Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (25 page)

As if in a dream, she surrendered herself to the song, which had become her instant favorite, and the man waltzing toward her. When James took her in hold, she imagined she really was the princess he called her so often. He certainly placed her on top of the world as he dipped and cradled her.

She spun in his arms, executing difficult turns and leaps with effortless grace. During each combination he supported her—held her, balanced her, lifted her—all the while maintaining his own perfect rhythm. Together they exuded the elegance and nobility inherent in the steps despite their youth and supposed lack of maturity.

Isabella gazed into his eyes, attempting to communicate all she desired and how grateful she was for his strength. He reciprocated, allowing his vulnerability to enhance the gentle sway of their bodies as he whisked her around the floor. More than the accuracy of their steps, their chemistry brought the dance to life.

Her lids grew heavy. She arched her spine. Draped over his arm, she relaxed while he executed the final laid-back arabesque turn. Isabella released her grip on his shoulders without a single moment of hesitation. He’d never drop her. The room continued to spin as the final strains of their song faded.

James had disrupted her equilibrium far more than a million rotations could have. He bundled her close to his pounding heart as cheers and claps erupted from their left. She realized they’d finished in front of Matt and Clint, who had snagged the chairs adjoining the judges’ table.

Leaving an impression on the panel had been her intent, but she’d given their cheering section quite a show. The catcalls and whistles of the guys mixed with the clapping of the women until she couldn’t deny their approval of both the dance and their friend’s rebound. Tonight marked a major victory for James. Satisfaction swelled her heart.

“Razor, Razor.” They chanted and hollered for their cohort in rowdy manner better suited to a football game than the ballroom. Still, he never broke eye contact with her.

He buried his fingers in the glamorous curls the stylists had crafted out of her hair. He dipped his face to whisper against her lips, “Thank you for the dance. Thank you for making me human again.”

Isabella tried to respond with a fraction of the list of things she owed him for. Before she could, he merged their mouths in a tender kiss. He didn’t hide from his friends, the cameras or anyone else who watched. Unlike the time in Arthur’s shop, he no longer cared who witnessed their shared affection.

The men in blue cheered louder.

“Perfect.” The woman with the clipboard shouted from the top of the stage. “Save the juicy stuff for the live show. Marissa will touch you up. You’ve smeared Ms. Buchanan’s lipstick.”

After a lingering lick, Razor separated them with a smile. Sure enough, red gloss stained his delicious mouth. She swiped the worst of the damage with her thumb, grinning in return at his mischievous smirk.

“I love that you blush at a simple kiss.”

“
That
was a simple kiss?” She couldn’t catch her breath, breaking the question into segments between pants.

“You’re right, Izzy. Nothing about us is simple.” He clasped her hand as he guided her toward the station the producer had indicated. “I think we’ll surprise a couple people tonight.”

One of the judges passed them as he headed to his seat. “If what I saw is any indication, you’ll be gliding through to next week. I bet the other judges twenty bucks we’d see you in the finale. Don’t disappoint me, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” Razor winked at the gentleman.

They rushed up the stairs to the gathering of their competitors. Isabella stumbled. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach when she recognized several of the other participants. A city politician, a local model and a corporate executive had all been guests at balls she’d attended. With her husband.

She tried to shake free of Razor’s hand, which gripped tighter to help her stay upright. Oblivious to her discomfort, he high-fived the quarterback of the city’s college football team while she waited, dread tainting her happiness.

The censure she braced for never came. Instead, everyone except the politician heaped them with good-natured ribbing along with some moans and groans. It seemed none of the other couples thought they stood a chance. Not after witnessing her and Razor throw down the gauntlet.

As the stagehand ushered them from the crowd toward the waiting attendants, Razor shocked her with his insight. She couldn’t hide anything from him.

“Maybe it’s time we both stop expecting the worst from people,” he whispered.

Razor cringed as the Channel 6 weatherman made an ass of himself in a terrible rendition of a disco. Things went downhill fast when the man, stiff and akward, elbowed his pro in the jaw. Though they smiled for the camera, the woman ripped him a new asshole the instant they went to commercial.

