01 - The Heartbreaker (28 page)

“Damn, girl.” Samson reached for her, easing her to a sitting position before kneeling beside her. “Easy.” He moved her hand so he could check her shoulder.

Sloane glanced down. Was that her blood on her hands?

“You’ve been shot,” Samson said in a shaking voice.

Sloane’s vision blurred badly. She thought Samson was pulling off his jacket. Thought he muttered, “Gotta stop the bleeding.” She couldn’t be sure.

But when he put pressure against her shoulder with that jacket, a searing, burning, unbearable pain shot straight through to her heart. She rolled her head to one side and shut her eyes to escape the agony, but there was no getting away from her own body.

Other outside noises intruded. . . . Footsteps, maybe? Voices, definitely. Without a doubt, she heard Samson speaking. She wished Chase were beside her, doing his white-knight bit, but he was with his family. His primary obligation. She’d walked out of his life. Or had he walked out of hers? Nausea threatened to overwhelm her along with the disorienting sensation of losing her balance.

Go with it, she told herself. If she did, she’d escape the pain and nothing mattered more, she thought as she allowed herself to fall into the oblivion that beckoned.

“You should have let me drive,” Chase muttered.

“You’re too upset,” Rick said, slowing down for a yield sign.

He glared at Rick, who, after hearing Samson had disappeared, had snatched his car keys and ordered his brothers around like the cop he was. He didn’t want the man wandering around town alone, unprotected.

He hadn’t turned on Chase for not going after Sloane when he had the chance, but that was fine since Chase had enough self-recrimination without his brother’s lecture. His gut feeling told
him father and daughter were together and the end result couldn’t be good.

“Step on it, will you?” he told his brother.

Rick ignored him, while Roman reached out from the back-seat and put one hand on Chase’s shoulder for support. “We’ll be at the McKeevers’ house soon enough.”

The old tree house, where Sloane had met Samson for the first time, was the only place Chase could think of that Sloane would go to be alone. Lord knew she wouldn’t return to Chase’s house. He’d done his best to freeze her out and drive her far away from him.

Damn.

Finally, after what seemed like half an hour but in reality wasn’t more than five minutes, Rick pulled up to the curb in front of the sprawling Colonial. No car in the driveway told him the McKeevers still weren’t home, which he’d figured since they hadn’t answered the phone when Chase had called from the car on the way over.

“We could be panicking for nothing,” Roman said in an obvious attempt to reassure Chase.

“Yeah, I’d like to hear you say that if it were Charlotte we were looking for.”

Roman scowled at him. “Don’t go borrowing trouble.”

Chase jumped out of the car before Rick even shut the ignition. He took off toward the backyard, rounding the house with his brothers not far behind. His blood pounded in his ears and his mouth ran dry. He didn’t know what he’d find and didn’t care if he barged in on Sloane like a crazy man, only to find her alone in the old tree house. Just so long as she was okay.

Dried leaves crunched beneath his feet, making more noise than he’d like and probably announcing his approach, but there was nothing he could do about it now. An indecipherable, muffled noise sounded from nearby and Chase came to a halt
alongside a large blue spruce, his instincts suddenly telling him to tread cautiously.

“What’s wrong?” Rick whispered.

Chase shrugged. “I don’t know. Something just seems off.”

Rick motioned for Chase to remain where he was. “I’m going to approach from behind,” he said, gun in hand, as he pointed with his other hand to the tree house and the lone window visible from a distance.

Without warning, a solitary figure broke the silence and ran through the trees, crunching leaves in his wake. At the same time, Samson stuck his head out the window. “Call 911,” he yelled at them.

“I’ve got it,” Roman said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket at the same time Rick ran after the escapee.

Chase took off for the tree house, panic engulfing him. He didn’t remember climbing the stairs, but he was damn well aware of easing himself into the old structure and seeing Sloane passed out cold on the floor. Blood seeped through Samson’s old jacket, which now acted as part tourniquet, part bandage, to stem the blood flow.

His gut clenched and fear struck a blow to his heart, his pulse pounding with racing speed. “Rick called for an ambulance,” Chase told Samson before kneeling beside Sloane and taking her ice-cold hand into his own.

