She couldn’t imagine finding anyone else. If she was being truthful with herself, she didn’t want anyone but Roarke. But did he want to be a father? Raise another man’s child? Emmy had already taken to him, but she knew Roarke only as her mom’s friend, and her uncle Ollie’s best friend.
If things didn’t work out between Roarke and her, that wouldn’t change how Emmy saw him—unless of course he got scared off and they never saw him again.
Laine rubbed her temple. She was losing her mind. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Roarke would be boarding his flight any minute. He’d left her with the burner phone so they could talk, but she wouldn’t call him now.
Wouldn’t give voice to the desperation fizzing in her throat. To the need to beg him to stay because she had this nagging, suffocating fear that something bad would happen while he was gone.
Emmy mumbled something in her sleep and rolled to face the wall. Rain pattered on the window, at first slowly and then steadily.
The wind howled and she cringed. Great. She’d never get to sleep now. Something scratched against the window.
She froze.
Her heart rate rose, blocking out every other noise. The window sat only a foot off the ground. Rotating her head toward the curtain, she exhaled. Nothing horrific jumped through the glass.
You’re paranoid.
Unless she got out of bed to confirm whether something was there, she’d never know. And she’d also never sleep, dammit. Holding back a huff so she didn’t wake Emmy, she peeled back the covers.
Inching across the carpet, she lifted her fingers toward the curtains.
Crack!
The sharp blast of a gunshot echoed through the house. Laine cried out, diving toward the bed to shield Emmy. But the bullet hadn’t come through their window or their bedroom walls.
It’d come from somewhere inside the house. Surely Striker responding to the threat.
Emmy laid beneath her, panting. Her huge green eyes almost swallowed up her face. “Mommy, what happened?” she sobbed.
Noises came from the living room.
She stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I don’t know.” Her brain worked at warp speed. Roarke had left her a gun along with the phone.
She scrambled for the nightstand, took out the Glock, and placed it on her lap while she brought the phone to life.
Her fingers trembled as she hit call. Roarke’s was the only number in the phone. Placing the device to her ear, she willed him to answer.
“Hello?”
“Roarke. I think someone’s trying to break in. I-I heard a gunshot.”
Emmy whimpered. Laine pulled her daughter against her chest and kissed her hair.
Roarke cursed. “Move the dresser in front of the door. Don’t make a sound. I’m on my way.”
“Okay,” she whispered. She slipped off the bed and tiptoed to the door. Pinching the phone between her shoulder and ear, she got to the side of the dresser and pushed. The wood slid over the carpet, and she bumped it right up against the door. “Done.”
“Good. Now grab Emmy and hide in the bathroom. Do you have the gun?”
“Yes,” she said, the word barely audible. She ushered Emmy off the bed and pulled her into the bathroom. Her daughter clung to her stuffed bunny for dear life.
With the gun firmly in hand and the phone still wedged to her shoulder, she shut and locked the bathroom door, then sank against the side of the tub with Emmy close.
A blast erupted in the hallway. Emmy jolted but she didn’t scream.
Panic flooded every inch of Laine’s body. There was no way Roarke would get here in time. And Striker might be dead.
“Laine, where are you?”
