Protecting His Brother's Bride. Jan Schliesman

rest was reduced to various sized pellets littering the hardwood floor.

      Nearly four years had passed since she and Josh had spent the weekend here and he’d proposed. If Kira thought too much about how she’d arrived back here, she’d never dig herself out of the darkness.

      Josh had effectively fallen into a black hole. She had no idea where he’d gone after their separation, and she had to find him. Her desperation had led her to the obituaries, numerous social networking sites and every phone number for every Kincaid in the Midwest. No one knew him or was related to him. Josh couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Okay, she’d found a trace in the form of a joint tax return he’d filed, managing to collect a refund.

      He had also worked for one of Griffin’s shell companies. The entire time Josh and Kira had been together he hadn’t been the struggling artist he’d portrayed. He had earned nearly twenty thousand dollars and hadn’t shared a dime with her. Not only were the Feds breathing down her neck, but since her arrest five weeks ago she’d acquired a shadow. If there were two feelings she’d never quite grown used to, they were being watched and being alone.

      What had Josh gotten mixed up in? And why had she worked twelve-hour days to put food on the table while he’d spent their extra money on studio time? She’d seen only one of his paintings, and it hadn’t inspired confidence that he’d ever support their expanding family.

      Learning he had money and yet hadn’t offered to do more shouldn’t have surprised Kira. He’d never been a college student, either, at least not in Kansas City. The number of lies he’d told her expanded into double digits. When she finally tracked him down, she’d be armed with plenty of persuasive evidence to encourage some honesty. And a quick divorce.

      Kira rocked the chair from side to side, determined to free herself. Tight bindings cut into her wrists. Swallowing a groan, she fought against the material holding her hands and legs in place.

      Her truck was gone. Technically, it wasn’t hers, but she assumed the obnoxious rental car manager wouldn’t mind garnishing her wages for the next decade.

      What did it matter? She’d be in prison, anyway... Which was negative thinking. She was supposed to send good vibes out into the universe and be rewarded for her efforts. Obviously the ogre wasn’t a fan of Dr. Phil.

      “I can absolutely, positively free myself,” she chanted. Her fingers found an opening in the bindings, and on the third try, the knot was gone and she was free. She heard noises downstairs and hurried to detach the bindings from her legs.

      She stood and grabbed the chair, steadying herself while her head spun with troubling theories of escape. She couldn’t stay here. The Brawny guy was determined to call the fire department, and probably the sheriff’s office to charge her with trespassing. If she was arrested, they’d ship her back to Kansas City to face all the original charges, plus bail jumping.

      A rush of adrenaline forced her awareness to strict survival skills. She needed a weapon.

      Feathers from a down-filled pillow covered most of the floor and the box springs clung precariously to one side of the metal bed frame. Kira stepped closer and yanked at the center support bar underneath. It popped loose and one end dropped to the floor with a resounding clunk. She froze.

      What if Brawny heard?

      Seconds passed. No footsteps.

      The four-foot piece of metal she held was heavy, awkward and difficult to grip. But she managed to swing it a couple times and pictured herself landing a blow to Brawny’s kneecaps. Then she could retrieve her gun. She hated guns, but after the explosion, she needed all the help she could get.

      A board squeaked and she scampered to a side wall. Her heart hammered as she tried breathing without making any sound. She needed the element of surprise on her side. A partial shadow crept across the floor. She swung, aiming low, pouring every ounce of her strength into connecting with his kneecaps.

      But the man who came through the door wasn’t Brawny.

      And she hadn’t hit his kneecaps.

      The new man howled as he doubled over, firing off three quick shots before collapsing to his knees. Kira swung at his shoulders, hoping to knock him out of the game. His gun skidded across the floor.

      She dropped the metal bar and dived for it. Shards of glass and wood splinters bit into her arms and legs. Feathers scattered in her wake. As her fingers gripped the weapon, she rolled onto her back, pointing the barrel toward the newcomer’s balding head.

      Could she shoot him? Would it guarantee no more attempts to kill her? The man on the floor didn’t move and relief engulfed her.

      She’d never thought herself capable of killing anyone, so this was testament to how far she’d fallen on the sanity scale. Kira struggled to a sitting position, exhausted and swiping at the blood mixed with sweat dripping down her cheeks—battle scars from her earlier tumble.

      “Guess your friend found you.” Brawny stopped short in the doorway, holding her gun as if he planned to use it.

      “You mean your friend. Put my gun down or I’ll shoot.” Okay, maybe she’d shoot. She’d never fired at a real person before.

      Brawny was tall, probably over six feet, with a stance that said he expected compliance. A faint hint of stubble ran across his jaw. His dark brown hair held a few blond highlights, showing a bit of length in the back, leading her to believe he’d missed a haircut or two.

      “Shoot your friend first, since he’s the one trying to kill you.”

      A very rational request. “Maybe I should shoot you both.” The gun wobbled in her hands. It was heavier than hers and she really shouldn’t point it at anyone. What if it went off?

      “Good luck with that. You know live ammunition does more than go boom, right?”

      Was he mocking her? “Of course I know.”

      Brawny fired at the wall above her head and she ducked. When she glanced up again, he was dumping the shells into his palm before tossing the gun at her feet. “Your gun is loaded with blanks and I’m dying to hear why.”

      “I tried telling you, but you wouldn’t listen.” How would she explain that she didn’t want to shoot anyone? To her they were practice bullets, meant to help her get used to the sound of gunfire without flinching.

      “Why use a gun without real bullets?” Brawny rubbed his chin, drawing her attention to the five o’clock shadow that was much too sexy for his own good.

      “I’m holding a real gun with real bullets now.”

      “If you shoot me, who’s going to help you with these?” He held out a set of handcuffs, nodded toward the man on the floor. Then he unwisely took a step closer.

      “Stay back,” she ordered, visualizing herself handcuffed to another chair. “I don’t want any more of your help.”

      He flashed a perfect smile, which under any other circumstances would have made her weak in the knees. He shrugged. “You destroyed half my house.”

      “I didn’t destroy anything.” She needed to hold on to the anger, make him think twice about laying another hand on her.

      “And I know this isn’t your house.” She hated that her voice shook.

      “Really? Then whose house is it?”

      “I’ll ask the questions.” Her eyes darted to the man on the floor and then to Brawny. “How do I know you didn’t send him up here to kill me?”

      “You don’t.”

      Not at all what she’d expected. “No song and dance about why I should trust you?”

      “You shouldn’t.”

      Well, good. At least they were on the same page. He took a lazy step forward and she adjusted her sights. She slid a few inches to the left and connected with a