Page 3 of High-Priority Asset

She pulled herself together. More or less. Her body tensed. The breath stalled in her lungs. Muscle memory from training firing up, she found her center.

“Take it.” She dropped the keys and opened the flap of her purse, coiling in readiness.

As he looked down, going for her wallet, the knife lowered, easing away from her throat.

With a quick, powerful thrust, she struck his face with the heel of her right palm. A distinctive crunch and the flow of blood from his nostrils told her she’d broken his nose.

“Ah!” He cupped his face as a gurgling noise came from him. Furious eyes flashed up at her.

Isabel prepared to throw an elbow strike, to kick and claw.

But then he lunged at her like a rocket.

Oh, God!

Chapter Two

He swung a backhanded punch to her face.

Absorbing the stinging blow across her cheek, anger came faster than the pain, burning acid in her belly. She struggled to regain her bearings and move into a defensive stance.

With a brutal yank on her purse strap, he snatched her bag from her shoulder and took off running.

Utter shock stilled her for a nanosecond, then white-hot rage consumed her.

That was vintage Chanel! From her father!

Isabel kicked off her heels and bolted after him barefoot. “Hey!” She sprinted down the sidewalk. “Give it back!” Noticing pedestrians across the road, she said, “He’s stealing my bag!” Then she remembered what she’d been told in her self-defense classes. “Fire! Fire!” She kept chasing him, grateful she’d worn the dress with a flowing accordion bottom rather than a restricting pencil skirt. “Call 911!”

The robber picked up speed, nearing the corner, and she worried she’d lose him and the purse that her father had given her before he died.

Digging deep, Isabel pushed harder, ran faster, pumping her arms while still carrying the stupid Patrón.

She switched hands with the bottle, moving it from left to right, her high school days of softball springing to mind. Slowing for a beat, she cocked back her arm and lined up her aim. She launched the hefty glass container at him.

The Patrón bottle soared through the air and struck him in the back of the head, throwing off his step. The bottle crashed to the ground, shattering.

Her mugger didn’t stop and neither did Isabel. She kept sprinting after him, determined to get back what was hers until fire bit into the sole of her foot. Gasping, she froze and looked down at the smashed bottle. She was standing in the middle of the shards.

Glass had cut her, and the spilled alcohol made the wound sting.

Isabel thought for certain her assailant would get away, flee around the corner and disappear forever.

But a guy darted across the street—tall, broad, muscular—and leaped into action. He threw a powerful tattooed arm up and into the thief’s chest, stopping the perpetrator in his tracks.

Her mugger went down in a hard sprawl, dropping the knife. The Good Samaritan grabbed him by the back of his sweatshirt and hauled him up as he flailed. Somehow the mugger slipped out of his hoodie, disentangling himself, and threw her purse like he no longer wanted it.

The thief scrambled away from the bigger man as if terrified, grabbed his knife and bolted across traffic. Horns blared and cars screeched to a halt.

Isabel dragged in a ragged breath. Immediate relief flooded her, and her body released the fear and anger that held her muscles tight. She had never seen anything so heroic except in movies and TV shows.

The do-gooder picked up her purse and jogged down the block to her.

Up close, he was more of everything.

Larger. Taller. Maybe six-three. His light brown hair was cropped close. A dark T-shirt stretched over defined shoulders, sliding down a muscular torso. Jeans hung low on his tapered waist.

He wasn’t attractive, not the least bit pretty. He was gorgeous in a rough-and-tumble, almost scary way, but instead of sensing danger from him, his proximity made her mouth water.