personal security team stood nearby, his restless gaze scanning the room. Time to move through the crowd, glad-handing his way to the exit. He had an hour to make it from downtown Phoenix out to Scottsdale for his next engagement, a fund-raising dinner with some of the party’s biggest donors.
His gaze strayed to the indistinct figure standing just off stage. Georgie. He didn’t have to see her to picture how she looked—straight-cut bangs, her hair scraped back from her face and twisted up in some impossible way, black eyeglass frames dominating her features. He’d overheard more than one reporter comment on her sexy librarian vibe. She’d been there in the backstage shadows the whole time, listening, and more than likely silently mouthing each word as he spoke it. He quirked the corner of his mouth and winked at her. Georgie had been a steady part of his team almost from the beginning. He relied on her to put heart into his words, to spin the press just right. She worked hard for him and he appreciated her efforts. He was lucky to have her at his side.
He cut his eyes toward the back of the auditorium and tilted his head—Georgie’s signal to head out. As soon as he descended the steps from the stage, Boone Tate, his chief of staff and cousin, appeared next to him. Clay was a firm believer in keeping it all in the family.
Boone leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Hunt says there’s a group of protesters out front. Local cops are handling them but we shouldn’t linger too long.”
Working a room like this came naturally to Clay. A quick grip of hands, a few brief words, never stopping, always moving toward his goal—the exit. They reached the convention center’s lobby a few short minutes later. Outside, an exuberant crowd milled about, waiting for Clay’s appearance. A second, more sinister group pushed against a line of local law enforcement officers.
Hunter Tate, chief of security and Boone’s older brother, arrived and steered Clay away from the wide doors. “Taking the back way out. The SUVs and local police backup will meet us at the loading dock.” Flanked by the security team and led by the Phoenix Convention Center’s security director, they hurried down a side hallway toward the rear of the huge building.
The group hadn’t gone twenty feet when the lights went out and sparks lit up the dark. Choking smoke filled the air. The security team switched on flashlights. Hunter grabbed Clay’s elbow, urging him forward.
“Wait.” Clay stopped dead. “Where’s Georgie?”
“On it.” One of the plainclothes security guys peeled off and jogged back the way they’d come, his light bouncing in the swirling fog. He called back over his shoulder, “I’ll bring her.”
A few minutes later they emerged through a metal fire door. A black SUV waited in the alley between buildings. Sharp reports—too close to the sound of gunfire to be ignored—erupted nearby. The security team surrounded Clay and Boone, ran for the vehicle and pushed them into the backseat.
“No!” Clay resisted. “Georgie. We’re not leaving without her.” More gunshots—or firecrackers; he wasn’t sure at this point—went off and then a woman’s high-pitched scream scraped his nerves.
“Aw, crap.” Hunter surged through the scrum of security surrounding the car, and Clay leaned around Boone to see.
Georgie lay crumpled at the bottom of the steel loading-dock steps. Police scrambled around the corner chasing a group of people wearing Guy Fawkes masks as they ran away. When Hunter grabbed Georgie, she screamed again but he hauled her to her feet and hustled her to the car. Her face was smudged with residue from the oily smoke, and her glasses looked as if they’d been sprayed with black paint. The poor girl couldn’t see a thing.
Boone got out of the car but had to shout to be heard over the commotion. “Georgie, it’s okay. We’ve got you.” She visibly relaxed at the sound of his voice and let Hunter bundle her into the backseat. Boone dove in behind her as Hunter jumped into the front seat and told the driver to take off.
The SUV accelerated through the alley and they passed the cops, who had taken the protesters to the ground and were handcuffing them. Sirens wailed a shrieking duet with squealing tires as the SUV careened onto the street. Two police cars and a second SUV with Barron Security forces inside formed the motorcade as they raced away.
Georgie was wedged into the middle of the backseat between Boone and Clay, shivering uncontrollably and gulping air. Her hand flailed, found Clay’s and latched on. Clay was too furious to speak. Georgie was his employee and she’d been terrorized by those sons of bitches. Her nails bit into his skin but he ignored the sharp prick. Boone removed her glasses and passed them to Hunter to clean while he took out a handkerchief and gently wiped her face. She shuddered and squeezed Clay’s hand harder. He squeezed back.
Hunter twisted around in the front seat and handed the glasses back. Clay took them and gently placed them on Georgie’s face. She was shaking and didn’t speak. With her glasses back in place, she squinted and looked around. Boone’s handkerchief was now a dirty gray so Clay retrieved the one from his back pocket and dabbed at the side of her face closest to him. He gave her hand another squeeze.
“Wh-what happened?” Georgie swallowed and Clay’s gaze was drawn to her slender throat.
“Sugar, it’s okay.” Boone leaned in from the opposite side. “You’re safe now.”
She inhaled and let her breath out slowly, visibly relaxing as she did so. “The lights. And smoke. I...couldn’t see. Did I fall down?” She raised her right leg and stared at her shredded nylon. “The guy with the gun? Did they get him?” She rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand since Clay still held her left.
“Gun?” Hunter’s voice was sharp.
“I thought...” She inhaled and rubbed at her chest as if breathing deeply hurt. Tears glistened on her lashes and she closed her eyes. “Did I hear gunshots?”
Hunter spoke into the high-tech microphone straddling his jawline and listened before saying, “Probably firecrackers. Police didn’t find any weapons.”
Clay continued to wipe the smoke residue off her cheek. When she winced and jerked her head, he realized her face was bruised. “Someone hit you?” His voice was sharp and demanding.
She shook her head then pressed the heel of her free hand against her forehead. “No. I fell. A couple of times, I think. It was...dark. I couldn’t see anything.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she gulped in air.
Clay was afraid she’d hyperventilate. “You’re okay, Georgie. Where else are you hurt?”
Georgie glanced down. Her skirt and jacket were both torn. There were runs in her hose and both knees were scraped and bleeding. Another deep breath had her clutching her side. “Ow.”
“What is it?” Clay didn’t recognize his own voice and regretted sounding so gruff that Georgie jerked away from him. He hadn’t released the hand he held so she didn’t get far.
“I’m sorry.” She turned worried eyes to him then glanced away. “This is my fault. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
He made an effort to soften his voice. “This isn’t your fault and I’m not angry with you. I’m angry at the protesters. I’m angry because this happened to you, Georgie. Understood?” He smoothed his thumb in small circles against the back of her hand. “We’re headed to the hotel so you can get cleaned up. Don’t...just don’t worry.”
Her bottom lip quivered and she closed her eyes again.
