The Trouble with Temptation (37 page)

She lurched over into the pouring, driving rain.

*   *   *

Brannon whipped the Jeep off the road and slammed on the brakes.

If he was honest, really honest, and if he was trapped in a shrink’s chair, the shrink might make some connection between Brannon’s recklessness behind the wheel and the way he’d lost his parents.

He had a fierce love of the automobile.

He had also a fierce fear of losing somebody in another wreck.

So when he saw that twisted mess of metal just around the final bend before his house, his heart jumped up into his throat and then sank to somewhere down around his feet.

“Hannah!”

He threw himself toward the vehicle and came up short when he saw it.

Nobody inside.

The radio squawked, but his mind was already racing ahead to what could have happened. He couldn’t reach in to grab it—the hand piece was on the floor and his arms were long, but not that fucking long. Swearing, he shoved off the vehicle and turned around, staring off into the empty night.

He didn’t even stand there a minute before he spun around and ran back toward the Jeep. The tires sent mud spinning and flying up into the air, flinging it across the road.

It splattered across a man’s face, crouched down, hiding in the grass.

He was unseen by Brannon as he remained there, hiding … and waiting.

*   *   *

“Hannah!”

She heard a man’s voice, muffled by the downpour as she moved through the barn. The smell of wine was thick in her nose and the thud of her heart seemed to drown out everything thing else.

“Hannah! Come out! We need to get you safe before he finds us.” He was closer now.

He …

She swallowed. Shoving her back against the wall, she closed her eyes and rested a hand over her belly. A sharp pain twisted her and she barely managed to bite back a moan.

She flinched and her foot bashed up against something—it was small. It went skidding and flying and each echo was progressively louder. Biting her lip, she started to work herself farther away from the noise. Away from where she’d heard his voice—but then she saw his shadow.

Damn it
.

Desperate, she began to inch the other way, even as she saw his head craning this way and that.

He was following the sound of whatever it was she’d kicked.

Her foot brushed against something again. It didn’t move this time. She was moving slower, testing each area with her foot.

She bent down and scooped it up.

Rubbing her thumb over it, she tried to identify whatever it was. Metal. That was all she could tell. A nut? A bolt? She couldn’t tell a wrench from pliers on the best of days. She didn’t know what she was holding, but it was heavy. Eyes on the shadow, she threw the bit of metal in her hand. She threw it hard and high, straight over his head and as the noise clattered and echoed back to them, she looked around. She had a split second to make a decision. She had two directions she could follow—left or right. To the right, lay the light and the promise of safety. A security light shown down in a pool of yellow light, revealing the way to the house, and hopefully, Brannon.

To the left, lay darkness.

She ran to the left, away from that glare shining like a spotlight—like a trap.

Behind her, the nameless man said her name again and it floated to her in the darkness. “Hannah, he was able to get into your apartment. Who but a cop could do that? He’s been talking to his wife … his wife who is your
doctor
. Who else would know what is going on with your memories?”

She’s my OB
, Hannah thought.

But then she started to think.

This wasn’t making sense. She had a man behind her who was trying to convince her of …

Fuck
.

She spun around a corner and then shrieked as she crashed headfirst into Beau.

Blood ran down his face in a pink, watery trail, the rain mixing with it as it trickled from the cut on his brow. She opened her mouth.

He clamped a hand down on her mouth before she could speak—or scream.

“I heard,” he said, his voice grim and quiet. His left arm came around her upper body, holding her arms pinned down and against her right bicep, she could feel the hard, unyielding weight of his weapon.

She went to jerk away again, panic and confusion tearing her up inside. But then that other voice rang out again. Louder. Closer.

“Hannah, you need to trust me. I just want to get you to Brannon. He
told
me to get out here and find you. He couldn’t get here in time. He was in town, with Moira. I was closer.”

Another pain tore at her belly and she couldn’t bite back her moan this time.

As she stumbled, Beau caught her and he watched as her hand went to her belly. “Aw, shit, sweetheart,” he mumbled. Then he caught her with one arm around her waist, easing her further into the darkness of the barn. “First things first—you are
not
listening to whoever that son of a bitch is. Brannon hasn’t been in touch—you know that. Now, come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Safe.

She wanted to laugh.

But she was too busy trying to concentrate on breathing.

*   *   *

He didn’t go straight up to the house.

Brannon was following his gut and his gut told him that whoever was in that car would have taken the straightest route to safety. Why? Because they hadn’t stayed in the car.

It was a cop and a trained paramedic, two people who knew all about what to do when there was a wreck. You stayed with the wreck unless you had no other choice.

So they would have gone for his property and the nearest building—the barns. The lights were off so he had to assume that the storm had kicked them out. Good. That was just fine with him because he knew every inch of this place inside and out. He could find his way around blindfolded.

And he also knew that the door shouldn’t be open.

His gut wrenched and he moved quicker, while every beat of his heart urged him to move even
faster
.

Hannah.

She was in there.

Hannah.

He slid inside and listened.

The echoes in here were crazy and when they came back magnified, it confused the hell out anybody who wasn’t used to the acoustics in the old, remodeled barn.

But he was used to it.

And when the faint voice echoed ahead of him, he knew it wasn’t because somebody was far away.

“I just want to get you to Brannon. He told me to get out here and find you. He couldn’t get here in time. He was in town, with Moira. I was closer.”

A silent snarl on his face, he moved through the barn, following the hall that had been constructed when they’d converted the wide open space into what he’d needed for the winery.

Lightning flashed through one of the windows and he saw a man’s shadow.

Tall.

Lean.

Did he know the man?

The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. That didn’t mean much, though. Put Brannon in a garage, blindfolded, and he could tell you what kind of engine a car had just by the sound of the engine. But he was shit when it came to voices, unless the person was somebody he loved.