Didn’t she realize her outburst would be next week’s sound bite? Ah, well, understanding the potential repercussions had never stopped him when annoyed enough. He shook his head.

The order of the couples played in their favor, leaving them last in the show. They’d clean up after this train wreck. He figured the couple who’d face elimination this week had already been locked in. The free pass didn’t lessen his anxiety.

A shitload of spectators had jammed into the studio. Stage lighting obscured his vision. Spotlights contrasted with shadow, making it impossible to see the rear of the room. Forget about the balcony. The team in place—not only his friends in the front row, but also other plainclothes officers stationed around the floor—had it covered. That didn’t stop the hair on his nape from rising anyway.

Fuck, why couldn’t he take his own advice and learn to trust again? Not everyone was out to hurt him. His colleagues were skilled, capable.

Izzy patted his knee from her place beside him. He laid his fingers over hers, stroking her thumb with the pad of his own. The segment of their thighs resting together generated enough heat to distract him for a moment.

“Getting nervous?” She studied him with blue laser vision.

Razor sent her a soft smile. “Not about us.”

“Yeah, this is kind of painful to watch.” Her face tilted toward the judges, who massacred the current contestants. A wince and her wrinkled nose marred the perfection of her aristocratic features.

“No worries. We’ll do better.” So why couldn’t he shake the panic rising in his throat to strangle him?

As she had done for the nine other not-quite-ready couples, the harried stagehand appeared from behind the curtain to hustle them to their positions. When she shoved Izzy toward the wide-open dance floor, he had an irrational urge to yank his princess into the shelter of his body.

But the opportunity had passed. Izzy stumbled in the dark. She crossed to the opposite side of the polished wood expanse before he could wish her luck or ask her for the dance as he had intended.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The announcer read their names and mini-bios in an obnoxious, booming narrative for the sake of the studio audience while God knew what video package played for the viewers at home. He tried to scan the crowd. No luck. In a last ditch effort, he gestured in JRad’s direction—a flash of the sign they’d used when attempting to steal home on the department’s softball team last summer.

He hoped the man would understand. He wanted Izzy out of here the instant they fulfilled their obligation. The time for strategy ended. The opening notes of their accompaniment settled around him.

He rushed in his haste to touch Isabella, putting him ahead of tempo.

She corrected them by hesitating a moment before stepping into his arms.

Razor’s feet operated on autopilot. His brain whirled far out of the game and away from the peace he’d captured during their dress rehearsal. Something tickled his instincts.

Like a kid trapped in a fun house, distorted faces zoomed at him from the darkness, captured in the spotlight when it deflected off him and Izzy. A flash of silver caught his eye from somewhere in the mid-deck.

It didn’t sit right.

His bad thigh locked up when he tensed, almost pitching them to the ground. They recovered, Isabella coaching him to stay calm with hushed instructions while maintaining her cover-girl smile. How the hell did she do that?

Afraid of making a fool of her, he suffered through the debilitating panic, which urged him to shove her to the ground and wait for reinforcements. He concentrated on the intricate sequence coming up, navigating the choreography competently if not with the magic they’d harnessed earlier.

As he berated himself for ruining Izzy’s debut over a bad case of the heebie-jeebies, they whizzed past the center stands. His next move would expose her completely.

Fuck! I can’t.

At the last possible moment, he retracted his arm. Unwilling and unable to let her go, he switched direction. With the spotlight angled away from him, he couldn’t mistake the muzzle of a gun aimed straight at them. He roared in outrage as he continued to spin, attempting to place himself between Isabella and the danger threatening her.

He acted a split second too late.

The flash of a shot being fired seared into his retinas. It was useless. No matter how many times he’d watched
The Matrix
, he couldn’t snatch a bullet out of mid-air.

Not even the one headed straight for his princess.

Chapter Seventeen

Isabella jerked in Razor’s arms. They crashed to the floor. He rolled toward the shooter until they tucked close enough to the metal chairs to destroy any clear angle the man might have had. Chaos erupted as the crowd caught on. Innocent people scattered, leaving him to pray they didn’t end up trampled flatter than a pancake. Screams obliterated any hope of contacting the officers stationed around the room.

