Deadly Fall (33 page)

It was several drawn out moments before the outside penetrated through to her senses. Hearing came back first. There was nothing but the sound of the engine purring and soft moaning. As the adrenaline subsided, her body registered the aches and pains that told her she would be sporting bruises for the next week, but that wasn’t her moaning. If she wasn’t the one making those pained sounds, then it could only be her passenger. Augusta cracked open one eye. The light blinded her, so she squeezed it shut again. She raised one hand to shield her eyes as she tried opening them again. The first thing she was the cracked windshield. Through the spider’s web pattern, she saw slanted trees and realized that the car was off the road. She turned her head to the side.

Daniela Castelletti was lying against the seat, as limp as a rag doll, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. Blood streaked down her otherwise pale face from a gash on her forehead. Dark liquid soaked through the knee area on the gray trousers. Had it not been for the occasional moan, Augusta would’ve thought her as lifeless as a doll. She glanced down at the other woman’s hands. They were empty. Propelling herself into motion, Augusta unbuckled her belt and sat up, biting back a whimper as her muscles and ligaments protested. She looked around, moving gingerly. The gun was on the back seat. She found the black scarf and used it to retrieve the gun. After killing the engine, she pulled on the door handle and pushed all her weight against the door. It opened and she fell unceremoniously onto the cold, damp grass on her hands and knees. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she pulled herself upright using the door, made her way to the trunk and popped it open with the remote. She dropped the gun inside, located her purse and let the trunk door fall close. Letting her knees buckle, she sat on the grass, opened her purse and upended it, dumping the contents on the ground. She grabbed the cell phone, flipped it open and punched in a couple of keys, thanking God for speed dial as the phone rang.

“Augusta?” She let the sound of his voice wash over her, not quite realizing until that moment how his voice alone could comfort her. “Where are you?”

“Nick.” His name was little more than a whisper.

“Augusta, talk to me,” he demanded urgently. “Where are you?”

“I-95 going toward Hartford. Come get me. Please. And I need an ambulance. Hurry.”

Nick cursed. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Not for me. Daniela Castelletti.”

A heartbeat of silence, then more cursing. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Keep talking to me.”

“Can’t.” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “I have another call to make.”

Augusta hung up on his vehement protests. She snagged her wallet, flipped it open and started pulling out business cards. When she finally came to the creamy vellum that contained nothing more than a phone number, she studied it for a moment before punching the digits on her cell phone. After she was done, she folded her legs up against her body and dropped her head onto her knees, her arms loosely wrapped around herself, and waited for Nick.

Augusta added the finishing touches on the canvas. Actually, she was never really finished with a painting, but at some point she had to stop and start something new. If she didn’t, she would forever be adding a touch here and a touch there to her work. There was always room for improvement. The improvements, however, had to come from her and only her.

A small, wry smile touched her mouth.

Such was the mind—and arrogance—of an artist.

She stepped back from the easel and rubbed her eyes with the only clean spots on her hands, small patches of skin on the backs of them. She looked at the piece, trying to be dispassionate. You still couldn’t call her work cheerful or even peaceful, but there was something…promising. And, somehow, Jana always managed to find clients who were more than willing to pay ridiculous sums of money to display her—Augusta’s—pieces in their homes.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the dark canvas and her gaze drifted to the massive windows. Snow fell outside, covering everything with a clean, crisp layer of white. Here and there, Christmas lights outlined the lines and angles of homes in festive colors. Looking at the calming scene before her, it was hard to believe only two months ago her world had been chaos. It still felt surreal.

All that violence and death because of two people and their sickness. Adam and his gambling. Daniela Castelletti and her need for her father’s attention. It was sad, really. And over. Daniele Castelletti had assured her of that at the hospital where his daughter lay unconscious. Daniela Castelletti had slipped into a coma shortly after arrival. Grudgingly, her heart had gone out to the broken man who had looked down at his sick—physically and mentally—daughter, helpless to do anything for her. Daniele Castelletti had said to Augusta that he owed her a debt of gratitude for not making Daniela’s actions public. As far as the authorities—with the exception of Nick—and the public were concerned, the Salvos had been the masterminds behind the crime spree that began with Drew’s murder.

Out of that chaos, Augusta had found a happiness that she couldn’t quite believe was real or would ever be hers. She, who hadn’t prayed to God in eighteen years, thanked God every day.

Familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs, sending a rush of warmth through her, and she wondered if it would always be like that. She hoped so.

Arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against clothes that were still cold from the weather outside. The crisp scent of winter surrounded her. The body within the clothes, however, was warm and strong and comforting. Augusta turned her head and stretched up onto the tips of her toes, letting the man behind her capture her lips in a long, deep kiss.

“Hey,” Nick said when they finally broke the kiss. “Miss me?”

“Always,” she replied, and meant it.

“Know anyone in Europe?”

Her brow puckered. “No.”

Nick pulled something from his back pocket. “You received a letter from someone there.”

