Safe Harbor (18 page)

"Plane's about to land," Jackson said, gathering the files and stuffing them back into the briefcase. "There'll be a car waiting to take us to the hospital."

"IS she alive?" Jonas demanded as he approached the Russians in the waiting room. Beside him, Sarah leaned heavily on Damon.

Ilya Prakenskii nodded, staggered and reached out to steady himself by holding the wall. "She's been in surgery for hours, but they just brought her into recovery. She's in critical condition and very weak." He glanced at Sarah. "Your sisters had better get here soon."

"They're all on their way. Mom and Dad and my aunts as well."

"I don't like the feel here, Harrington. Hannah's agent is over there." Ilya indicated a slender man in a gray suit talking with the police. "He's pretty shaken up."

Sarah grabbed Jonas when he took an aggressive step toward the agent, and clung tightly as she felt the tremor run through his body. "Don't, Jonas. You're really upset and you might hurt him. I don't want to get thrown out of here."

She studied Prakenskii up close. He was a good-looking man in a tough sort of way. Right now lines etched deep in his face from the strain of holding Hannah to life. "Are you going to crash?" She'd seen her sister Libby, with that same gray tinge, her body trembling with exhaustion and her eyes sunken in. Prakenskii was showing classic signs of psychic overload. He'd spent far too much energy on keeping Hannah alive.

"If we're going to save her, you'll have to help," Prakenskii admitted, sinking back into the chair he'd risen from when they had approached. "She's so close to death I'm not certain we can give her enough time until your family gets here. I did what I could on scene, but there were so many wounds, too much blood loss, and she was already drifting away. I barely had the chance to link with her." He glanced up at Jonas. "She said your name, Harrington. Even with her throat sliced in two, she wanted you."

Jonas's heart clenched in response, a painful constriction that robbed the breath from his lungs. She'd called for him. Reached out. Needed him—and he hadn't been there. All this time he thought he could keep her out of danger, but it had found her anyway. Ironically, the danger had nothing to do with him. All those years wasted, all that time. He'd been such a martyr, staying away for her own good, and Hannah had gone to work, done her job and some nut had attacked her. He should have been with her. His name was the last thing—the
only
thing she'd said.

He swallowed hard and pushed away grief. "Have they given you any indication how long this could take?"

"She's been in there for hours. They've come out twice to say she's still alive." It was obviously a strain for Prakenskii to talk. "Just a few minutes ago they told us she was in recovery but…" He trailed off.

"But what?" Jonas demanded.

"They don't know what's keeping her alive. She lost so much blood they're worried about brain damage. None of them believe she'll make it beyond the next couple of hours."

"You're keeping her alive," Sarah said. "That's why she's not dead." She sank into the chair opposite him. "As the others arrive, it will lighten the load on you. Thank you for saving her for us. Let me help you. I can connect with you." She made the offer without hesitation. It gave Prakenskii a decided advantage if he chose to use it because, once connected with Sarah, he would have another path to follow to the Drakes' energy source, but that didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered was keeping Hannah alive.

He nodded and she was surprised—because if she opened herself and her magic to him—he had to do the same to her. Sarah settled back in the chair, facing him, and took a deep breath, allowing her mind to open, to reach and stretch and merge.

Prakenskii looked directly at her, his eyes flickering a deep blue-green. For a moment she was stunned by the vibrant color, as if the sea had come to stormy life, but then the color swirled and darkened and she was looking into empty, fathomless mirrors. There was no way to "read" him. Ilya Prakenskii remained a closed book and that was nearly impossible when they had linked together. She should have been able to read him the way she was certain he was reading her.

She could feel his exhaustion and strain. The fight to keep Hannah alive was taking a toll on his tremendous strength, although his physical appearance didn't reflect the dire situation. He was fighting with everything in him to keep her alive and his strength was definitely waning. She reached inside his mind looking for the path to her sister. Pain hit her, tearing through her mind and ripping through her body so that she was thrown back, away from Prakenskii.

Sarah gasped and doubled over. "She shouldn't be feeling anything at all. She's unconscious, isn't she?" She looked at Ilya. "Isn't she?"

"She appears unconscious, but she is closer to the surface than she should be because she's waiting for him." Ilya indicated Jonas.

Jonas's breath hitched in his lungs. That would be like Hannah. She 'wouldn't just go down easy, not if she had something to say.

"You've got to get in to her," Sarah said. "Make them let you, Jonas. She can't be in this kind of pain and survive. Go sit with her, and Mr. Prakenskii and I will hold her until the family gets here."

Jonas nodded and went to find the head nurse. It took a lot of persuasion as well as flashing his badge and mentioning danger several times, but he had always been a persuasive man and he found himself walking into the room where Hannah lay so still, surrounded by machines.

