He forced her to wait until he ascended the stairs, poked his head through the hole and listened. Then he waved her toward him and climbed out ahead.
The air in the bedroom was as stale as before, but it was so much better than the stench of Valerie’s body, Jasmine couldn’t help taking a deep breath. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Somewhere you can give me what I want,” he said. “Any way I want it.”
He watched her closely to see if she’d protest, but she managed another shrug.
“Whatever,” she said and forced herself to touch his arm. Her skin crawled at the contact, her stomach revolted, but it was important that he believe she wasn’t frightened or repulsed. That she thought he was no different than anyone else. “If I do, and you’re happy with how I’ve performed, will you tell me about Kimberly?”
Her question didn’t seem to register, but her touch did. “What are you doing?” he asked, sounding panicked.
“Nothing. I’m just asking if you’ll tell me about Kimberly if I behave. That’s all.”
“Maybe.” Softening, he covered her hand almost lovingly with his. Then, in an abrupt change of mood, he grabbed her, twisting her arm cruelly as he held her halfway out of the trapdoor and pointed the knife at her chest. “You think you’re so smart. You think you know me, but you don’t. If you make one wrong move, I’ll butcher you. I’ll cut your heart out and keep it in my freezer. Do you understand?”
The knife pierced Jasmine’s left breast. Pretend it’s not there. Don’t get rattled. “I understand,” she said.
He got out and dragged her the last two steps, lifting her easily to her feet with one hand. He was strong, stronger than she’d expected for such a frumpy middle-aged man, and he didn’t release her. He kept firm hold of her and the knife.
“Can I help you pack?” Jasmine asked. “If we’ll be gone for a while, you might want to take some of your things.”
“Shut up and get a move on. We’re out of here.”
Jasmine searched desperately for other ways to detain him. There had to be a reason he was in such a hurry. Were the cops coming? “We’d only need a few minutes to collect some clothes and stuff. Or are we coming back?”
“If you don’t shut up, you won’t be going anywhere. You’ll die right here!”
He dragged her into the living room—and then he froze. He was staring at the front door, which was standing open.
“Someone’s here,” he whispered. He brought the knife forward. In a moment that seemed to progress in slow motion, Jasmine knew this was it. Gruber was calling it quits. He was going to kill her and run.
Then the floor creaked behind them and just when she thought that knife would slit her throat, Gruber’s hand dropped.
She screamed and turned in time to see the point of a long knife go through his chest instead of her own and nearly crumpled to her knees. She would have, if not for the strong arms that went around her.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Romain murmured in her ear. “Thank God, I’ve got you.”
She was crying and kissing him and telling him she loved him when the blast of a gun momentarily deafened her. She felt the bullet whiz past her shoulder, felt Romain jerk as it made impact with his body. The chest that had sheltered her, that had seemed so indestructible only a moment before was suddenly all too vulnerable as the motion threw him back. He stumbled into a wall, gasped and fell.
“No!” Jasmine screamed and turned in time to see Detective Huff aim his gun at her. His expression revealed no emotion beyond determination. He was detached, doing a job, cleaning up details.
She dove for the bedroom as the blast went off. She fully expected to be hit.
But she felt no pain. She could think only of Romain, bleeding from the chest. Had the bullet entered his heart? Was he already dead?
Huff’s next shot hit Jasmine in the leg. Her foot felt as if it were on fire, but she managed to grab the knife Gruber had dropped as she rolled to the side, out of the doorway and out of sight.
She heard Huff curse and walk purposefully toward her. She also heard Romain trying to distract him. “Over…here…you…son of a bitch,” he groaned, and Jasmine knew she had about three seconds before he shot Romain again.
Jumping to her feet, she ignored the tremendous pain that seared her leg and used the door frame to slingshot herself forward. The sudden movement took Huff by surprise. She saw it in his eyes. He’d expected her to scramble for cover; he hadn’t expected a bold frontal attack.
He turned the gun at the last second, but it was too late. She was already hacking at him—striking him, too, but she didn’t know where. Desperation and adrenaline and white-hot anger sustained her. She would not lose Romain, would not allow Peccavi to cost them any more.
It wasn’t until Huff fell that she realized she’d stabbed him in the neck. Blood poured from the wound like a waterfall. Several other cuts bled, too, but they were superficial. She’d gotten lucky. If one of her wild blows hadn’t landed where it did, she would’ve been the one lying on the floor.
“You have sinned,” she said vehemently, shaking from reaction. And then Pearson Black arrived with the police.
A late-morning sun slanted through the crack in the drapes as Jasmine sat by Romain’s hospital bed, listening to the rhythmic beep of his heart monitor. A large white bandage encircled his chest, tubes ran all over his body, and his usually tanned and healthy-looking skin was pale beneath the fluorescent lights of the hospital room.
The emergency doctor had given him six pints of blood and spent three hours in surgery, removing the bullet, which had lodged beneath his shoulder blade. Now it was a waiting game to see if he’d recover. Huff had missed Romain’s heart by a fraction of a centimeter, and Romain had nearly bled to death in the ambulance.
“Hey, how’re you doing?”
Jasmine turned to see Pearson in the doorway, holding two coffees in foam cups.
“I’m okay,” she murmured. The bullet she’d taken had only grazed her leg.
She had a nice bandage to show for it. But she’d lied about being okay. She’d never been more terrified or worried in her life than she was right now, waiting to see whether Romain would live.
“He’ll be fine. The doctors are hopeful, aren’t they?”
“They aren’t making any promises.”
“They never make promises. They’re a cagey lot. But your man’s strong. He’ll pull through.”