He wanted to hop in that silly farm truck, take off after them, and then…what?Strangle them with his bare hands? Because he sure as fecking dog shit didn’t have any weapons. They’d left those behind, not wanting to get caught with them while fleeing the country.
“We need to go.” Angel stood from his crouch beside Philippe.
“Go?” Ace glared up at him, flinching at the raindrops landing on his cheeks and brow. “Are you crazy? We have to stay here until help arrives.”
“No.” To someone less observant, Angel’s expression would look cold, calculating. But Christian saw the subtle twitch of Angel’s jaw, the brief flicker of regret in his black-on-black eyes. “We cannot be here when help arrives. Too many questions. Too many people.”
“We’re already bumfucked,” Ace insisted. “Surely everything was caught on the security cameras.”
Everyone looked around,squinting up through the rain at the corners of the hangar and the lampposts across the small access road. Well, everyone except for Emily. When Christian glanced over at her, he saw her eyes raking over his naked torso. He felt their path like a set of soft, searching hands.
Or maybe she was simply shocked by the sight of his tattoos in the light of day. Most times he went out of his wayto hide them, wearing long sleeves even in the summer.
“No cameras,” Philippe managed. He looked like the quintessential Frenchman. Thin, crooked nose. Neatly trimmed mustache. Severe lips that had gone white around the edges with pain. “Politicians and…celebrities fly from here,oui? Is why I choose this place,n’est ce pas? If you go now, your covers remain intact.”
“Right.” Rusty nodded,the ends of his curly red hair shedding water droplets across his already soaked shoulders. “And then there’s the small matter of the truck. Someone could have reported it stolen by now. If we wait around for the authorities, we—”
“I’mnotleaving a dying man!” Ace thundered.
“Non.” Philippe shook his wet head, chuckling dryly. “Not dying. Bullet went through and through. I will survive.But you must go.”
As much as Christian hated to say it: “He’s right. We’d best be off.” The rain was still loud enough against the corrugated roof of the hangar that anyone inside would have difficulty hearing what was going on outside. But it might not be long before someone came to investigate what had become of Philippe.
“Go.” Philippe shoved at Ace’s shoulder. Then he grabbed Christian’sundershirt and took over applying pressure to his wound. “I will tell thegendarmerienothing. Say I lost consciousness and did not see what happened or who shot me.”
“I hate everything about this,” Ace grumbled.
“We all do, mate.” Christian clapped a wet hand on his soggy shoulder.
For a long moment, they stared down at Philippe, none of them wanting to leave a man behind. All ofthem knowing it was the only way.
Emily was the one to break the silence. “Christian,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, her big, brown eyes seeming to take up her whole face. Water had made her eyelashes ink-black and spiky. “Your clothes.”
She held out his sodden sweater. He’d pulled it over his head when the distant cry of sirens sounded.
“Fuck!” Ace cursed. His tortured expressionsaid he was torn between saving himself and staying to make sure the Frenchman made it.
“Go!” Philippe insisted again, sucking the rainwater from his lower lip. “Come back tomorrow. Same place. Same time. My partner will take you to Chicago.” He made the last sound more likeShy-cago. “I owe Boss a favor,oui? When you get home”—he panted heavily, the pain etching lines in his face—“Tell him…tellhim we are even.”
“Thank you, Philippe.” Emily chewed her lip. Christian couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears that gathered in her eyes.
“Je t’en prie,” Philippe said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Anything for you,ma belle.”
“Come!” Angel yelled, already running for the truck. “We must go!”
Angel never raised his voice, so the force of his command had them all racing afterhim.
They were in the truck, the old engine sputtering to life, when the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. Like a giant fist in the sky had suddenly switched off the faucet.
A delicate tremor shook Emily’s thin frame. Christian pulled her firmly against his chest. Taking his coat from her frozen hands, he draped it over her, creating a wet cocoon.
Angel stomped on the gas, andChristian turned around as they skidded out of the parking lot. Behind them, Philippe, their chance of getting out of England, quickly disappeared from view. In front of them? A giant set of unknowns.
Who was Douche Canoe? Who was Ben? Were they Spider’s men?
Christian knew the answers to none of those questions. The only thing he was certain of was that he was holding Emily in his arms,and this time he wasn’t counting the seconds until he was forced to let her go. This time, there were no prime numbers. This time, he reveled that the incomparable Emily Scott was precisely where he’d always wanted her to be.
* * *