So that just meant he didn’t love this guy.

Great. It ain’t Ian and it ain’t Gideon. Nice to narrow the field
, he thought sourly.

He edged closer, his back to the wall. He was coming up on the area where they barreled the Chambourcin. Loose boards, all the way around. Had to be careful.

“Hannah!”

When there wasn’t any response, the man started to mutter, low, ugly noises.

That’s right, you prick. My girl ain’t an idiot.

The shadow shifted, spun back.

Brannon saw the shape in the man’s hand just as he lifted it and he swore, realized he was fucked.

The asshole had a flashlight, a thin, narrowing stream of light shone on him in the darkness.

Fight or flight—

Brannon lunged, flinging himself toward the bright light. It was a beacon, the way he saw it. Of course, somebody who didn’t know the twisting turns here would be lost without one.

“Surprise, you dumb fuck. I ain’t in town.”

The flashlight went flying as they tumbled to the ground and the bright beam flickered, then went off. Brannon caught a handful of hair as he drove somebody’s skull into the rough brick ground. Some part of him was calm, rational, able to file away a few details. The man
had
hair and it was pretty damn attached. The man was
strong
and it was the wiry strength of a man in his prime. He filed that away even as a fist drove into his gut.

“What are you wanting Hannah for?” He drove a knee into somebody’s balls, heard a groan.

It wasn’t enough.

“Was it you?” he demanded.

No answer, save for an elbow right into his mouth. He spat blood and kept going.

“Are you the fucker who killed Shayla? Were you down there that night?”

“Get … off…”

The first words that had been spoken and it had Brannon snarling. “It was
you
.” He slammed his forearm against a vulnerable throat, shoved.

The man started to pummel his ribs, but Brannon held tight.

“Let … me … up!”

“Ain’t happening,” Brannon said, grinning like a lunatic as he slowly choked the air out of the man beneath him. “You been chasing after my woman, you dumb shit. You messed with Hannah. I could kill you for that alone.”

The struggles were getting weaker and weaker.

Off behind him, he heard a noise, but he ignored it.

“Get…”

*   *   *

The blackness had a different feel this time.

Desperation swam through him and flooded him with one final burst of strength.

Shoving a hand down, he clawed in his pocket.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt her but he’d been prepared to do it. It would have bothered him, but he would do what must be done.

Duty dictated it.

Hurting Brannon wouldn’t bother him.

He swung, the movement awkward and slow.

But Brannon was on top of him, practically laughing, gloating already.

The McKays had always been arrogant peacocks.

The knife went in like butter.

Brannon tensed, and then slumped.

He didn’t fall off, not immediately.

But as the pressure on his throat lessened, he was able to shove Brannon’s weight off and clamber to his feet.

He stumbled as his head cleared. Each second made it easier to see, to think.

Hand at his throat, he looked back, staring at the fucker on the floor. Blood spilled out of him. He could smell it. Smiling, he took a step—

“Freeze! Don’t move!”

There was a loud, cracking noise—it echoed endlessly.

He dove to the side, tensed for the pain.

There was nothing.

Swearing, he began to back away, crabwalking on his feet and hands, eyes on the gloom in front of him. His hand smacked into the flashlight and he grabbed it, clutching it in a death grip and concentrated on putting as much distance between him and the people who could ruin everything.

Had they seen him?

He kept listening.

Kept waiting.

The only name he heard, though, was Brannon’s.

“Brannon? Oh, shit,
Brannon
!”

*   *   *

The dim light made it almost impossible to see, but Hannah’s eyes had adjusted somewhat and she sought out the solid figure that was Beau Shaw. “Call
9-1-1
.”

“Already done it.” He kept his weapon up in a two-fisted grip, sweeping the room.

“I need light!”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t give her a light.

She could have screamed as she covered the wound in Brannon’s side. With nothing else to staunch the flow, she tore off her shirt and bound it to him. It was near the kidney. How close, she couldn’t say without at least seeing him. But close. She sought out the notch of his hip, moved up, felt a sob burning in her, but she swallowed it down.

Another pain twisted her own belly.

No … I can’t lose you. Can’t lose either of you …

“I need a fucking light, Beau!” she shouted and the snarl in her voice got his attention. “That son of a bitch is gone. Whoever it was, he doesn’t want us to see him and with three of us here, it’s too hard to make sure that
none
of us—”

A wail of sirens cut through the air and she let herself hope.

“There. Back-up. Now give me a light.” She shot him a look, hoped he could see better than her. “If he dies because you won’t shine me a damn light…”

The cop gave a tired laugh as he came to stand at her back, eyes on the doorway. “Don’t hurt me, Parker. Just doing my job.” But he shone the light on Brannon.

She was hampered by the pain inside, hampered by the lack of equipment. The blood continued to pump. Beau’s radio squawked. “Negative … can’t come out to meet. Injured civilian … inside the southernmost barn. Be advised, at least one armed individual in the area.”

She pressed her hands harder against the wound. It was already soaked through with blood. “Beau, I can’t put enough pressure…” she gasped, swallowed the pain that seized her. “Can you please…”

Brannon made a low noise, then whispered her name.

“Hush,” she said.

“Hannah,” he muttered again.

She ignored him and snapped, “Beau, please!”

Two officers appeared in the doorway, their lights blinding them. Beau hunkered down beside her, his big hands covering hers. “Let me do it now. You just sit.”

She sagged, cupping her belly.

“Hannah…”

“Talk to him,” Beau said, his voice firm. “He needs it. You know that.”

She nodded and reached for Brannon’s hand.

“I wasn’t … lyin’,” he mumbled. “I…”

A huge breath shuddered out of him.

Paramedics came rushing in.

“Wasn’t lying. Love … love you. Always did.”

His head went slack, and fell to the side.

She screamed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO