The Christmas Target. Shirlee McCoy

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      The room was moving, too, spinning around her, making her sick and woozy. Maybe Chance was right. She wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere.

      In for a penny. In for a pound.

      That’s what her grandfather had always said.

      She was already standing. She might as well try to walk.

      She took a step, realized she was clutching something. Chance’s belt, her fingers digging into smooth leather, her shoulder pressing into his side. He was tall and solid, not an ounce of fat on his lean, hard body. He could hold her weight easily, but she tried to ease back, stand on her own two feet, because it’s what she’d always done. Even when she was married. Even when she should have been able to rely on someone else, she’d taken care of herself, handled her own business, stood alone more than she’d stood beside Daniel.

      “There is no way you’re going to make it. You know that, right?” Chance said.

      “Sure I am.” She grabbed hold of the IV pole and took a step to prove him wrong. Took another one to prove to herself that she could do it. Her legs wobbled, but she didn’t fall. She made it to the door and put her hand on the jamb for support, the hospital gown slipping from one shoulder.

      Chance hitched it back into place, and she knew his fingers must be grazing the scars that stretched from her collarbone to her shoulder blade. She didn’t feel his touch. The scars were too thick for that, the skin too damaged.

      His gaze dropped to the spot where his fingers had been, and she knew he wanted to ask. Not how she’d gotten them. He knew the answer to that. He did background checks on every HEART operative. No, he wouldn’t ask how she’d gotten them. He’d ask if they hurt, if there was something he could do to take the pain away, if the memories were as difficult to ignore as the thick webbed flesh.

      He’d asked those things before, and he’d told her how beautiful she was. Not despite the scars. Because of them. They made her who she was, and he wanted to know more about how they defined her.

      She hadn’t answered the questions, because getting close to someone meant being hurt when they left. She’d been hurt enough for one lifetime, and she didn’t want to be hurt again. If that made her a coward, so be it.

      “How about I get you a wheelchair?” Chance said, his breath tickling the hair near her temple, his hands on her shoulders. Somehow, he was in front of her, blocking the doorway, and she wasn’t even sure how it had happened.

      She was worse off than she’d thought.

      But she still needed to see Beatrice. For both of their sakes.

      “Okay,” she agreed, because she didn’t know how she’d make it to the ICU any other way.

      “And how about you sit and wait while I do it? I don’t want you to fall while I’m gone.” He was moving her backward, his hands still on her shoulders.

      She could have stood her ground. But her legs were shaky, and when the back of them hit the bed, she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her.

      “Careful.” He helped her sit, his tie brushing her cheek as he reached for the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders. Yellow. That’s what color the tie was. With a handprint turkey right in the center of it. Only a guy like Chance could wear a tie like that and still lead the most prestigious hostage rescue team in North America.

      “Nice tie,” she murmured.

      He crouched so they were eye to eye, smiled the easy smile she’d noticed the first day they’d met. The one that spoke of confidence, kindness and strength.

      “A gift from my niece for Thanksgiving. I promised I’d wear it to my next meeting.”

      “And you always keep your promises.”

      For a moment, he just stared into her eyes. She could see flecks of silver in the dark blue irises. He had the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen, and when they’d dated, she’d told him that.

      “I try,” he finally said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t leave the room without me. They still haven’t found the guy who attacked you, and I don’t want to take chances. Boone is outside the ICU, making sure your grandmother is protected. You’re my assignment.”

      “I’m your what?” she asked, but he’d already straightened and was heading out the door, pretending that he hadn’t heard.

      If she’d had the energy, she would have followed him into the hall and told him just how likely it was that she was going to be anyone’s assignment. She’d been taking care of herself for years. Daniel had been part of an elite Special Forces unit and had been gone more than he’d been home during their marriage. When he was home, he’d been distant and unapproachable. She’d loved him, but their three-year marriage had been tough. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wasn’t sure if it would have survived.

      She’d wanted it to, but she and Daniel had both had their demons. They’d only ever fought them alone. That didn’t make for a good partnership. She knew that now. Maybe because she’d spent the last few years fighting beside and with Chance.

      “Not the time,” she muttered. She had more important things to think about. Like the fact that the police hadn’t found the man who’d attacked her.

      Men?

      She still wasn’t certain.

      If she had her cell phone, she’d call the local sheriff’s department for an update, but she’d left it at the house. There was a phone beside the bed and she picked up the receiver, tried to remember the sheriff’s number. Her mind was blank, her thoughts muddled. She dropped the phone back into the cradle and grabbed her pajamas from a chair near the window. Someone had folded them neatly. Her galoshes sat beneath the chair, side by side.

      Chance?

      She could picture him folding the clothes, setting the boots in place. Everything precise and meticulous.

      She walked into the bathroom. It took a second to pull the IV from her arm, took a couple of minutes to wrangle herself into the pajamas. Her hands were shaky, her movements sluggish, but she didn’t want to be running from the bad guys in a too-big hospital grown.

      Running?

      She’d be fortunate if she could crawl.

      Damp flannel clung to her legs and arms as she splashed cold water onto her face and tried to get her brain to function again. No dice. She was still woozy and off balance. A concussion? Had to be. She lifted the gauze that covered her temple, eyeing the wound in the mirror. The bump was huge and several shades of green and purple. No stitches. Just a long gash that looked like it had been glued shut.

      She had a bandage on the back of her head, too. She didn’t bother trying to see. She felt sick enough from the effort she’d already put in.

      Someone knocked on the bathroom door. One hard, quick rap that made her jump.

      “Hold on,” she called, grabbing the handle and pulling open the door.

      Chance was there.

      He СКАЧАТЬ