the real story was? And now she was facing the holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, without him.
Of course, that was the least of her worries right now.
Driftwood crowded her path, and she jumped over another fallen piece of debris that had washed in at high tide.
Stumbling, she went to one knee, her momentum propelling her into the sand, rolling her over twice before she could push herself back up. Ignoring her screaming, sand-burned knee and oxygen-deprived lungs, she regained her balance, pumping her legs back up to full speed.
She couldn’t keep running, not at this pace.
But she sure couldn’t slow down.
He—they?—would kill her this time.
Please, God.
Her eyes darted, desperately seeking a hiding place. Shivers danced on her overheated skin as the freezing wind blew.
Up ahead, a light flickered. Someone walking toward her? She skidded to a halt, gasping, panting, sucking in much-needed oxygen; her knee throbbing a reminder that she needed to find a place to hide.
The light bobbed closer. Friend or foe? Had they surrounded her? Surely they couldn’t have gotten in front of her. But then she wouldn’t have guessed they would have been able to show up on her doorstep either.
What do I do, God? What do I do?
The safety of her little cottage lay approximately two miles behind her. Thank goodness she’d taken up running every morning for the last year. If not, she’d never have made it this far.
The light flickered, then disappeared.
A split-second decision had her making a sharp right to trudge through the softer sand. She didn’t even have a cell phone. But the little diner just up the road would have a phone and she could call for help.
If she could get there.
A gunshot rang out, and Gina flinched when it hit the ground in front of her.
A warning shot.
That told her one thing. They wanted her alive.
And that scared her more than the thought that they might want her dead. She double-timed her struggle through the sand, praying that whoever was chasing her was having the same problems. Finally, her feet hit asphalt.
Another gunshot. She cringed, expecting at any moment to feel the pain of a bullet entering her body. She pressed on.
She needed a phone.
She needed help.
Where was Ian?
Ian Masterson pressed his foot to the gas pedal. He’d promised Gina he’d be there at 9:00 p.m. It was now 11:45 p.m. and the darkness pressed in on his windshield like dirt on top of a coffin. She’d called him yesterday and asked him to meet her at the beach house. He didn’t have to ask for directions. Gina’s cousin, Antonio Santino; her late fiancé, Mario Anthony; and he, Ian Masterson, had been the Three Musketeers.
Best friends and fellow U.S. Army Rangers—no three men had a tighter friendship. Until Ian moved away. Then Mario had died and Antonio had flown off to Iraq on a mission. Ian was home for the moment and would be until Gina’s troubles were resolved.
But he’d been held up on the way to meet her. He’d had to request emergency personal leave to get out of a last-minute assignment in Pakistan. Fortunately, a buddy with another unit had volunteered to go in his place.
Ian owed him big time.
Only now he was almost three hours later than he’d said he’d be, and Gina wasn’t answering her phone.
He didn’t like the thoughts crowding his mind.
Punching her speed dial button one more time, he offered up a prayer on her behalf.
Her voice mail clicked on again. He hung up and clenched his teeth. What were you working on, Mario, that’s put Gina in danger?
She hadn’t told him much when she’d called yesterday morning asking him to meet her. Just that some men had tried to kill her when she’d walked in on them tearing her house apart in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Now, she’d fled to the coast and trouble had followed her.
His gut clenched as he pictured her face. Dark hair, with upturned black eyes that hinted at Asian ancestry somewhere back in the Italian family line. He clearly remembered those eyes, which hid her innermost thoughts but could flash with compassion or laughter at the drop of a hat. The next-to-the-last time he’d seen her had been about eight months ago, when he’d stopped in to see his old commanding officer and had overheard her in the hallway. She’d been moaning about losing weight so she could fit into the wedding dress she wanted. She hadn’t known he was there. He’d left as quietly as he’d arrived.
The last time he’d seen her had been at Mario’s funeral.
She’d lost the weight.
Ian’s fingers clenched the steering wheel. His molars ground together as he remembered Gina’s devastation at the funeral. He’d gone to her and offered her a hug, but her stares were like daggers cutting through him, the accusation clear in her liquid-chocolate eyes.
She might as well have shouted the words, “If you’d been here, he wouldn’t have died.”
But she didn’t, just hunched her shoulders against her grief and walked away.
And caused Ian a fresh bout of crippling pain.
Ian had envied Mario for a long time but finally had given up fighting his feelings and had requested a transfer to a different base so he wouldn’t run into the two of them together. Not that he begrudged his friend’s happiness; Ian just had a hard time controlling the ache in his heart every time he saw Gina’s smile. The way she tilted her head to the left when she really listened to what you were saying. Or the way she pulled her hair back into a long ponytail that revealed her slender neck. He’d watched her pulse beat there one time and had to leave the restaurant they were in because of his overwhelming feelings for her.
He’d done the unthinkable.
He’d fallen in love with a committed woman.
His best friend’s future wife.
So, Ian had left. Run from it and his feelings, honor and integrity more important than his own selfish desires. It was the only way he’d been able to live with himself.
Now she was calling him for help.
Someone had tried to kill her.
Like she believed someone had killed Mario.
His cell rang and he punched the button. “Hello?”
“Ian?” Short breaths rang over the line, as if she was out of breath. Relief flooded him at the sound of her voice, his protective instinct kicking into high gear at the thought of her in danger. “It’s me. Gina.”
“I
