Hard To Tame. Kylie Brant

the memories. His flavor still lingered in her senses, and she felt oddly disoriented. Her thoughts were a jumble, and it wasn’t until she heard the blare of a horn that she realized she’d nearly stepped off a curb in front of an oncoming car. Jumping back, she ignored the driver’s rude suggestion and tried to control a shudder at her recent narrow escape. Both of them.

      The rain was steady now, falling gently. Her grocery bags were plastic, so she didn’t have to worry about them ripping, but everything she’d bought would have to be dried off before she put it away in her apartment. She looked forward to the task. Any distraction would be a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.

      Turning into a wide alley, she ducked her head against the dampness as she headed for her apartment. The place barely qualified as such; located above a seafood market, it had rarely represented a haven to her. The smell of fish was impossible to erase, and the room was barely big enough for her bed, table and couch. The three-quarters bath attached was little more than a converted closet. But Sara felt an unusual eagerness to return to the place. Alone.

      Slogging through the puddles, she kept her eye trained on the outside staircase that would take her to blessed peace, not to mention dryness. She passed a man who, despite his black rain slicker, looked almost as drenched as she was. The rest of the alley was deserted. Most people had more sense than to stroll the New Orleans streets in a storm.

      “Sara Parker.”

      The words turned the rivers of rain on her skin into instant sheets of ice. For the space of an instant she almost convinced herself that she’d imagined them.

      Until they were repeated.

      “Sara Parker from Chicago.” The voice was louder this time. The man was right behind her.

      After a barely imperceptible hesitation, she quickly masked her reaction. Survival instincts, well honed, surged to the surface.

      She schooled her expression to a politely quizzical mask before she turned. “If you’re talking to me, you’ve got the wrong person.”

      The man smiled, a menacing grimace. “I don’t think so.” His arm raised and her throat seized. Her focus narrowed to the yawning black muzzle of the gun he had pointed at her head. “Victor Mannen sends his regards.”

      Time slowed, then froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Distantly, she heard a shout, but didn’t look away. She couldn’t. The slow-motion sequence of death had her in its grip.

      She was oddly unsurprised at the way she’d meet her end. It had only been a matter of time. Hadn’t she always known it? But it seemed curiously ironic that only a few minutes ago in Nick’s arms she’d felt more alive than she had in years, and now she was going to die.

      The man’s words were almost gentle. “Goodbye, Sara.”

      Tearing her gaze away from the finger squeezing the trigger, she ducked, swung one of her bags, hitting his gun hand. She heard a shot as she stumbled away, waited for the agonizing pain to tear through her.

      And instead staggered as the man tumbled forward against her, his hands clutching at her before he crumpled at her feet.

      She stared, transfixed by the crimson stain spreading from the tear in his slicker. Heard the groans emanating from him as he struggled to his knees. And then her mind flashed back to the scene in the safe house in Chicago. The bodies crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. And Sean, sweet sad Sean, with his eyes wide and lifeless.

      Abruptly, she dropped her bags, her purse, and ran. Blindly. Wildly. Away from her attacker and away from the images still vivid and raw after six years. And when strong arms came around her, halting her flight, she reacted like a thing possessed, struggling madly.

      “Amber, it’s over. It’s over now.”

      It was the soothing tone that registered, rather than the words themselves. Nick. She sagged against him, unable to control the shudders racking her body. His arms were a safe harbor in a storm-tossed sea. Her mind grappled with incomprehensionable fragments. His presence in the alley. The gun still clasped in his hand. And the words he murmured over and over as his lips brushed her hair.

      “Nothing will be allowed to hurt you, ma petite. No one. I promise you that.”

      “And you didn’t recognize this guy? Had never seen him hanging around the café, on the street…?” Detective Matt Chatfield’s narrowed blue regard was unwavering.

      Sara shook her head. Someone had found a wool blanket for her and draped it around her soaked form. She huddled into it now, wishing its warmth could banish the chill in her veins.

      The detective’s gaze flicked to the man beside her. “How about you, Mr. Doucet?”

      “I never got a look at him.” Nick reached over, took one of Sara’s icy hands in both of his. She gave it a discreet tug, but he held it firmly. “He never turned around.”

      “So you shot him in the back.”

      The detective’s voice was carefully expressionless. Nick’s was not. “I shot him in the center of the right shoulder blade so he’d drop the gun he had aimed at Amber. He did.”

      Sensing some undertone at play between the two men, Sara gave up the struggle to free her hand and studied them. Physically, they were almost opposites. They may have been around the same age, but Chatfield was taller, broader. His face was as enigmatic as Nick’s, just as hard, but he was blond and blue eyed, in contrast to Nick’s darkness. There was no mistaking the cop’s toughness, but for some reason it was Nick who seemed the more dangerous.

      “I suppose you have a permit to carry concealed?”

      Silently Nick rose, withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. He passed it to the other man, who studied the permit before nodding, handing it back. “Where’s your weapon now?”

      “I gave it to the first uniform on the scene.”

      Chatfield raked him with a quick glance. “Ankle holster?” He waited for Nick’s nod before asking, “What did you say you were doing in the alley, Mr. Doucet?”

      There was an unsettling glitter in Nick’s eyes, but his tone was civil enough. “Amber and I had parted several minutes earlier. I’d forgotten to give her back one of her bags.”

      She looked at him, surprised. In her hurry to get away from him earlier that day she’d completely forgotten the sack of fruit he’d insisted on carrying for her. An involuntary shudder worked through her. If Nick’s kisses hadn’t completely shattered her logic, if she’d been capable of remembering to collect the bag before leaving him, she’d be dead right now. The cold certainty of that fact formed a brick of ice in her chest.

      Settling back in his chair, Nick said, “Wouldn’t your time be better spent trying to find the guy who tried to kill her instead of going over all this information again?”

      Imperturbably, Chatfield picked up his pen. “I’ve got uniforms canvassing the area. From the amount of blood he lost, I doubt he got far.” His gaze shifted to Sara again. “Ms. Jennings, let’s go over your statement again. You said the man didn’t ask for your purse, for money. Did he say anything?”

      Her chest squeezed tight as she sensed the minefield ahead. “He said something, but I couldn’t understand it. I thought he was talking to someone else. When I turned around, I saw his gun.”

      The detective scribbled a note. “Did you catch any of it at all?”

      She manufactured a tired smile, strove to hide the tension in her body. “When I noticed the gun I didn’t pay attention to much else.”

      “I think he mistook Amber for someone else. The name he called out was Sara. Sara Parker.”

      Nick’s words sent a slice of panic tearing through her. She hadn’t guessed that he’d been close enough to hear the gunman’s words. It took effort to keep her features impassive as Chatfield raised his brows, looked at her. “Do