn’t mistake you for her, after all. Maybe he thought you could lead him to her.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Her voice was firm, and her words were at least partially true. It had been a long time since she’d been Sara Parker. She’d left that identity half a country away, at least a lifetime ago.

“You’re on the wrong track,” Nick said bluntly. His fingers squeezed hers lightly, a reminder that he was holding her hand. “This guy wasn’t after anyone else. He thought Amber was Parker, and she was going to die for it.”

The detective made another notation on his pad. “Did he say anything else?”

Nick paused, glanced at Sara. When she didn’t answer he said, “I couldn’t make out everything. But I could have sworn I heard him mention Chicago.”

Chatfield lifted a shoulder. “Well, who knows. We’ll tug on those strings, see if they lead anywhere.” His gaze shifted to a point behind them, and he rose. “Excuse me for a minute, would you, please?”

Sara’s well-defined flight instinct was screaming at her, urging her to flee. She quelled it with effort. She couldn’t stay in New Orleans now, of course. Her story, her identity, wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. If anyone started digging they’d find that Amber Jennings from Detroit, Michigan, had died twenty years ago. And it wouldn’t be long before that discovery led to the next, far more risky one.

She didn’t intend to stick around that long. She’d be packed and headed out of the state within an hour of leaving the station. It wasn’t as though she lacked experience disappearing. She’d vanished dozens of times before.

But rarely had the thought left her feeling this desolated. And she didn’t want to examine the source of that feeling too closely.

“Are you warming up, chérie?” Nick’s voice sounded low and caressing in her ear, and she nodded, despite the chill that seemed to permeate her system. “Your hands are still like ice.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m not looking forward to a hot shower.”

“The detective should have enough for today. I’ll tell him I’m taking you home. You could always come back in tomorrow.” Nick rose and crossed the room before she could protest. She’d have to devise a way to dislodge him so she could make her escape. But for now, at least, she was grateful for a few moments to herself. The stress of the pretense she was engaged in, on top of her brush with death, was overloading a system already taxed by her unfamiliar reaction to Doucet.

“What the hell do you mean, there’s no trace of him?”