of minor surgery.
“Where’s Dr. Lionel?” she asked.
“We don’t have time for questions.” He motioned toward the door with the gun. “You’re coming with me. Let’s go.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He was wearing only a pair of prison-issue drawstring pants. No shirt. No shoes. He was built like a distance runner, with long limbs and an abdomen that looked as if it had been carved from stone. His chest was rippled with muscle and covered with a sprinkling of black hair. He was grace and power rolled into a single disturbing package.
Tearing her gaze away, she tossed a covert glance at her fallen radio a few feet away. If she could reach it, all she needed to do was hit her personal alarm button and alert dispatch that she was in trouble….
“Don’t even think about going for that radio,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you force my hand, I will.”
She met his gaze levelly. “You don’t want to do this.”
“What I don’t want is to become one of Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs.”
Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs? Emily didn’t know what he meant by that. The guy was obviously delusional. She knew better than to engage him, but if she could talk him down, she stood a better chance of coming out of this unscathed. “You don’t stand a chance of getting out of here. Even if you make it out of the building, the tower guards will be all over you.”
“I’ll take my chances with the guards. They’re a hell of a lot less lethal.” He gestured with the gun toward the door. “Let’s go.”
She led him from the exam room to the interior door, but her hands were shaking so violently she could barely swipe her security card. Once the green light flickered, she tugged open the steel door and took him into the darkened hall. She sensed the presence of the gun as she walked, the almost tangible aura of danger surrounding the man as she took him into the main corridor.
“I need a uniform and coat,” he said.
She started to protest, but he raised the gun and aimed it at her face. “Get them for me,” he said. “Now.”
In his gaze she saw violence and unpredictability and understood that if she didn’t do exactly as he said he would kill her. “The locker room,” she said.
“Take me there—and make it fast.”
They took the corridor at a run with Emily in the lead. She hoped desperately for a fellow corrections officer to appear, but the shift hadn’t yet ended and this particular corridor was deserted.
By the time they reached the locker room, she was breathing hard and sweating—partly from the exertion, partly from fear. The locker room was a narrow tiled room that smelled of dirty socks. One wall was lined with a double row of slate-gray lockers, the other with stainless-steel shelves, matching hooks for towels and coats and gear. A wide doorway opened to the shower room.
“Find me a uniform.”
Emily crossed to one of the lockers. The convict stood behind her while she removed a uniform and shoved it at him. “Take it and go.”
He took the neatly folded shirt and pants, then stepped back and set the gun on the bench. Never taking his eyes from hers, he hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his own pants. “Don’t even think about running,” he said. “I shoot just as well naked as I do clothed.”
Ridiculously embarrassed, she averted her gaze as he stepped out of his pants. Clothing rustled. For a crazy instant she considered making a run for it. But while Emily was fast, she wasn’t fast enough to get through that door without risking a bullet in her back.
She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d picked up the gun and was buttoning the shirt with his left hand, holding the gun on her with his right. The shirt was a tad too large but passable. In the darkness of early morning, he would pass as a corrections officer.
“Put on your coat,” he said.
She jolted at the sound of his voice. He was dressed now, right down to the cap and boots. Only he had a gun. A gun he’d vowed to use if she didn’t do exactly as she was told.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“Put it on,” he snapped.
Emily didn’t want to go with him. She sure as hell didn’t want to help him escape. It went against everything she believed in, everything she’d been trained for. Worse, it triggered memories of what her father had done, and she’d sworn she would never disgrace herself the way Adam Monroe had.
She watched as he began searching through the coats hanging on the racks. Her eyes flicked past him to the alarm panel set into the wall near the door. Panic-button panels were located throughout the prison and available for officers to use in the case of an emergency or crisis—such as the one she was facing now. If she could reach it…
Emily stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was standing midway between him and the alarm. If she moved quickly, she could slam her fist down on the button before he could stop her. Within minutes a dozen corrections officers would descend, and this man would have no choice but to surrender.
Crossing him was dicey. There was the very real possibility that he would kill her. After all, the federal government didn’t put nice guys in the Bitterroot Super Max. This prison was reserved for the most violent, dangerous prisoners.
Her vision tunneled on the protruding red button. Her pulse skittering wildly, she sidled closer, one inch at a time. With four feet to go, she launched herself at the alarm.
An instant before her fist made contact with the button, viselike arms wrapped around her waist. “Code three!” she screamed and rammed her elbow into his gut.
A hand over her mouth cut off her words, then he pulled her away from the alarm and swung her around. Emily used every ounce of strength and every self-defense tactic she’d learned over the last three years. But he was incredibly strong and overpowered her with an ease that amazed her.
The next thing she knew, her back connected with the lockers. The breath left her lungs in a rush of air that was part growl, part scream. “Get your hands off me!”
“If you want to live, you’ll shut your mouth and listen!” Holding her against the lockers, he glanced over his shoulder toward the door, as if expecting someone to rush them at any moment. When he turned back to her, his eyes were dark with anger. “What are you trying to do? Get someone killed?”
“I’m trying to keep a dangerous convict from escaping,” she said.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he growled.
If she hadn’t been so terrified, Emily might have laughed. “Next you’re going to be telling me you’re innocent.”
“Honey, I’m a long way from innocent, but I don’t belong in this hellhole any more than you do.”
His voice was like the low rumble of thunder announcing the approach of a violent storm. Emily was aware of his body pressed firmly against hers. She could feel