She took the letter from him. There was no return address, but the stamp was Italian. Her pulse quickened, but her hands were steady as she opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside. She withdrew it and unfolded it. It wasn’t a letter. It was a charcoal sketch. Tears filled her eyes. The black lines and curves portrayed a picture of warmth and lushness and idleness. Tuscany. Adam was in Tuscany. Or, at least, he had been at one point.

“I think he landed on his feet,” Nick said dryly, looking over her shoulder at the picture.

Augusta nodded and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “It’s those pregnancy hormones,” she said petulantly. “I can’t control anything anymore.”

Nick grinned into her hair. “There are some side benefits,” he murmured, his hands moving up to cup her breasts. She inhaled sharply as desire spiked through her. He ran a hand down to her flat tummy. “It’s hard to believe there’s a life growing in here.”

“Oh, you’ll believe it when I’m round as a butterball and waddling around here like a duck.”

He chuckled. “I’m looking forward to that.” He rubbed her middle through her T-shirt. “Have you decided on what to name our daughter?”

“You’re so sure it’s a girl?”

“I’m hoping.”

“What do you think of Andrea?”

Ann Bruce
is the pseudonym for a self-professed computer geek who, in between snowboarding, reading comic books, and wearing out the buttons of her PS3 controller, writes because it’s an acceptable means of explaining all the voices in her head.

For the latest news, free reads, and more, visit
www.annbruce.net
.

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“Are you hurt?”

The voice was low and raspy, but it triggered something in Noelle’s still-recovering memory. Heart picking up pace once more, she peered up at the lean figure sitting rather rigidly on the backseat. She could make out the shape of the head in the gloomy interior of the moving cab. The shoulders were broad and the torso long. The line of the jaw was shadowed with stubble. Her eyes widened. “You.”

There was a dry, masculine chuckle followed by a groan and a muffled curse. “Yeah, me. How are you doing down there?”

“I’m in pain, but I’ll live.” It was the truth. She had banged her head before and suffered nothing more than a raging headache for a few hours. Such were the trials of playing pond hockey with four older—and much bigger—brothers.

“Can you get up?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered and began disentangling their legs. She was puzzled when he didn’t offer his help. Maybe he did only one good deed per night.

Noelle slowly released her breath when she was finally seated beside the man who had saved her earlier only to violently barrel into her from behind a few minutes ago. Pain creased her brow. She closed her eyes, needing the refuge of darkness.

“I thought I told you to go straight home,” he finally said quietly, turning to look at her.

“You did,” she confirmed without opening her eyes. “I didn’t listen.”

“Obviously.”

She made a noncommittal sound. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

Noelle’s lashes lifted and she caught the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She had to give the man credit for taking it all in stride. It couldn’t be every night when he gets a woman shoved into his cab by a strange man on the run. Then again, what did she know? Maybe this was a common occurrence for him.

“Then why is the cab moving?”

“I told the driver to drive,” he explained, the words labored.

Noelle frowned. Was he hurt? She slowly turned her head to the right and glanced down. Her frown deepened.

“Is there a reason why you’re clutching your side like that?”

“Yes,” he gritted between clenched teeth, the pain almost successfully veiling the sarcasm in his voice.

Her brow puckered, but it wasn’t because of the ache in her head this time. “Oh.” Her eyes widened. Realization dawned. It was belated, but it did dawn. “Oh God! How bad is it?”

Her headache was forgotten as her hands felt all over his face. It was heated and coated with a sheen of cooling sweat. His stubble scratched her fingertips. Noelle’s exploration halted there as she savored the discreet tingle that shot through her fingertips straight to her tummy. She was a sick, sick woman to be turned on by a man bleeding all over the place.

And only hours ago, she’d believed herself in love with another man.

Noelle gingerly probed beneath her defenses. She should be hurt, torn up inside. Yet all she felt was more anger at herself for being so stupid than at Gil for cheating on her.

The rough voice pulled her back. “Not there.”

Noelle was glad of the darkness as warmth flooded her cheeks.

“Is it just your side?”

“Mainly.”

“Are you going to let me check it out?”

“Are you a nurse or a doctor or a paramedic?”

She drew back as if attacked by a kitten. Her lips thinned. “No, but I do know basic first aid. Or do you think sheer macho willpower will take care of your injury?”

A rough sound rumbled from his chest. “I’m sorry.” Very gingerly, very slowly, he moved his hands away from his left side and said, “Here.”

Carefully, Noelle scooted down so she could better examine the wound. She pulled the black T-shirt from his jeans and peeled it up. A blade had sliced through the leather jacket and the T-shirt and left a long cut that wasn’t as deep as she’d feared. But it wasn’t as shallow as she’d hoped.

“We should get you to a hospital. You need stitches.”

The only response she got was an indecipherable grunt. She assumed it was a sound of protest.

She sighed. “Shouldn’t I call the police?”

He growled a very decisive negative.