To the Edge (36 page)

Outside, low-moving clouds obscured the moon. Less than twenty yards from the seawall, the wind whipped the Atlantic into rolling, foamy breakers that crashed against eroding sand. Tall palms swayed against the stout tropical wind, fronds clicking like fingernails on glass.

He ran to the edge of the seawall and looked to his right where green grass and lighted walkways led to an outdoor pool running parallel to the ocean and farther west to a maze of hotel shops. To his left about forty feet, the seawall ended, as did the northernmost part of the hotel. If he remembered the blueprints right, there was a narrow paving to the north of the hotel where delivery trucks unloaded.

Again, instinct and a gnawing feeling in his gut had him releasing the safety on his Beretta and sprinting in that direction. He cut across the grass back toward the northeast corner of the hotel. When he reached it he pressed his back up tight against the outer wall, his gun grasped with both hands, and collected himself.

That's when he heard it. A soft, terrified cry.

He lunged around the corner... and felt his heart drop to the ground. "Jesus."

Jillian lay on the ground as lifeless-looking as a rag doll.

His breath stalled. In the surreal and murky glow of a security light he could see blood. Everywhere. And bending over her, sobbing hysterically, was Lydia Grace.

"Get away from her! Get the fuck away from her!"

He ran to Jillian's side, fingers jumpy on the trigger as he trained the gun on Lydia.

Lydia turned a tear-streaked face to his, her hands covered in blood. "He... he... oh God, he stabbed her. You've got to catch him. You've... oh God, oh God... you've got to do something. Get an ambulance! Hurry. Please... please," her sobs grew louder, "For God's sake, hurry!"

The wind buffeted his face. Nolan was peripherally aware of the wail of sirens screeching in the background, the scream of tires on asphalt, the burst of floodlights dancing through the dark. Layered over it all was the distant sound of hovering Black Hawks, mortar fire lighting the night, screams of downed soldiers.

He shut it out, disconnected from everything but the gruesome sight of bloodstained grass, bloodstained silk, as around him he heard a muffled shout: "Police officer! Stop or I'll shoot!" and Lydia's heartbroken sobs. She knelt with her bloodied hands clutched in her lap beside him.

He heard it all, all that was real, all that wasn't, with the clarity of a vivid dream, but what he lived was his worst nightmare.

Jillian must have hit her head when she fell. Concussion? Worse? Hell. There was too much blood. He had to stop it. He had to save her. He searched for the source of the blood with his eyes, with his hands, with everything in him, and finally found it.

Her upper arm. Christ. His heart wrenched as he thought of her lifting her arms to protect herself. Instinct. Reflex. Whatever, the knife had missed any vital organs but still managed to nick an artery and threaten her life anyway.

He dug his necktie out of his pocket, made a tourniquet with it, and used his cell phone to adjust the pressure. He pressed his ear to her chest and damn near wept when he heard a heartbeat and the shallow evidence of her breath. She was going into shock. Blood loss. God, there was so much blood.

"Hang in there, princess," he whispered, and blinked back moisture from his eyes. "Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you dare check out on me."

"We'll take it, man."

"Back the hell off!" he snarled as hands gripped his shoulders and urged him away.

"Garrett. Come on, man. It's OK."

A familiar authoritative voice broke through. He looked up to see Detective Laurens squatted down, balancing on the balls of his feet in front of him. "Let the paramedics take over. Let them do their job."

He blinked once, looked around, and realized an ambulance had pulled up on the lawn. A team of paramedics hovered nearby, somber, wary.

"Do not let her die," he said, and reluctantly turned her over to their care.

He stood just as John Smith, in handcuffs, head down, was escorted to a waiting patrol car.

23

"... AND NOW THAT WE'VE BRIEFED YOU ON this breaking story, we here at KGLO TV are happy to report that everyone's favorite anchor is now resting comfortably. Our sources tell us that Jillian should be released from the hospital soon."

Looking convincingly sober and concerned, Grant Wellington stacked his copy in front of him on the news desk. "Quite a story, Jody."

"Incredible, Grant," Jody agreed, sympathy and incredulity painted on her perky face.

"And, Jillian," Grant turned concerned eyes to the camera, "if you're watching, get well soon, OK? We're all thinking about you.

"That's our news for tonight. Until tomorrow, this is Grant Wellington—"

"And Jody Bentley," Jody piped in with a toothpaste ad smile, "signing off for KGLO News. Good night, everyone."

Leaning back against the pillows in her hospital bed, Jillian stabbed the remote toward the television and clicked it off. "So glad I could provide a little boost in the ratings."

"Not to mention give Grant something to posture about," Rachael added with a grin. "Such concern. I could gag."

Jillian turned her head on her pillow and smiled at her friend. She couldn't look at Rachael now and not think about what she might have gone through.

"Oh, sweetie, you're feeling pretty rough, aren't you?" Rachael asked, mistaking Jillian's concern for pain.

Jillian forced a smile and wondered if Rachael would ever open up to her about it. "I'm doing OK."

"Do I have to preach at you to ask for pain medication when you need it?"

"No, Mother."

"Speaking of which ... how's she handling this?"

"Pretty well, actually. She and Daddy were here most of the day and she didn't once ask me to give up my job."

"Well, there's always tomorrow," Rachael said brightly.

"Yeah, there's always tomorrow," Jillian echoed. "Thank God."

They both grew quiet for a moment, reflecting on the wry real possibility that
tomorrow
might have been off the table for Jillian.

"I still can't believe it," Jillian said wearily.
  
.

