the hall with her gun drawn, and finally there had been the blow and the blinding pain. Silently, she cursed herself. Yes, she’d certainly done a good job of walking directly into someone’s trap.
Sabatini’s trap? It had to be. She pushed back the instantaneous surge of panic. His men must have gotten to Mitch first, then had probably left her for dead.
But…the last thing she remembered was the cold, ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. Even without opening her eyes, she knew she was on the leather sofa she’d seen in the living room. Why would Sabatini’s men move her?
“How do you feel?”
In twelve years…no, in a million years, she’d never forget his voice. Its deep, resonant tone slipped through the silence, smoothing out the sharper edges of her pain and wrapping itself around her like a lover’s embrace.
The only thing more seductive than that was the sight of him.
Mitch sat less than three feet away, perched on the edge of the coffee table. He leaned forward with his elbows braced against his knees. His forehead creased and those dark eyes narrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern.
Molly blinked several times, gradually bringing him into focus. She had to be dreaming.
It wasn’t the Mitch of the photos she’d seen over the years—always dressed to the nines in hopelessly crisp suits and expensive ties as he endured the limelight his success garnered, or even donning a hard hat at some groundbreaking event for a new Drake construction, still wearing what appeared to be an Armani.
No, this was the Mitch of Molly’s memories, of twelve years of recurring dreams and fantasies. That rugged handsomeness, that overwhelming masculinity, dressed in a rumpled denim shirt over a sparkling white T tucked into a faded pair of jeans…
And his hair…It was cropped short. The mustache and beard were gone as well. The warm glow of the fire softened his sharp features—the square chin, the strong jaw-line, those chiseled lips and that perfect nose with the smallest of clefts at the tip. But it was his eyes that riveted her and seemed to have stolen her ability to speak as she watched them reflect the flames’ dancing light.
This was the Mitch she knew, the Mitch she’d made love to and believed would be with her forever. This was the Mitch she’d kissed goodbye as she saw him off to college twelve years ago. This was the Mitch who had smiled as he’d driven off to Boston, and out of her life….
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She managed a nod, but her eyes never left his.
“Talk to me, Molly,” he prompted again, the lines of worry etching even deeper. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been clubbed over the head.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. The simple act sent another shot of pain searing through her.
“I thought I was going to have to drive you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, and attempted to sit up. But the effort was more than she’d anticipated. Her vision blurred again and dizziness swept over her.
She should have expected Mitch to reach for her then—strong hands grasping her, guiding her up and then lingering on her shoulders as though assuring himself that she was all right. More than that, however, Molly should have expected the almost instant physical reaction her body had to his touch.
“I’m fine,” she said again, brushing his hands away.
He backed off, but only briefly. From the coffee table he picked up an ice pack and settled onto the sofa next to her. She could smell the faint trace of aftershave on him—something she’d not smelled in years, and yet it seemed as familiar as yesterday. She fought back the memories.
“How long have I been out?”
“Not long. Fifteen minutes…maybe twenty.”
He reached behind her, attempting to settle the ice pack against the tender and throbbing source of her pain. Molly winced and reflexively reached up to take the pack from his grasp.
“I told you I’m fine.”
She heard the release of his breath before she saw him shake his head.
“How could I forget?” he asked, a frown quivering at the corners of his mouth. “Just as stubborn as your old man.”
She watched him lift a hand and run his fingers through the short-cropped hair, as though he expected to find long locks of black hair still there.
“So I guess I have you to thank for this goose egg?” Molly bit her lower lip as she eased the pack against the injury, feeling the initial burn of the ice.
“What do you expect when you come creeping through the dark? And with a gun drawn, no less?”
Molly caught his quick nod to where her Glock lay on the coffee table. She cringed at the idea that she’d so easily lost her on-duty weapon. Yes, she’d certainly messed up. If it had happened in the line of duty, the incident would have been written up in a heartbeat.
“I did knock,” she said.
“Yeah, well, you should have announced yourself.” There was a definite edge to his tone. But the anger wasn’t at her, Molly realized then. It was more at himself, for having struck her the way he had. And judging by the residual dizziness and the pain hammering through her head, it must have been a damned good swing. She could only imagine what had gone through his head when he’d seen her drawn gun coming through the kitchen door.
“So what the hell are you doing here, Molly?”
“You have to ask?” She shifted the ice pack and tried not to wince again.
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Whether or not you testify is up to you, Mitch. All I want to do is ask that you reconsider what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?”
“Honestly? I’d say you’re committing suicide. Thinking you can stay out of Sabatini’s reach. It’s insane. After all, I managed to find you. It can only be a matter of time before Sabatini’s men catch up with you as well, and you’re a fool if you think you can hold your own against them. You’re not safe, Mitch. No matter how much firewood you have,” she added.
“And you’re saying I’m safe in Chicago?”
“Certainly safer than running, yes.”
He stared at her for what could only have been seconds, but caught in those dark eyes, it felt like an eternity.
“Well, I’ll take my chances,” he said at last. “Like I told you, you’re wasting your time.”
In the intensity of his stare she thought she saw resentment, anger, and beneath that…a kind of resignation, a glimmer of defeat that frightened her. When he drew himself to the edge of the sofa eventually, and turned to look at the fireplace instead, Molly studied his profile. But she could still see that sense of hopelessness she’d glimpsed. It was the look of a man who didn’t care whether he lived or died.
