* *
She couldn’t breathe.
Hot Guy was a solid weight on top of her, pinning her to the floor and blocking her view. Not that she wanted to see, anyway. What she could hear was bad enough.
Male voices shouting, the “pop” of what could only be a gunshot, then a high, pain-filled scream that made the fillings in her teeth ache. Squeezing her eyes shut, Fiona pressed her head against Hot Guy’s shoulder, trying in vain to block out the horrible wails now coming from somewhere nearby.
It was all too much to process, especially when she had no idea what was going on. She was still adjusting to the fact that she no longer had a gun pressed to her temple. She wanted to reach up to touch the still-tingling spot, to rub away the chill of the metal that lingered on her skin, but her hands were trapped against her stomach.
“Are you all right?”
His voice was deep and soft, for her ears only. It rumbled from his chest and into hers, a strangely intimate sensation that only added to her discomfiture.
She nodded automatically, not trusting her voice, not knowing what to say. She’d just had a gun held to her head—she couldn’t think right now, much less determine if she was fine.
He pulled back to study her face, his green eyes taking in every detail. She fought the urge to squirm, unused to such scrutiny, especially at such close range.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” He reached up to trace a finger over her temple, right where the gun had pressed into her skin. Fiona caught her breath at the gentle stroke, goose bumps popping out along her arms in the wake of his contact.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice breaking at the end. She winced and cleared her throat, not wanting to sound too emotional. She wasn’t going to fall apart just because some thug had held her hostage for a few minutes. She didn’t have time—she had to proctor final exams for her adviser’s classes soon, and a nervous breakdown was not in her schedule.
But, oh, it felt so good to be pressed up against her rescuer. Hot Guy was everything she’d thought he would be and more—a potent combination of muscle and bone, wrapped up in a very nice package. And his smell—God, his smell! Warm skin, some kind of woodsy smell from his soap and a faint note of musk all mingled to create a heady combination, making her want to press her nose to his neck and inhale deeply.
But that would be too creepy.
He carefully extracted himself and pushed to his feet, then reached down to offer his hand. She took it and had a sudden thrill as he quickly pulled her up. She swayed a bit on her feet, and he placed his hand on her shoulder to steady her. Fiona closed her eyes, enjoying his warm touch.
“I know you.”
Fiona opened her eyes at the intrusion to see a uniformed police officer staring at Hot Guy, his eyes narrowed in thought.
Hot Guy stared back, his brows drawn together while he considered the other man. “Steve, right?” he said slowly.
The officer nodded. “And you’re—?” He let the question trail off, inviting Hot Guy to supply his name.
“Nate Gallagher. Homicide.”
The officer nodded, recognition dawning. “Gallagher. You were the MVP of the last police-fire softball game. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before!”
Nate smiled faintly. “I’m glad you recognized me. I knew I was taking a chance having my gun pointed in your direction.”
Steve shook his head. “I’m not gonna lie—I didn’t appreciate that. You’re lucky we saw what was happening when we pulled in.”
Nate shrugged, then pulled Fiona closer to his side. “I couldn’t let him hurt her,” he said simply.
The officer transferred his gaze to Fiona, as if noticing her for the first time. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She nodded. Why did they keep asking her that? It’s not like they could do anything to help her if she told the truth.
“We need to take your statement,” he said, holding up an arm to gesture her forward. She moved reluctantly, not wanting to leave the security of Nate’s side. Even though their contact was limited to his hand on her shoulder, she still felt comforted by his presence.
Now that Nate and the other officer were no longer talking, Fiona realized that the robber’s moans of pain had stopped, leaving the store silent except for the intermittent crackle of the police radio. As she cleared the aisle and glanced down, Fiona saw the man was unconscious, lying in a small pool of blood.
She swallowed hard at the sight, her instincts urging her to put as much distance between them as possible. He’d been so rough and strong, jerking her around the store, but now, lying on the dirty floor with his face slack, he seemed very small and powerless.
Rationally, she knew the man couldn’t hurt her, unconscious and handcuffed as he was. Still, her body refused to move any closer, and she stood frozen in place, panic climbing up her spine to wrap choking fingers around her throat.
Another officer was kneeling by the man, halfheartedly pressing a wad of gauze to his shoulder. The officer glanced up at her and offered an absent nod. She nodded back mechanically, and he frowned.
“Are you all right, miss? You look a little pale.”
“I, uh—”
She couldn’t get the words out, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “I think I need to use the bathroom.”
Fiona turned to the right and practically ran for the bathroom, yanking open the door with such force that it bounced off the wall to slam shut. She flipped the lock and collapsed onto the toilet, leaning forward with her arms wrapped tight around her stomach.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her thoughts were a twisted jumble as she rocked back and forth, the events of the past half hour crashing over her anew. She hadn’t had time to think or even panic in the moment, but now that the danger had passed, she couldn’t seem to escape the flood of emotions that adrenaline had kept at bay.
Fiona pressed her fist to her mouth in an effort to muffle the quiet sobs. She had learned to stifle the sounds of her grief as she cared for her mother during her battle with cancer, but right now Fiona couldn’t stop the tears from falling. She ripped a ribbon of toilet paper off the roll and pressed it to her eyes, mopping up the tears before they could drip onto her shirt in a telltale sign of distress. She had to regain her composure so she could talk to the police, and then she could go home and cry in the privacy of her empty house.
She dropped the soggy toilet paper into the trash, then moved to the sink and splashed water on her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she toweled off and froze, her eyes fixed on the red mark that marred her temple. With shaking fingers, she reached up to touch the bumpy spot, feeling the definite imprint of the gun barrel.
So close. Her stomach twisted at the thought of her brains on the floor, and she quickly dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, making it just in time.
“Fiona?” Nate’s voice was quiet on the other side of the door, and Fiona wanted to sink into the floor tiles and disappear. How long had he been standing