“Izzy!” he shouted. No answer, not even a moan, emanated from the limp woman beneath him. Warm, sticky fluid poured over his hand.

Razor couldn’t afford to pry his attention from the direction of the threat in case the maniac who’d shot her managed to weave through the confusion. He swore he didn’t breathe until JRad landed at his side, gun drawn, to provide cover.

Terrified of what he’d find, he lifted onto locked arms to examine the damage. His shaking fingers flew to the crimson stain ruining the left side of her gown. Please, God, not her heart. If the bullet had struck her there, he’d already lost her.

His hands slipped in the puddle forming beneath her. Christ, he couldn’t make it stop, couldn’t find the wound.

“Razor! Move!” A woman yelled his name, but abandoning Izzy proved impossible. “Let me help her.”

Several burly sets of hands grabbed hold of his jacket and yanked. He fought them until they pinned his elbows behind his back and shook some sense into him.

“Calm down, kid.” Tyler finally broke through the sheer panic debilitating him. Razor realized who’d sank to the ground beside Isabella. “Lacey’s an ER nurse. She knows her shit. Let her do her job.”

His friend bent low over the woman he’d come to care too much for in such a short amount of time. Lacey explained, calm and rational, as she worked through her trauma checklist.

“She’s breathing, and she has a pulse.” Lacey’s touch seemed gentle despite her speed and efficiency as she searched for the source of all that blood. “It looks worse than it is, Razor. You know how much a gunshot wound can bleed.”

He roared as visions of
that
night assaulted him. Not now. Not here. Izzy needed him. Bile seared his throat. He swallowed it, leaning into the steady grip of his friends, counting on them to hold him up.

“Her torso is clean.” Lacey hummed when she lifted Isabella’s arm. “Found it. Upper left arm, three inch gash. In and out. Shallow. More like a burn.”

Razor heard someone gag when Mason and Tyler’s woman exposed the torn, seeping flesh. Iron tang hit him full force, knocking him into the past.

“She’ll be fine, Razor.” Lacey never paused. She tore a strip off Izzy’s ruined silk dress as she made eye contact with him. Her reassurance had little effect.

Lacey bound the wound, making neat passes with the improvised gauze. When she drew it snug with skilled motions of her adept hands, the direct pressure brought Izzy around.

His princess gasped, her shoulders lurching off the hard ground.

The entire force couldn’t have prevented him from comforting her then. He broke loose and collapsed beside her, cradling her head in his lap. Wild blue eyes locked on his.

“What?” She couldn’t force out more before a groan interrupted.

“You’re all right.” Razor hoped he hadn’t lied. “Hang in there, Izzy. We’ll take you out of here in a minute.”

Accustomed to a patient’s confusion, Lacey assisted.

“You’ve been shot. The bullet grazed the underside of your arm. You need a number of stitches, but it’s a laceration rather than anything serious. The bleeding has slowed already.” She gestured to the mess smeared over Izzy. “I know this looks like a lot. It’s not. It’s less than what people give when they donate blood. Things could have been much worse.”

Isabella calmed as she absorbed Lacey’s rational reassurance. Ebbing panic left room for nightmares in Razor’s mind. He couldn’t stop staring at the blood on his hands. The memory of pain so intense it felt like touching the surface of the sun slammed into his chest. He struggled to breathe. Giant gasps sawed from his lungs.

Izzy started to sit up in his arms.

“I’m fine, James. You’re with me.” Her teeth chattered as she reached her good hand to touch his jaw. “Stay here with me. Focus. We’re both okay.”

Christ, had anyone else noticed the dual terrors plaguing him?

“Come here.” She winced when she tried to tug him closer. Her fingers buried in his hair as he obliged, descending toward her parted lips to hear her coarse whispers better in the din surrounding them. The squawk of walkie-talkies toted by emergency workers teased the wisps of recollection haunting him. This close, she couldn’t help but see the ghosts in his eyes. “Kiss me.”

He hesitated, afraid of hurting her further, unsure of his control when demons raged inside him and adrenaline pumped full blast. Izzy protested, straining her neck until their mouths fused. She soothed him with tiny licks over the seam of his lips, which had locked tight to trap the howls threatening to rip free.