A distraught-looking Samson paced the floors, muttering to himself.

“What happened?” Chase managed to ask, though his mouth had grown dry as cotton.

“What does it look like, genius?” Samson aimed a scowl Chase’s way. “We don’t need you here.”

“That’s a point I’m not going to debate now. What happened? Besides the obvious, I mean,” he asked again, impatience in his tone and anger in his blood. Anger at himself and at fate for taking advantage of his own stupidity for leaving Sloane alone.

Samson ran a weary hand over his eyes, and for the first time, Chase felt sorry for the man who was obviously suffering as much as he.

“I came to find my daughter,” Samson said. “She’d been here awhile, but whoever shot at me didn’t know that because they’d probably been following only me.”

Chase swept a strand of hair out of Sloane’s face, concerned when she didn’t flinch. Without turning to look at Samson again, he asked, “Is this a guess, or do you know for a fact you were followed?”

“I know.” The old man turned a deep crimson shade. “Someone’s been after me, hanging around, watching my movements.”

Chase gritted his teeth, fear consuming him as he looked once more at Sloane’s pale face and cataloged her lack of response to anything, including him squeezing her hand or whispering in her ear. “Any reason you didn’t report this to the police? Or at the very least tell Rick earlier today?” Chase raised an eyebrow in question.

“I don’t trust nobody. I thought I covered my tracks coming here.
You
didn’t know I’d gone. Least not right away.” Samson raised his chin in a gesture of defiance that didn’t fool Chase.

Not when his eyes were damp and his mouth trembled when not arguing his point. The man was near to a breakdown with guilt and concern, and though Chase wanted to lace into him, Chase agreed he bore much of the same blame.

They’d both failed Sloane. “Listen, man. Maybe it’s time you start trusting, before she suffers even more.”

Samson snorted, his sarcasm obvious. “As if you’re an expert.”

Blessedly, ambulance sirens sounded in the distance, growing closer and preventing the argument from escalating. It wouldn’t do Sloane any good, and if Rick caught the shooter, not much else mattered, Chase thought.

Except Sloane, the woman he loved. And the one he might lose, if she lost any more blood. He ran a shaking hand down her
cheek, trying not to look at the patch of red seeping through the old jacket. It looked like so much blood. And she was still unconscious, he thought, fear lodging in his throat. The overwhelming panic hadn’t left him since he’d realized Sloane was with Samson, and had only magnified with each passing minute.

Because he’d left her alone, putting her in harm’s way, he might not have the chance to tell her that he was sorry. That he really did love her. That he didn’t want to lose her.

Yet, what did that mean for the future he’d envisioned? The one without family or responsibilities. He shook his head, his own desires mocking him, as his mother provided enough responsibility and would continue to, even if she married Eric. Old habits died hard. He’d never be completely free of his responsibilities.

Nor, he was coming to realize, did he want to be. The one thing he didn’t want was to end up old and alone. And if Sloane died, that’s exactly where he would be.

A
shoulder wound. The bullet had passed clean through, or at least that’s what Chase thought he heard an emergency-room doctor say. Needing confirmation, he walked over to a fresh-out-of-med-school-looking guy and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I need to see Sloane Carlisle.”

“She’s with the doctor,” he said without glancing up.

But that doctor wasn’t Eric, Chase thought, because he hadn’t arrived yet. “How is she? Last time I saw her, she was unconscious and there was too much blood.” He involuntarily trembled at the memory.

“Are you family?” the guy in green scrubs asked, barely glancing up from his chart. “Because I can release patient details only to family.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m family,” Chase muttered, the lie slipping too easily off his tongue.

In reality, he had no claim on Sloane other than a sudden overwhelming desire to possess her as his own, and to never let go.

“You’re her . . . brother?” the young resident asked, hazarding a guess as he finally looked up.

Stupidly, Chase shook his head no because he wanted to say he was her husband. He couldn’t. There were too many people in this hospital who knew him, knew his background, knew how proudly he’d always touted his bachelor status. Especially once he’d become the last remaining single Chandler man.

