door. Stay low. No noise.”
“You need to move if you expect me to.”
She shifted, her pelvis bumped against his, reminding him that it had been months since he’d been this close to a woman. Maybe after the danger was over, he’d think about remedying that situation—but not with her.
She wasn’t unattractive. Far from it. He didn’t remember a word of her info session, but he sure remembered her. Dark blond hair, full lips, flawless skin and a dynamite figure that even a tailored navy suit couldn’t conceal. Claire Lamont had definite assets, but she was also a shrink. In his experience, shrinks were trouble, and he’d be a fool to forget it now just because this one came with a husky voice and a curvy body.
Cool, damp air flooded in through the broken glass pane. He climbed to his feet and crept along the hall. The back door was situated off the laundry room. When he reached it, Claire was right behind him.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Wait here.”
He felt his way through the dark to the connecting door to the garage. Because of the power failure, he couldn’t hit the switch to open the garage door. The automatic opener had to be disconnected from the overhead framework so he could lift the door manually.
He descended the wooden steps into the garage. A moment later, his leg nudged the bumper of Claire’s car. He skirted around the driver’s side and went to stand behind the vehicle. Should be a rope dangling with a handle attached. Reaching up, he moved his hand back and forth, trying to locate it.
Nothing.
Growing impatient, he climbed onto the trunk. The added height made it possible for him to touch the mechanism directly. He reached out, then inhaled as a sharp metal edge nicked his thumb. Damn. This fumbling around in the dark was crazy, but he couldn’t risk using the penlight in his pocket. The garage had windows facing onto the front walkway.
Several tries later, he released the hook from the frame. He slid off the car and reached for the garage door. Twisting the handle, he tugged hard. The garage door rolled upward with a loud screech. Hopefully, the shooter would think Claire was attempting to drive away and try to stop her.
He ran back to the connecting door, knowing that it wouldn’t take the shooter long to search the garage. He’d likely shoot the lock off the inner door and head inside.
Brent crossed the laundry room to the back door, stretched out both hands, but encountered only empty space.
“Claire?” he whispered.
No response. Damn this darkness.
Retrieving the penlight from his pocket, he shone it around him. The sliver of light flickered over the confined space, revealing a washer, dryer, sink and three-foot-long counter for folding clothes. And nothing else. His frustration surged to a new level. Where the hell had she gone?
Turning on his heel, he aimed the penlight toward the hall. The narrow beam illuminated her suitcase with its two ugly bullet holes. An equally ugly thought crossed his mind. What if Claire hadn’t left the laundry room voluntarily? The possibility choked off his annoyance like a tourniquet, and alarm took its place. He’d only spent two or three minutes in the garage, but that could have been enough time for Claire to be dragged out the back door and forced into a waiting vehicle.
A quiet click sounded. The back of his neck prickled.
He removed his semiautomatic pistol from its holster and headed into the hall. As he drew near the kitchen, the pantry door swung open. He aimed his weapon. Despite the cold air seeping in through the broken window, sweat broke out on his brow.
When Claire emerged alone, his relief quickly gave way to anger. “Why didn’t you wait for me in the laundry room?”
“Nowhere to hide if the guy broke in before you came back.”
A reasonable explanation, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You just took ten years off my life.”
“Then I guess we’re even.”
He knew he’d terrified her earlier. Not his intention, but before he could explain his presence, she’d walloped him in the face with the flashlight. After that, he’d lost all interest in apologizing.
“Come on,” he said, turning away.
When he reached the back door, he stopped. “I’ll go out first. If it’s safe, I’ll whistle. Run to the hedge on the right, wait for my next signal, then cross into your neighbor’s yard. This time, stick to the plan.”
“I will,” she promised.
Something settled on the floor beside her. “What’s that?”
“My carry-on.”
“Leave it. It’ll slow you down.”
“No, it won’t.”
He decided to try a different tack. “Look, we’ll stop at a store later, and you can pick up whatever you need.”
“Thanks, but what I need is in this bag.”
He couldn’t believe they were arguing over toiletries. “Claire—”
“Save your breath,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere without it.”
FORTUNATELY, YOUNG seemed to accept that arguing with her further would be a waste of time. Time they didn’t have.
He headed out the back door, and she waited for his all-clear signal. He must think she was absurdly possessive. But if she divulged her reason for hanging on to her case—because it contained cassette tapes of her sessions with Forrester—Young might demand to listen to them later. And although Forrester had forfeited his right to patient confidentiality the instant he’d revealed his violent intentions, it was up to her to decide what information to share and what to withhold.
Young’s signal came. She set off.
Freezing cold rain pelted her as she sprinted across the lawn to the hedge. In seconds, her jeans were plastered to her body like a wet second skin. She crouched low, her muscles tense with fear, knowing at any moment a bullet could slam into her. In the darkness, another ofYoung’s low whistles sounded. Remembering his instructions, she followed him into her neighbors’ yard. Unfortunately, their dog was outside, and his barking and snarling pinpointed their location with the same intensity as a siren.
“Run!” Young hollered.
She stretched out her legs and raced after him. The wet grass was slippery, but she managed to stay on her feet, pumping her arms to propel herself faster. Across the yard, down the street and around the corner. The speedy pace soon had her gasping for breath, but Young, running beside her, wasn’t even winded, damn him. When she stumbled over a curb, he grabbed her arm.
“Keep going,” he urged. “My car isn’t far off.”
A few minutes later, they reached a black Mustang.
“W-where are we going?” she asked, as they rocketed out of her neighborhood.
He
