style="font-size:15px;"> She wasn’t about to fall for that ploy. He might be dangerously handsome, but on the other hand, he could be just plain dangerous. “Give me the number, and I’ll call for you.”
“I don’t know the number. I’ve had an accident, and I…” He grimaced, and she heard him draw in a sharp breath. He put a hand against the house as if he needed support.
Christy squinted through the rain, trying to see his car, but couldn’t. He must have walked from the beach road.
A car drove past and slowed, its headlights glimmering through the rainy darkness. Perhaps, Christy thought hopefully, the car belonged to a friend of this man, someone who would help him. But it drove on.
Nervously, she chewed on her lip. What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm? Cruel. Let him in? Foolish.
The gun.
“Just a minute,” she called and darted into the bedroom. She pulled her revolver out of the dresser drawer and returned to the door. Thanks to her course, she knew how to use the gun and if the guy tried any funny stuff, she would. More confident now, she turned the dead bolt. The man straightened, waited.
Christy opened the door.
He came inside. The wind howled banshee-like through the oleanders behind him. Rain followed him in, needle-sharp drops pelting Christy’s face.
He took a step, then halted, staring at the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he raised his arms. “I won’t hurt you.”
“No, you won’t.” She gestured for him to walk ahead of her. “The phone’s that way, in the living room.”
“Thanks. I’ll make a call and then…” He staggered forward. “…and then…I’ll be…on…my…”
He fell heavily against the side of a chair, dislodging a lamp from the table beside it. The lamp crashed to the floor and broke, but Christy hardly noticed. Her eyes were on the man. He’d landed on his stomach, and she could see an ugly wound on the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood, he lay spread-eagled on her living-room floor, and he didn’t move.
Chapter 2
“Oh, my God.” Christy set down the gun, knelt on the floor and leaned over the unconscious man. “Wake up!” she said. No answer. “Can you hear me?” she called louder, but he didn’t rouse.
Grunting with the effort, she managed to turn the man onto his side. His face was pasty white, his skin cold. Christy searched for the pulse at his throat and drew a breath of relief when she found it. She pried open his lids and checked his pupils. They were symmetrical, not dilated. Good.
Unbuttoning his shirt, she searched for other injuries. His chest was smooth; she had no trouble seeing a line of bruises that probably meant cracked ribs. No wonder he was heavy. His leanness was deceptive. He wasn’t as tall as she’d thought, but he was six feet of solid muscle.
She went to her room, dragged the quilt off her bed and covered him. He smelled of the sea and, with his bronzed skin and stubbled cheeks, he reminded Christy of the buccaneers who once roamed the Gulf of Mexico. She watched him for a moment, but when he still didn’t move or make a sound, she hurried into the kitchen to dial 911.
No dial tone. Only static.
The phone lines must be down because of the storm. She dashed into the bedroom for her cell phone, grabbed it out of the charger and dialed. A busy signal.
She tried again. Again. Each time she got the same result.
She shoved the cell phone in her pocket. She’d just have to drive him to the hospital herself. Provided he woke up and could walk. She was strong, but no way could she drag a six-foot-tall, unconscious, dead-weight man outside and lift him into her car. Maybe, despite the weather, one of her neighbors had come to the island and could help. She opened the door and went out on the porch. No lights shone in any of the windows. Disappointed, she went back inside.
Halfway down the block, obscured by the darkness, a black sedan was parked. The driver stared at the house, then pounded his fist against the steering wheel in rage and frustration. Today had been one piece of damn rotten luck after another.
He reviewed the evening in his mind. His plan had been so simple. Take the sonofabitch out with one quick, powerful blow to the head, drag him onto the beach, leave him there and let the tide take care of him. And in case it didn’t sweep him out to sea, empty his pockets so he’d be hard to identify.
First stroke of bad luck: he’d had to do the job quickly. A patrol car stopped on the other side of the highway, the cop warning him a storm was coming in. What’d the deputy think, he was blind? He could see the rain coming down as well as anyone.
He’d driven away without checking to be sure the bastard was dead, then he disposed of the wallet further down the beach. He didn’t want the deputy to stop by again and find him with a body, so he’d gone into town for a hamburger and a beer. Later, he went back to check on his prey and, more freakin’ bad luck: the sonofabitch was gone.
A cold dread took hold. Had someone rescued him?
He’d sped away from the beach, looking from right to left in the gray darkness. Then he’d seen the bastard on the porch of a house at the end of a block of small cottages. How the hell had he made it that far? Was he some kind of superhero?
A woman stood in the doorway. And dammit to hell, the worst luck of all: she opened the door and he went inside. Dumb broad. Didn’t she know better than to let a stranger into her house?
Now he ran over his options. Best thing would be to break in and finish what he’d started, get rid of the woman, too. He was about to get out of the car when he noticed a black and white around the corner. It didn’t turn onto the street he was parked on, but if it was patrolling the neighborhood, it’d be back soon. Okay, he’d go with plan B. And he’d be quick.
Inside the house, Christy turned back to her unwelcome visitor. He hadn’t moved. “Don’t do this to me,” she muttered…and then she heard him moan.
Thank heavens. She bent over him, put her hand on his forehead. “Can you hear me?” she asked.
Cool hand on his brow. Scent of flowers. A soft voice. “Can you hear me?” the voice called. He tried to answer, to form the word yes, but could only manage another moan.
“Good. You’re waking up,” the voice said. Such a sweet voice, the kind that belonged to an angel.
Angel? Good Lord, had he died?
“Can you open your eyes?” the angel-voice asked.
He wanted to see the owner of the voice, so he tried. With a monumental effort, he managed to force his eyes open—and saw, not an angel, but a woman bending over him, her green eyes filled with concern. He blinked, then recognized her. He’d rung her doorbell, he remembered, and she’d let him in. So how had he ended up on the floor? “Wh-what happened?” he rasped.
“You came in to use the phone and passed out.”
“Passed out,” he repeated. “But why…?”
“You