"Don't think about it now, OK? Concentrate on getting better. Right now the best thing you can do is rest, which is why I'm going to scoot." Rachael leaned over the bed, kissed Jillian on the cheek. "Call if you need anything, OK?"

Jillian squeezed Rachael's hand... then went utterly still when she saw a shadow fill the doorway.

Nolan. In all his beautiful, dysfunctional glory.

Nolan, who'd been very obviously AWOL. Jillian hadn't seen or heard from him—unless you counted the flowers and get-well note from E.D.E.N., Inc., as hearing from him— since she woke up in the ER last night. Even then, she'd only caught sight of him lurking in the background before she'd been pronounced stable, and then he'd just disappeared.

For the longest moment, she simply looked at him.

He was so unreasonably beautiful. His eyes were so blue and completely void of emotion as he stood there, his body as rigid as the hard planes of his face.

He was in warrior mode. And since he'd already slain her dragon, that pretty much left only one other thing for him to fight: his feelings for her.

"Hi," she said, like her heart wasn't flipping around in her chest.
Keep it light. Give him room.
"Thought maybe you'd left the country."

"Considered it." He nodded to Rachael. "Figured your old man would find me anyway. It was just a matter of time.''

"Well," Rachael said after another protracted silence. She cleared her throat as her gaze darted between the two of them. "Guess I'll just be going now." She sent Jillian a concerned look, skirted around Nolan, and moved on out the door.

"How are you?" Nolan finally asked.

Cautious of his mood, still hurting that this was the first she'd seen of him, she tried to get a read on his emotions. "I'm doing OK."

"You're lying."

She quirked a brow. "Busted. OK, it hurts some. But they've got good drugs here.

"So," she added when the silence thickened again, "how are
you
doing?"

"Me?" He shrugged. "Nothing wrong with me."

Face grim, he walked farther into the room, then basically ignored her. He shoved his fingers into the back pockets of his black jeans, glanced at the ridiculously large number of get-well bouquets, at the cheery balloons dancing on the whim of the climate control system, and finally out the window into the night.

"I
am
fine, Nolan," she assured him again softly, knowing instinctively that he blamed himself for her injury.

He didn't say anything. He just stood there, his legs spread wide, his knees locked, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his perceived transgressions. "The sonofabitch hurt you."

She couldn't see his face, but she could see the muscles of his throat working. He was darn good at laying the sins of the world on his own shoulders. "You did everything you could."

"Yeah. Everything but stop him."

"Hellooo? I'm here. I'm alive because of you."

His chin dropped to his chest. "Because Lydia scared him off."

"Because you were on top of it. Because you stopped the blood loss before the paramedics came. They said I probably would have bled out if it wasn't for you."

"Goody for me."

As hammers went, he was beating himself over the head with a whopper. She considered, then decided they both needed to hear the entire story. She needed to hear it because there were a lot of blank spaces. He needed to hear it to realize he'd done everything he could to save her.

'Tell me what happened. Tell me everything you know. No one else has been willing to answer my questions. Daddy must have decided I couldn't handle it and issued an edict or something. Do that for me, Nolan. I need to know."

He turned to her. "Tell me something first. What in the hell were you thinking when you left the ballroom?"

Ah. Finally. Emotion. The anger in his eyes was a live tiling. She understood it. He'd told her to stay put. She hadn't listened.

"What was I thinking? I don't know that I was thinking. I saw Lydia and, well, she's a kid, but she's a sweet kid and she's taken care of things for me for almost a year now. I needed to get out of that room. I panicked."

"You knew I suspected her. You didn't think it was odd that she just showed up?"

Not only was he going to dress her down for disobeying his orders; he was also going to belabor the issue, no matter that it was a moot point.

"No, it didn't seem odd. She works there part-time, remember? She also knew about the award presentation and had told me she might stop by to check things out before she went home. Nolan, why are we talking about her?" she asked, suspecting this was just another one of his tactics to avoid talking about them. Him and her. "She didn't
do
anything."

He dragged his hand through his hair. "That doesn't let you off the hook."

"OK. I did a bad thing." Weary to the bone, wanting answers and some sign that he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him, she let her head drop back on the pillow.

He flew to the side of the bed when she winced. "What? Do you have pain? I'll call a nurse."

She turned her hand in his when he gripped it. "I don't need a nurse. I just bumped the spot where he hit me, OK?"

Clearly, it wasn't OK, but he backed off. "They say you have a concussion."

"Slight
concussion, which is probably why I can't remember anything past when Lydia and I ducked around the corner of the hotel. After that, everything's pretty much a blank."

She couldn't stall a shiver that ran through her. Knowing what had happened and actually talking about it... well. It was difficult.

"This was a bad idea. I don't think you're up for it"

"No." She clutched his hand. "Please. I need to hear the rest of it. Give me credit for being adult, OK? No one else will."

He looked from their clasped hands to her face, then slowly moved away from the bed. She bit back the hurt she felt at his physical withdrawal. She liked the feel of his big. rough hand holding hers. She needed the physical connection.

He, however, felt he needed something else.

What do you want, Nolan?

What I've wanted from the beginning. Distance.

Couldn't say he hadn't laid it out for her. Yet somehow she'd hoped that what happened might have made him rethink things.

But he was a man of conviction, her bodyguard. A man still mired in denial. She resigned herself to the fact that she'd just have to accept it. For now. When she was stronger, she'd butt heads with him. Now, she just had to know the rest of the story.

"Smith doesn't have much to say," Nolan finally told her. "He says he's sorry. That he's glad he was caught. That he deserves to die."

"Does he say why he tried to kill me?" Even now that it was behind her, it was hard to believe.