Jonas sank down onto the seat beside the bed. Hannah was swathed in bandages over most of her body. Her face was swollen and bluish from bruising. A single sheet covered her body. Beneath it she looked so thin and small, not at all the tall, imposing woman who was Hannah Drake. Her impossibly long lashes lay in twin crescents above her classic cheekbones, looking incongruous beside the bloodstained gauze.

His heart clenched so hard it felt like it was in a vise—an actual physical pain—and he pressed his hand hard against his chest as he lifted the sheet to inspect her body. She was wrapped like a mummy, from her neck down. He swallowed the bile rising as he noted she'd been slashed in the throat as well as her face, chest and abdomen. Her attacker had been every bit as vicious as he'd appeared on television. Jonas had hoped it had been the camera angle, but it was obvious the man had been determined to kill her.

His gut knotted into tight lumps and his throat burned raw. He sank into the chair that had been placed beside the bed and looked her over, looked for a place he could touch her skin—not the hideous thick gauze that seemed to be everywhere. Her hands and arms were bandaged right along with everything else. He knew she would have defensive wounds, he'd seen them enough times on victims, but for some reason he was unprepared for seeing them on Hannah.

Jonas swallowed several times as he carefully slid his hand under her bandaged one. Only the tips of her fingers protruded. He lifted her hand with great care and brought her fingers to his mouth. He had to kiss her, touch her, find a way to caress her. He needed skin-to-skin contact because he had to have tangible proof she was alive and would stay that way. Her breath seemed too shallow, her chest barely rising and falling beneath the thin sheet even with the ventilator.

"Hannah, baby, you're breaking my heart." Just looking at her hurt. He couldn't imagine anyone hurting her this way. What had she done that was such a crime? She was too beautiful with her flawless skin and her unusual hair and tall, elegant, so very classy figure, and her looks had drawn attention to her. Would someone really want to kill her because she was too beautiful? "Nothing makes sense," he murmured, listening to the machines doing her breathing for her.

He put his head down on the bed as the smells and sounds assailed his senses. His stomach lurched, protested. Hannah was hooked up to machines. His beloved Hannah with her laughter and her temper and her silly trick of knocking his hats off his head with the wind. He had a closet full of hats, and he provoked her on purpose sometimes, just to feel the touch of the wind. Her touch. Feminine and soft with her particular fragrance attached. Sometimes he imagined he felt her fingers caressing his face, tracing his jaw, and then the slap of the wind would remove his hat—but it was well worth that single heart-stopping moment.

"You know you have to live for me, Hannah," he said aloud, sitting back up. He kissed her fingertips, drew them one by one into the warmth of his mouth. He ached for her—for him. "I can't imagine my life without you in it," he whispered. "There'd be no purpose for me." He wasn't a poetic man, but he had to find a way to make her understand. It seemed so important to him that she understand what she meant to him. Everything good in his world was lying in that bed with a machine breathing for her.

He leaned closer. "Hannah? Can you hear me?" Her face was partially covered by the bandages and the sight of her lashes lying so thick against her pale skin made his eyes burn. "I should have told you a long time ago." He raked a hand through his hair and pressed several kisses into the mass of hair at the top of her head.

There were so many things he should have said—should have done. Time wasted. He couldn't think why now, only that he hadn't told her how much she meant to him. If he'd been so worried about her because of the things he'd done—and did—in his life, he should have quit. She was more important. He didn't have answers or questions. He could only pray because, in the end, she was all that really mattered.

Jonas. I knew you'd come. Too hard to talk out loud.

Her voice in his head shook him. He leaned closer to her, touching her hair, kissing her fingers, trying to let her know he was there and wouldn't leave. "I'm here, sweetheart. Right here with you. Can you hear me? I'm not going anywhere." She had a tube down her throat, a good reason why she couldn't talk out loud. Did she even know? "Do you remember what happened? You're in the hospital. You need to rest and just hang on until your family gets here."

Are you all right?

His heart turned over. That was just like Hannah, asking if he was all right when she was fighting for her life. "Scared. I'm scared, Hannah. You've got to hold on until your family comes. Libby is on her way and so are the rest of them. Everyone's coming, Hannah, because you're important to us and we can't lose you. I can't lose you."

I needed to tell you I'm sorry.

His heart nearly stopped. "Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry about." He kissed her fingers again, pressed them to his mouth. "I'm the one who should have been here with you. Do you remember what happened?"

I remember being afraid and then there was pain, so much pain.

Her voice cracked and he felt the pain sweeping inside him as if there was so much she couldn't contain it in her fragile body.

"Rest, Hannah, go to sleep and let Prakenskii and Sarah hold you until your mother and sisters come. Just go to sleep. I'll be right here." He didn't want her to sleep, he wanted her to keep talking. It was terrifying that she hadn't opened her eyes and that he might be imagining the conversation because he needed to hear her voice.