His heart thumped in his chest. He coughed and gagged, choking on his own blood. But he kept her pressed up against the wall as he groped in his pocket for plastic wrist restraints—the same kind she’d used to cuff him to the motel bed. He tightened them around her wrists, and still holding her in place, he reached down and retrieved her knife, closed the blade. He pocketed the knife, and then he took her service weapon out from her holster.
Her body began to shudder.
“Angie?” His voice was shaking. He coughed again. She turned her face sideways against the wall, as if searching for his voice.
Cautiously, he turned her body around to face him. Fear was wide in her eyes, but her pupils were going back to normal, her focus returning. She stared at his face, at the blood leaking down his front. Her gaze dropped down to her gun in his hand. Slowly, she looked up at his face again, a kind of horror entering her features. Tears began to wash down her cheeks. Her shakes turned into great big palsied shudders.
“It’s okay, Angie,” he said softly, pocketing her gun. “It’s going to be okay.” He gathered her into his arms, her hands still cuffed behind her back, his nose bleeding onto her coat, and she gave in to him, leaning herself into his body. He stroked her wet hair. “It’s going to be okay.” He glanced toward the emergency exit as he spoke. “Take it easy now, okay. I’m going to walk you slowly over to the hospital. We’re going to get you some help.”
She stiffened suddenly, and her head jerked up. “No,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “No, please, not there.” The wild look was starting to flood back into her eyes.
He gagged again on the blood going down the back of his throat, and he spat a gout of blood and phlegm to the ground.
“I’m not going in there,” she repeated.
“Yes you are. For me. I need you in there for me, okay? I think you’ve broken my nose. I need your support, okay?”
“Oh God ... fuck ... fuck.”
“Come—”
He put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the emergency entrance to Saint Jude’s.
CHAPTER 46
It was dark in the marina, apart from some strings of colored Christmas lights dotted along ropes and the light coming from cabin windows. Sleet battered down sideways, and the boats rocked on the swells surging into the small harbor, making water slap and chuckle against hulls, and halyards chink against masts.
“Careful, deck is slippery,” Maddocks said as he held his arm out to Angie.
She stopped and stared at his outreached hand, suddenly overcome with a feeling that if she clasped onto that hand, it would be a point of no return. That if she allowed him to lead her down into his old, wooden-hulled yacht, she would be obligated to share with him secrets, insecurities, fears that she’d kept hidden from every single person on this earth. And it would cost her her job.
She also knew if shedidn’tgo with him, it would cost her her job.
“Angie?” he said, using her first name. They were far beyond surface veneers and professional civilities now. She’d attacked and tried to kill him. She’d close to broken his nose, and it was swelling, deep-purple contusions forming beneath his eyes. And she couldn’t thank him enough for not forcing her to seek medical attention herself tonight when he’d taken her into the hospital with him, for instead bringing her here, where he said he wanted to watch her while she considered her options ...
Because youmustsee someone, Angie ... I can’t work with you. I cannot trust you as a partner to have my back if you’re going to flip out and try to kill me. You could be more of a danger to a partner than the bad guys you’re after ... This, I cannot let this slide—I won’t.
She inhaled and looked slowly up into his eyes, which were inky in the darkness, and she did it—she grasped his hand, stepped on board. He led her down into his cabin.
She climbed down the companionway ladder to find Jack-O curled on a little sheepskin rug in the cabin. He growled low in his throat, as if saying,Stay in your area of the yacht and I might not attack.
Maddocks seemed larger in the cozy confines of the main living area, which also housed a neat galley. He looked down into her eyes. His own were bloodshot above the bandage covering the bridge of his nose—it was going to take some explaining to his colleagues tomorrow. Her stomach clenched at what she’d done to him without even realizing it, and what he might tell them. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.
Concern sifted into his eyes. And more. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Saint Jude’s. He still had her knife and service weapon. On one level she’d wanted to resist him, to hate him for having seen her like this, to just walk away and pretend it had never occurred. On a more logical level, she knew that she really did need help now, and she didn’t know how to go about getting it without jeopardizing her career.
“Take a seat,” he said, putting on the gas heating system and opening a cupboard in the galley.
She blew out a heavy breath, pushed damp hair off her brow, and shucked off her coat. Seating herself on the bench sofa in the little living area, she removed her boots. He took out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He poured a healthy shot of liquor into each and brought the glasses over. Jack-O watched them warily from his mat, growling again as Maddocks handed her a drink.
“Thanks.” Angie had to hold the glass with both her trembling hands in order to deliver it to her lips. She managed to take a big, burning sip without spilling. She took another and closed her eyes as the alcohol went down. It settled her shakes. She opened watering eyes and looked straight up into his, which were still burning with questions, concern, compassion.
She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. He didn’t push. Instead he removed his own coat and hung both his and hers up on hooks next to the ladder. He went back into his tiny galley, opened a container of dog biscuits, and clattered some into a bowl. He set the biscuits onto the floor next to a water bowl and gave a whistle.
Jack-O rose from his mat and scuttled over on his three legs, casting another leery glance at Angie as he did. He kept a beady eye trained on her as he crunched his doggie biscuits.
Wind gusted, the boat rocked, and halyards clattered. It felt cozy and safe inside, not at all claustrophobic as she’d anticipated. Photographs of him and Ginny covered his small fridge. Books and papers littered his dining table. He seated himself beside her and took a sip of his own drink.
“Has it happened before?” he said.
