“Because he knows what I can bring in.” She hated the truth of that, and that even though he made a killing off her Lizzy persona, he would punish her for escaping. For helping Mari.
“You bring trouble. A lot of it!”
“Not anymore.” She swallowed again, tasting the bile at returning to this life. To …
No, push it away. Think about Stone. About the lodge. About the laughter. The good times. Reality would find her soon enough. Right now, she wanted to immerse herself in the last few weeks. Memorize them. Every detail. Every word??—even the bad ones from Stone because those … those were his heart speaking. His broken heart. The heart she’d broken. Because he cared about her. She cared about him. They might’ve had a chance …
But not anymore.
He’d never understand this.
Maybe … maybe Mari would tell him she hadn’t had a choice. That they’d forced her back.
You always have a choice. How many times had he said that?
No, no, no. Remember the positives. More of those. The kisses. The way he’d responded in the workshop, sliding her against his chest. The way he’d chosen to endure her presence because he’d said it was safer for her. That he had started after her, even if he’d turned back. Probably knew she was a lost cause.
Oh, Stone. I love you. Always have. Clearly, I didn’t deserve you.
Was that why she kept getting ripped away from him? Was even God protecting him from her?
Yeah. Had to be.
Though tears stung, she silenced them. No more. She’d made her choices. Had her answer about the possibility of “them.” She accepted the futility of ever hoping to be with him again. It was over.
Light exploded from the left, where Mari had been sitting. Brighton cringed and jerked away from the blinding light. A violent impact catapulted the car into a frenzy of noise and weightless. Spinning. Her head whacked hard against something. Darkness.
Chapter
Twenty
Bexar-Wolfe Lodge, Northern Virginia
“God in heaven, protect her!” Shock rocketed through Stone as he realized what he’d done. Adrenaline spiraled as the SUV with her in it went airborne. Cartwheeling off the road and across the field.
What have I done?
When too much distance had grown between his truck and the SUV, he’d known he had to take another route. He yanked his truck off the road and shot across a horse farm. The truck bounded up over the final rise just in time to see them coming around the bend. He gunned it, the jouncing turning his dinner to liquid as he barreled down the slope, narrowly avoiding the horses, and shot through a fence. Broadsided the SUV. Sent it into a ditch. Over an embankment. Flipping into the field across the street.
It was risky. Dangerous. But he knew if they got away, Brighton would likely never again be recovered. In law enforcement, he’d done women’s advocacy meetings where he warned them to do whatever was in their power to avoid being put in a vehicle by a kidnapper. Chances were slim once they were in a car that they’d be recovered.
And he wasn’t good with those odds when it came to Brighton. He’d rather her be injured than dead. Considering the SUV was a late-model, he guessed it had side-impact airbags.
Ears and head ringing from the impact, he slammed the gear into park and vaulted out of the truck. Sprinted over the uneven field toward the SUV that’d landed upside down. No smell of fuel. No fires. Just smoke, broken glass, and spinning tires.
On the road behind him, he heard tires crunching. Sirens wailed in the distance because he’d called 9-1-1. One way or another, he knew someone would need an ambulance.
Approaching the SUV, he drew out his weapon. Felt warmth sliding down his temple. “Brighton!” Crouching, he used the Glock to trace the driver’s side. Squinted inside but couldn’t see anyone in the front. He squat-moved toward the rear. “Brighton, you okay?”
A shadowy form in the haze shifted. An arm raised.
His breath jacked into his throat as he tried to make out the shape.
“Here,” came a weak reply followed by a cough.
He angled close, his adrenaline dumping as he strained to see around the air pillows that had rapid-inflated/deflated upon impact. Part of the haze in the air was from the chemical that had saved her life.
In the darkened interior, her hazy form moved. Still strapped in. Upside down. Brighton whimpered. “I … I can’t move.”
