No such luck.
They're closer than ever, if anything. Even more problematically, they seem barely winded, as if they can keep this up all day.
I think it's time to think beyond outrunning them, then, since that's clearly not going to happen. I bolt across the road abruptly, earning blaring horns and squealing tires; I react instinctively as a blaring horn and flashing brights bear down on me too fast, leaping and doing a Starsky and Hutch-worthy slide across the hood. I hear my pursuers shout in startled irritation, more horns blaring, more angry New Yorkers cursing as they follow me across four lanes of traffic.
And then I hear it again: the unmistakable crackling chatter of automatic gunfire. Something whizzes past my ear, and then a horde of furious wasps buzzes over my head. I slam into a parked car, setting off the alarm. Caroming back onto the sidewalk, I hear the guns go again, rattling and cracking. Glass shatters, people scream. I glance over my shoulder to see that stray shots have shattered a restaurant's windows, scattering patrons and sending them running in hunched, screaming clusters.
My blood boils—who does that? Who fires blindly across a crowded street? I suppose it's illogical to assume that someone willing to kill someone else for money would have ethics, but still.
I round another corner, shoes skidding. Shouts and screams echo behind me. I'm a block or so away from the busier thoroughfare, now. The sidewalk, while not empty, isn't clogged with tourists, and the road is still crowded with cars but not at a standstill.
I glance behind me, still sprinting.
Nothing. Maybe shooting at me like that wasn't such a great idea, huh? Assholes.
I look forward again, and that's when I see her.
Time stops.
I desperately attempt to halt myself before I crash into her—the process of stopping seems to take a million years. I feel her soft body slam into mine as I crash into her, send her flying. I manage to snag her wrist in a desperate attempt to prevent her from hitting the ground.
I yank her hard and she lands against my chest.
Her scent is the first thing I notice. Vanilla base, a hint of floral overtones, and citrus undertones. God, it's an intoxicating scent. And then I notice her eyes—hazel, technically, but I’ve never seen eyes like hers before: she has a ring of startling blue around the outside and a ring of brown-green on the inside surrounding her pupils. It's a shocking effect, freezing me in place for a moment.
I hear my pursuers closing in, booted feet slapping on concrete, snapping at each other in accented English—more of Pugli's seemingly endless supply of hired goons, albeit these goons are all former spec ops, I think.
I lift the woman, pivot, and walk her backward until she catches up against the brick wall of the alley.
"Play along," I growl, hoping they'll think we're just a couple of lovers stealing kisses in an alley.
Her back is bare—I steal a glance at her, really seeing her for the first time.
Somewhere around 5'9", she has more curves than a Formula One track—something I should know about, as I used to own an F1 team, before I died.
She's wearing a dress that is little more than a sheath of silver sequins contoured to the stunning lines of her lush body. The hem hits at mid-thigh, cups her plump, round ass, tucks in at her waist, and plunges down between the biggest natural breasts I've ever seen in person. I say natural because nothing siliconemoves the way those monsters do—jiggling like Jell-O in an earthquake with each startled breath.
Fuck me.
My stomach falls out of my body, my heart twists into a pretzel, and my mouth goes dry.
I must have this woman.
It's the first thing I think, once I regain some semblance of mental clarity—the shock of her eyes and then the breathtaking curves of her incredible body rendered me briefly insensible.
"HE'S GOT TO BE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE!" I hear a rough voice say, faint, distant.
The woman shivers—I doubt she's even aware of it. I shuck my jacket and settle it over her shoulders.
"OVER HERE!" A voice shouts nearby.
A tendril of honey-blond hair drifts across her face, sticks to her lips. She's stunned, still, and scared. "What's going on?" It's a confused breath, and I'm not sure she's aware she spoke.
"You're saving my life, that's what."
Her mouth opens, pink lips parting. "Saving your—”
I wasn't planning on any of this. Certainly not being chased across Manhattan by gun-wielding assholes, let alone literally running into a gorgeous woman.
