For one incredible heartbeat she thought it was John. She saw the tall, broad-shouldered form in the dark clothes and ball cap and thought he’d changed his mind.
But then the man looked over. The dark hair and slight crook in his nose made her realize that it wasn’t John; it was her Internet date, the hockey player Mick.
Brittany swore under her breath and walked toward him. She’d forgotten to call him back and cancel their makeup date tonight.
He grinned, seeing her. “Hey, there you are. I’ve been buzzing a while and was starting to think that you’d forgotten about tonight.”
“I’m sorry to say that I did,” Brittany admitted. “I’ve had a lot going on this week, and I should have called to cancel.”
His expression changed, the easygoing, lady-killer smile replaced by a tinge of annoyance. “But I came all this way—and I made reservations—and you already canceled on me once.”
He looked around—which she thought was odd—and took a step toward her. She caught the hint of his aftershave. It smelled familiar, although she couldn’t place the scent.
“Here,” he said. He started to reach for her bag with his right hand, but then switched to his left. “Let me help you with that.”
Brittany looked down at his right hand and saw the cast on his arm. “What happened?”
“Pickup hockey game,” he said with a crooked smile.
He was standing a little too close, and it was beginning to make her uncomfortable. She looked around instinctively. There was a man walking on the opposite side of the street, but he wasn’t looking in their direction.
Should she call out?
Almost as if Mick could read her mind, he moved to block her view of the guy.
Had it been intentional?
Her heartbeat made a sudden lurch and started to race. Her instincts that something wasn’t right flared even before she realized what it was. “That’s okay.” She pulled her bag in closer to her body. “I really have to go up now. Call, and we can reschedule.”
Not.
She started to move away, but he grabbed her arm. “Sorry. Rescheduling isn’t going to work for me.”
That was when it clicked. The profile, the scent of aftershave, the broken arm. Mick was the guy who’d attacked her in Norway.
It happened so fast that she didn’t have time to react. He tucked her against his body and dragged her into the alley at the side of her building. She saw the car waiting and tried to yell. Tried to kick. Tried to do anything to get away.
But her second of hesitation had cost her. The guy across the street was gone.
She felt the sharp pinch of a needle in her neck and tried to break away, but she could feel the rush of fluid pouring into her body. Too late. “What are you doing? Mick! Stop!”
“Not Mick,” he said softly, his face swimming above hers. “Mikhail.”
Oh God... he’s Russian.
It was the last thought Brittany had before she catapulted into unconsciousness.
Twenty-seven
Percy had known there was something wrong as soon as Kate walked in the door.
It was no wonder. She must look like a wreck. Hurricane Colt had struck again. She’d been completely destroyed by that kiss.
How could she still respond to someone she hated?
She couldn’t. That was the problem. She didn’t hate Colt. She hated what he’d done, but not the man. She didn’t need to. He hated himself enough for both of them. He’d never believed he deserved to be happy, so he’d seen that he wasn’t.
And heaven help her, she still felt drawn to him. Still felt that maybe she was the one who could get through to him. Was it arrogance or idiocy? Maybe a little of both.
