Mission: Marriage. Karen Whiddon

Hand to mouth, she backed away, as far as the small room would allow. Still, her body throbbed, wanting him.

      “Shhh,” he told her, not coming after her. Was that grief she saw flash across his rugged face, or merely thwarted desire? No matter.

      He’d saved her. She owed him that. She’d nearly made another huge mistake to add to her already huge list of them.

      Even now, trying to clear her head, one look at the front of him, at his blatant arousal, and she nearly said to hell with it and went to him.

      Closing her eyes, she drew one ragged breath, then another. How well she remembered the fit of him, tightly sheathed inside her. Their lovemaking had been explosive, intense and fulfilling, something she’d known no other man could measure up to.

      “I’m sorry,” she told him, absurdly on the verge of tears.

      “I understand,” he said, though she knew he didn’t. Aching, she wanted to weep.

      “I’m …” She couldn’t find the words, though she knew she should be asking questions. Ask, hell, anyone else would demand an explanation. As if anything he could say would explain his betrayal.

      When her mother had left, Natalie was six, but she well remembered her questions, and the way her father had had no answers. Finally, he’d told her she was better off not knowing.

      Now she understood what he’d meant. Sometimes knowing the truth could hurt more than whatever the mind could imagine. She’d been an adolescent when she’d finally figured out her mother hadn’t wanted her, didn’t love her, and had left of her own free will. Up until that point, Natalie had convinced herself the woman had been abducted, forcibly dragged away from the daughter she adored and the husband she loved.

      No longer a child, nor a teen with easily bruised emotions, Natalie knew she should demand answers. Should, but wouldn’t. She didn’t really want to know.

      Instead, she brushed past Sean, grabbed the box of hair coloring off the table and went into the toilet, closing and locking the door behind her. She needed to walk, needed it the way a smoker craves a cigarette. A breath of fresh air and a brisk, two- or three-mile walk would clear her head and help her regain her shredded composure.

      The crack of gunfire woke him.

      Sean jerked up, years of training enabling him to snap instantly awake. Since he was still fully clothed, including his damned uncomfortable cast, he shoved himself to his feet and did a quick survey of the room.

      Natalie was missing.

      Moving as fast as the boot would allow, he grabbed his gun and yanked open the door, then moved down the hall to the front door. He opened it and cautiously stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

      Another round of gunfire had him dropping to the ground.

      Where the hell was Natalie? Combined with the streetlights, the full moon provided ample light, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d taken cover. Maybe she wasn’t there. So where the hell was she?

      He had to assume she was safe so he could concentrate on taking out the shooter.

      Keeping close to the brick building, he moved in the direction of the gunshots. He heard sirens, which meant someone had called the police. This could be good—or bad. It might stop the shooter, but there was no way he or Natalie could talk to local law enforcement.

      The shooting stopped—Sean could only guess the gunman had heard the sirens, too, and was calculating how long he had before he needed to escape.

      More confident now, Sean moved closer. He’d fitted his Glock with a silencer, which would do the job nicely if he had to take out an enemy. Though he’d rather capture the guy and question him. With the police on their way, that might not be possible.

      Right now what mattered was keeping Natalie safe.

      Rounding the corner, Sean stopped. A long, open stretch lay between his building and the next. No way was he going out there blind, making himself a perfect target.

      The wail of the sirens grew louder.

      A shadow moved.

      Sean raised his gun.

      Natalie jumped up and began running toward him.

      His heart stopped.

      Then, knowing he had no choice, he jumped out into the open, both to cover her and, he hoped, distract the shooter.

      When she reached him, she knocked him back around the side of the building. “What do you think you’re doing?”

      “Shhh.” Listening for more shots, he heard only the rapidly approaching sirens. “He’s gone. We’ve got to get back to our room.”

      Though her gaze shot daggers, she didn’t argue. Together, they ran, keeping close to the wall.

      Another shadow.

      “Get down,” he shouted, just before the shooter again opened fire.

      She dropped like a rock. Sean felt a searing heat right above his cast. “Damn it,” he cursed.

      Rat-ta-tat-tat. And again. The sirens were closer still. Again the shooting stopped.

      “What’s wrong?” Natalie asked, her eyes and gun trained in the direction of the gunman.

      “I’m hit.”

      “Where?”

      “The leg.”

      Natalie was beside him. “Cover me.” Then she was tearing her shirt to make a tourniquet on his leg. A rapidly spreading crimson stain showed the wound right above his walking cast, as he’d suspected.

      “You’re determined to lose that leg, aren’t you?” she muttered. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”

      “Can’t.” Perspiration ran from his forehead into his eyes.

      She muttered a string of curse words strong enough to make a sailor blush.

      “What the hell were you doing out here anyway?” he asked.

      “I needed a walk,” she growled, her expression daring him to say anything.

      “A walk.” He stared, wondering if he’d ever really known her. The Natalie he’d known and loved wouldn’t have left him to go for a walk.

      “We’ve got to go. Now.” She grabbed his arm.

      “No.” He jerked away. “I’ll do it on my own. You’re not strong enough.”

      “Been there, done that. I got you out from under a ton of concrete, didn’t I?”

      “Blind luck.”

      Another round of gunfire. More smoke. He swore.

      Who was this psycho? They didn’t know and had no time to find out. Again he cursed his clumsiness.

      “Blind luck, my ass. Try blind skill.” This time, when she grabbed him, he didn’t resist. Half tugging, half shoving, she got him moved to the limited shelter provided by a Dumpster trash bin. His eyes drifted closed. Shaking his head, he tried to keep them open. “Let’s go.”

      “Stay conscious. Sean, you’ve got to stay with me.”

      “Why?”

      The question appeared to blindside her. “Because,” she told him fiercely. “This isn’t the way you want to go out.”

      “True. But it’s taking all I have to stay conscious. So tell me, Super-spy. Now what?”

      “Usually I have backup or radios or one of a hundred tricks a well-equipped spy has at her disposal.” She snorted. “I’m guessing there’s no use looking toward the sky for a James Bond-style helicopter to magically appear and rescue us, right?”

      The