poured the cup of coffee into Webber’s palm. Within moments, the hot liquid raised blisters. “Be diplomatic, Webber,” he cautioned with noncommittal coolness.
Webber nodded, his jaw tightened against the pain until the skin turned white under his ruddy complexion. “And if the Renne woman doesn’t want to cooperate?”
Oliver dropped the mercenary’s wrist and tossed the cup to the ground. “Then be discreet.”
He wasn’t dead. It took a moment for the thought to seep through. Another for the layers of fog to dissipate.
He surfaced gradually, registering the extent of his injuries. The throbbing at his temple, the ache over his brow. When his right arm refused to move when commanded, he shifted his shoulders no more than an inch. Pain rifled through him, setting off waves of nausea that rocked his belly, slapped at the back of his throat.
But his heart beat.
For a full minute, he concentrated on the rhythmic thumping, worked on breathing oxygen in and out of his lungs.
A keen sense of danger vibrated through him. But when his mind searched for details, he found nothing but the urge for caution. And an underlying edge of danger.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling beams doubled, then danced before finally coming into focus. His gaze slid from the white ceiling to the white bandage on his shoulder.
With his good hand, he carefully searched the bed around him but found nothing. He let his arm fall back to his side. Molten heat blasted through his upper body, setting his shoulder and ribs on fire and telling him he’d been carelessly quick with the motion.
Cloth brushed leather, drawing his attention. Slowly, he turned his head. No more than four feet away, a woman straightened in the leather wingback chair. She uncurled her long legs in one slow, fluid movement. The morning light washed over her in soft pink rays, coating both her skin and pale blond hair in a hazy blush.
“You’re awake.” Her sleep-soaked voice reminded him of crushed velvet, rich and warm. But it was caramel-brown eyes that caught his attention. Carmel dusted with gold, he realized as she drew closer.
And edged with concern. Enough to tell him she’d spent the night in the chair.
“Is the pain bearable?” Her face was scrubbed clean, revealing a few freckles dotting her nose. With long, blond hair tied back into a ponytail and clad in jeans and a black, zipped hoodie two sizes too big, she looked no older than a first-year college student.
The back of her hand drifted over his cheek. Her cool, soft touch soothing. So much so that he felt a curious ache in his chest when it dropped away.
“No fever, thank goodness. How are you feeling?”
He caught her wrist with his good hand and jerked her closer. It was a mistake.
Skin pulled against stitching, bones ground against cartilage. A curse burst from his lips in a long, angry hiss.
“Where is it?” His question was barely a whisper. Dried bile coated his tongue in a thick paste, leaving his throat sandpaper-dry.
“Where is what?” she demanded. But a quick glance at his shoulder kept her from tugging back. He didn’t have to look because he felt it. Blood—thick and warm—seeped from his wound into the bandage, dampening the gauze against his skin.
“The 9 mm. Where is it?” he repeated, pushing his advantage. Whoever she was, she wasn’t smart to let him see her concern.
“In the nightstand drawer. Both the gun and the two clips.” Her temper surfaced, sharpening her tone.
He didn’t take her word for it. Instead, he reached down with his bad arm—grunting at the shock of pain—then opened the drawer with his fingers.
But his actions took effort. Sweat beaded his forehead, his arm shook against her when he grabbed the pistol.
“Let go of my wrist.” The fact she kept her words soft didn’t diminish the anger behind them.
Or the concern.
Immediately, his hand dropped to the bed. More from weakness than her demand, he knew.
“Trust me, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have saved your butt last night.” She rubbed her wrist.
Jacob resisted nodding, not wanting to set off another wave of dizziness. But he tightened his grip on his pistol. “What am I doing here?” His voice was no more than a croak.
She poured him a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside stand and offered it to him. “Recovering.”
When he didn’t sit up, she lifted the glass to his lips. The cool water hit the back of his throat, immediately soothing the raw, burning heat. After he finished, she placed it back on the nightstand.
“What happened?” he murmured, resting his head back against the pillow. The room tilted a little. That and the water made him queasy.
“You have a gunshot wound in your right shoulder, a forehead laceration and a concussion. You were lucky the bullet only caused minimal damage. We’ve stitched your wounds, but only rest will help the concussion,” she explained, her voice softening once again with concern on the last few words.
First he digested her reaction, then her explanation. A bullet hole meant he’d lost a lot of blood. A hindrance, but not debilitating. “Who is we?”
“My father.” She hesitated over the words, enough to obstruct any natural warmth in them. “He’ll be back in a moment.”
“How did I get shot?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The sunlight grew brighter, casting beams across the bed. When he grimaced, she crossed the room and pulled the curtains shut.
“And you are?”
She stopped midmotion, her eyes narrowing as they pinned him to the bed. “If you’re trying to be funny, I suggest you work on your timing. Because whatever sense of humor I might have had, you destroyed it about five months ago.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Trust me, the only joke here is on me.” His laugh was no more than a savage burst of air. “So why don’t you tell me who you are and we’ll go from there.”
“Grace. Grace Renne.”
Grace. He took in the serene features, the refined curves of her face that sloped into a slightly upturned nose, a dimpled chin and a mouth too wide to be considered movie-star perfect. But full enough to tempt a man, even a half-dead one like himself, to taste.
“You don’t recognize me?” she asked. Disbelief—no, he corrected, distrust—lay under her question.
So she didn’t trust him? Seemed fair enough, since he didn’t trust her.
“Should