The resident met Chase’s gaze, compassion filling his eyes. “Okay, buddy, you want to get in to see your girlfriend. I get it. But not until she’s conscious and can okay your visit.” He patted Chase’s shoulder in what must be his best practiced bedside manner. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Chase turned away, pissed at the other man but mostly pissed at himself.

As a journalist, he’d often fudged his status to get closer to a story, admittedly not possible that often in a town that knew everyone’s business. But he’d had no compunction doing it when he could. Yet with Sloane lying in the other room, her status unknown, he could barely think enough to hold himself together and get in to see her. Some hotshot reporter he turned out to be, unable to get near the most important person in his life.

His heart was pounding double time and adrenaline raced through his veins, making him forget common sense and reason. Which cemented his feelings. As if he’d had any doubt. He didn’t. Not anymore. He had no doubt about how he felt and what he wanted—Sloane, in his life forever. But he’d start with seeing her open those gorgeous eyes.

Glancing at the clock, he realized only ten minutes had passed since he’d followed the ambulance to the hospital, feeling useless and more frightened than he ever remembered being. Including when he’d been eighteen and his father had passed away, leaving him as the man of the house and completely unprepared for all that status had entailed.

Chase groaned. Ten minutes wasn’t nearly enough time for the doctors to really patch up Sloane. It wasn’t enough time for Rick to drag the suspect’s sorry ass down to the station and see to it he was processed correctly. But Rick had in fact captured the man, gun in hand, tackling him on the neighbor’s property before he could make it to his truck, which he’d left on the corner. At least Chase could trust his brother to take care of police business.

In the meantime, he forced himself to sit in a chair near the
emergency-room doors through which they’d wheeled Sloane earlier. Forced himself, through gritted teeth, to wait for Eric instead of barging into the ER and demanding answers and the right to see Sloane. Something Chase couldn’t do until Eric arrived and helped him get past hospital security and restrictions.

Suddenly the double doors swung wide and a woman doctor strolled through. Chase recognized her as the one who’d taken charge of Sloane from the minute the ambulance drivers unloaded her stretcher.

He jumped up from his seat. “How is she?”

The doctor eyed him, a combination of wariness and compassion in her professional gaze. “Stable,” she said, as if she weren’t sure whether to trust him with the information. “She’s groggy, but she wants to see her father.”

Relief swelled inside his chest. Sloane was awake enough to talk. Thank God.

“Do you know if her father’s here?” the doctor asked.

Chase tried to speak, but the lump in his throat made it difficult. “I haven’t seen him.” After sitting by Sloane’s side in the ambulance and seeing her safely to the hospital, Samson had disappeared.

Damn the man.

Chase glanced around once more, but the eccentric was nowhere to be found.

“Can I see her?” Chase asked, unable to disguise the hope in his voice.

The businesslike brunette shook her head. “Once she’s settled in a room, if she wants to see you, then we can arrange it.” The doctor shoved her hands into her white jacket pockets. “In the meantime, I promise she’s in good hands.”

The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder.
The gesture must be practiced in Family Care 101,
Chase thought, frustrated.

“Well, if Ms. Carlisle’s father shows up, be sure to tell him his daughter is asking for him.”

Before Chase could reply, an imposing man in a suit and tie—none other than Senator Michael Carlisle—strode up to the doctor. “Did you say Sloane’s looking for her father?”

The young woman nodded. “You’re—”

“Senator Michael Carlisle,” he said with the air of authority that had helped him rise quickly in the political world. “I want to see my daughter now.”

Madeline stood by her husband’s side, tears in her eyes. She looked neither left nor right, and she didn’t notice Chase standing right next to her. Understandable, considering how upset she was. And since Chase had been instructed to watch out for Sloane and to keep her safe, he would be the last person Madeline would want to see right now.

Regardless, Chase wanted to talk with the senator—not just about Sloane, but about his campaign managers and this whole situation. Including who was the best reporter to cover the story. The only reporter capable of protecting both Sloane and the senator’s interests at the same time. Chase, however, knew better than to interrupt the man before he’d checked on his daughter.