Ours to Love - Page 50/55

Blackness tugged at her again. London resisted, yanking her leg to pull it free from her attacker. She kicked and kicked, finally striking something solid. She glanced back and saw him cupping his cheek, glaring up at her as he scrambled to his feet. He muttered something, and while every word sounded beautiful in French, his tone didn’t sound lovely at all. Anger resonated from that growl, and she knew that once he lost his temper and gained his footing, he’d come at her, overpower her, strangle her with the rope in his hands . . . and what little life she’d enjoyed since the accident would be over. She’d never feel the sun again. Never learn to drive. Never accomplish her goal of finishing a 5K alone. Worst, she’d never get the chance to tell Javier and Xander that she loved them. She’d been hiding, hedging her bets, living in a safe little bubble, and not stepping too far out of her comfort zone. How did she expect to live an extraordinary life if she didn’t take some extraordinary risks?

Gumption rose along with bile as her attacker gripped her arm and yanked her around to face him. His intent to kill her shot up her arm, frying her skin. Adrenaline and pure terror juiced her bloodstream with something cold and terrible. London knew she had seconds left if she wanted that extraordinary life. Otherwise, he’d make death inevitable.

Gripping the edge of the desk, the wooden corner biting into her fingers, she forced herself to look across the surface for any advantage, anything that might buy her a few seconds to get the hell out of here, or at least slow him down. There, just beyond her grasp, lay her savior.

London grunted as she hurtled herself across the desk and kicked back at him with all her might. He loosened his grip on her, and she grabbed at her weapon—and missed. Before she could try again, he gave a vicious tug on her ankle and jerked her back toward him. But she wasn’t giving up.

As she twisted around, London only had a split second to line up before she slammed the pointy edge of her elbow into his temple.

He toppled sideways, and she was sure she’d only managed that because she’d taken him by surprise. She wouldn’t get the same opportunity twice. It was now or never. Yes, her plan might kill him, but he’d had no compunction about killing her, so she had to put away her squeamishness and keep fighting.

Behind her, a purely male roar sounded. He hadn’t expected her to be any trouble. He’d simply believed that she’d die like a good little girl. She’d almost done that once. Overrated. She’d already lost years of her youth. Damned if she was going to lose the rest of life’s remarkable journey because she wasn’t willing to fight hard enough for it. The irony of that hit her just as she reached for her weapon.

Metal dug into her fingers, cold and heavy, as she picked up the big three-hole punch and whirled around. She was only going to have one shot at this, then she’d lose her element of surprise . . . Her attacker barely had time to widen his dark eyes before she rammed the bottom of the heavy device into the side of his severe face.

He stumbled back and fell on his ass. London forced herself to take another step toward him, even as dizziness swarmed her head once again. She stepped up between her attacker’s sprawled feet, then reared back and kicked him in the balls as hard as she could.

Clutching himself, he tossed his head back, dark hair doing little to cushion him against the thin industrial carpet. London had no remorse as he rolled to his side, still cupping his family jewels. A big part of her wanted to grab his wrist and use it to drag him to her desk, then tie it to him using his own rope. She didn’t dare stay that long or give him a chance to get his hands on her again. It wouldn’t take him long to recover from his pain to the gonads, then he’d come after her with a roaring fury and kill her with punitive thrill. Best just to get the hell out of here.

Heart drumming, she tripped over her attacker and stumbled for the door, fumbling for the handle. He’d locked it behind him, and her shaking fingers couldn’t quite turn the lock. Panic poured in, then nearly drowned her when she heard him rise behind her, call her something most likely foul in French. His arctic growl sent a chill down her spine.

“Bitch. I will kill you with my bare hands now with pleasure,” he translated for her.

No, no, no! She screamed with both fear and frustration at the lock, but it didn’t give. Knowing that she was out of options, that he was just a second behind her, she flipped on the office lights, praying it momentarily blinded him. He made an annoyed huffing sound, and to her ears, it seemed that he backed up a step, but London didn’t dare look.

Her fingers wrapped around the lock again. This time, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, willing her trembling fingers to still enough to do the job. Finally, it worked and she lurched out into the hall—only to fall into a stranger’s arms.

Her murderer hadn’t come alone?

London gasped and tried to wrest away from the man who stood in the shadowy hallway and held her in strong arms, but he shoved her behind him. He clutched a nasty gun in one hand. He set a finger over his lips, motioning to her to be quiet. His blue, blue eyes looked so intense, just like his chiseled face made almost severe by his military-short blondish hair. Hunter.

And she nearly sagged with relief.

Against the wall beside him crouched another man she recognized because of his incredibly blue eyes. Logan. Like his older brother, he possessed a vicious-looking weapon and the expression of a predator on the hunt. Logan grabbed her and put her on the wall beside him, shielding her body with his own. He held one hand out, indicating that she should stay put.

Trembling and restraining the urge to cry in mad relief, she watched, breath held, as her attacker suddenly stumbled out of the office, looking around the darkened halls for her. He nearly plowed into Hunter, who instantly tackled him to the ground, rolled him to his stomach, and shoved his arm behind his back, his hand somewhere between his shoulder blades. The French bastard started squealing.

“Pipe down,” Hunter demanded. “I’m not going to break your arm or dislocate your shoulder. Yet. But if you won’t tell me what I want to know . . . we’ll have problems.”

“I tell you nothing,” the Frenchman spat.

“Then get ready to cry like a girl.” Logan squatted next to the guy. “See, you apparently think it’s all fun and games when you sneak up on a girl who’s done absolutely nothing to you.” He picked up the length of rope the killer had dropped and held it up to her with a questioning glance. She nodded. “I don’t think you meant to play fun bondage games with London.”

“No,” she choked. “He put it around my throat. He meant to strangle me.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes at her assailant as he trained the gun on the guy’s head. Logan reached for the man’s free hand and, along with the one Hunter held, tied them together using his own rope.

“Wrong way to use a rope, asshole,” Hunter muttered. “Grab the phone off my belt, London.”

She did as he bid and waited for instructions. Her instinct was to call the police now, but she shook so hard that her teeth chattered.

“Good. Scroll down my contacts to find Jack Cole. Call him, tell him you’re with us, and there’s a situation. He’ll deal with the local sheriff.”

Jack answered immediately and assessed the situation in a few sentences, pausing to tell her to calm down and control her breathing. Passing out wouldn’t do any of them any good.

Moments later, sirens wailed, coming closer and closer. Trembling overtook her body as a cold relief poured in. She had no idea who this man was or why he’d wanted to kill her, but it was over. She would live.

The fashion in which she did it was now up to her.

Chapter Twenty

ALYSSA sat beside her hospital bed in the ER, looking anxious and stressed. With taut faces, Logan and Hunter in the corner conferred with Luc in low tones, rehashing the conversation she’d had with the police the instant the doctors had cleared her to talk. None of the guys claimed to have any idea why she’d been attacked, but she didn’t believe them. Logan had been on the phone almost nonstop since taking down the bad guy. No idea whom he was talking to, or even why he and his brother had been at the office to help her out. But he knew something.

“God, they’re tense,” she told her cousin. “Something is wrong.”

As Chloe played with a stuffed animal in her lap, Alyssa looked over her shoulder at the men, then back at her with a tight smile. “They’re just being protective. It’s what they do best.”

And she had a feeling that when Xander and Javier showed up, protective would rise to new heights. Xander seemed laid back, but that was part of his playboy act. And Javier was high-strung even on a good day. Her phone was still in the pocket of her jeans, which had been discarded for a hospital gown as soon as she’d arrived, but she had no doubt that they were staying on top of the situation somehow. She’d barely hit the door of the emergency room before she’d been shown to a private room with a dedicated nurse. A doctor and a battery of tests had followed. It had taken no time at all to find out what she’d tried to tell everyone all along—there was absolutely nothing wrong with her except that she was scared and shaky, and she knew she’d be dealing with nightmares about strangers bearing ropes for some time.

Alyssa squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. The guys will figure this mess out.”

“If they haven’t already. I wish they’d tell me what they know.”

“Back to that being-protective thing.” She shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

Logan’s phone beeped, and he glanced down at the screen. He typed a quick message back. Hunter’s cell started ringing a moment later. He swiped his thumb across the screen and marched into the hall with ground-eating steps, barking into the little device.

“I doubt that. They’re making me jumpier.” London tried not to shiver. She was lucky to be alive. Thrilled . . . but troubled. Why had the killer targeted her?

Logan must have bionic hearing because, despite his phone dinging and the monitors attached to her beeping, he turned and pinned those blue, blue eyes on her. “Try to relax. No one is going to hurt you. No one. I promise you that.”

“And we’ll do whatever we have to in order to ensure that,” Xander stated from the open door, striding into the room and straight for her bed. Javier followed, moving toward her other side. They both looked exhausted and anxious and so damn relieved to see her alive.

London felt herself come alive the second she saw them. For terrible moments today, she’d thought she’d never lay eyes on them again. Her joy at having them here and near filled her almost beyond her ability to contain it.

Xander didn’t hesitate. The moment he skidded to a stop beside her, he grabbed her face in his hands, tilted her up to him, and swooped down to plaster his lips over hers, kissing her as if he’d never been more worried or desperate in his life. London opened for him gratefully, trembling against him. She drank in the sweet relief in the frantic press of his mouth. If something had happened to her today, it would have mattered to him. And on the heels of that kiss, a nip of her lower lip—a promise of punishment later for running away. She shivered.

He released her and gave her a nudge in the opposite direction. Javier stood waiting, staring with burning eyes and clenched fists. “I’m so sorry, little one.”

Before she could ask exactly what he was apologizing for—shouldn’t she be the one saying sorry?—he bent and pulled her against his broad chest as if his life depended on it, heedless of the wires and machinery hooked up to her. With his heart beating madly, Javier’s lips swept across hers—and paused. He didn’t shove his way into her mouth or try to deepen the kiss. He merely pressed his lips to hers and breathed her in, his entire body shaking. Clearly, he wanted to comfort her, but she knew right away that he needed reassurance far more. She feathered her fingers softly through his hair and touched his cheek, searching his lips with her own for a response. Barely an instant later, he delved into her mouth. He was everywhere inside her, pleading, taking, his body shuddering with need. He gripped her arms, pressed his body to her as if he never wanted air between them again, and owned her with that kiss. London let him take everything he needed, drowning in the demand of his possessive touch.

At her back, she felt Xander blanket her and press kisses to the top of her head. “We’ve been terrified, belleza. We’re so relieved you’re safe. We want to hold you and keep you from harm’s way and—”

“Ahem,” a dark, dangerous interloper interrupted from the doorway, brow raised.

Jack Cole. London had only met him once or twice, but that sense of power kept barely in check oozed from his very pores. She resisted the urge to shrink back like a guilty child.

The Santiago brothers both glared across the room as if they’d like to pull Jack apart one limb at a time and cause a whole lot of pain. Alyssa paid Jack no mind, instead giving London a pointed look, reminding her a bit of a mom discouraging PDA with one’s boyfriend. Luc smiled wryly, holding his wife’s hand. Logan’s eyes twinkled as if he was amused, while Hunter’s demeanor was somewhere between watchful and blank. London felt heat flame its way up her face. Funny how every time she was sandwiched between Xander and Javier, she completely forgot the outside world.