She stopped, turned and glared, waiting for him to catch up.
“I was being sarcastic. I didn't mean anything by it other than insulting the dickheads who threw the beads,” he said, shouting to be heard over the loud music booming from the bar they were next to.
Her evil-eyed stare faded, as she seemed to accept his explanation.
“Drunks and women who have something to prove do that sort of thing.” He nodded back at Bourbon Street. “You are neither.”
“Sorry,” she said, flinching as the bar crowd inside cheered. “I overreacted. Come on. We'll be late.”
She'd apologized. So why did
he
feel bad?
Rhonda, now solicitous of his injury, began to walk at a snail's pace. Not that he'd admit it to her, but he was tired. Whatever energy he had in reserve had been used. Luckily, Dozier would be there waiting.
They didn't make the turn off Bourbon Street. He mistook the first shot for part of the drum solo from the band performing at the next bar they passed. The second, he recognized for what it was: a blast from a shotgun, suppressor on. It pinged the wall beside his head, sending shards of brick into the air. Grabbing Rhonda's hand, he made for the door of the nearest club.
A fellow the size of a small truck blocked the entrance. “Cover charge, folks. Cash only,” he said, clueless to the danger around them.
Blake rapidly scanned the area, trying to assess where the shots had come fromâand if they were sitting ducks. He considered going for his gun but thought that could create panic. Panic they could hide in, but innocent bystanders might get hurt. The third shot answered his question. It struck the doorman in the shoulder. He snatched up Rhonda by the waist as she bent down to help the injured man. Ignoring her protests, he pushed past the other doorman who'd come to see what happened.
“Blake, he's been shot,” she continued to argue as he dragged her through the club.
“We'll be next,” he shouted as the band played, unaware of the menace outside.
“Blake,” she complained, struggling against his hold, vainly attempting to free herself.
No way was he letting go. He was running on adrenaline and if he stopped now, he was afraid he might not be able to continue. “Stop it, Rhonda,” he yelled over his shoulder as the music abruptly cut off. Inside the partiers were at last attuned to what was going on. He took a chance and stopped. He'd protect Rhonda with everything he had. He could do this. He pushed her up against the wall as the crowds dispersed, some toward the front, some back. Would the gunman continue to take out bystanders? He didn't know and right now, he couldn't concern himself with that. His priority was Rhonda.
“Look,” he said close to her ear, needing to be heard but not wanting to draw attention. “His friends have him now. They'll see to it he gets help.
We
have to get out of here. We're the danger to this crowd.” He drew back, wanting to see if she understood. Thankfully, she nodded.
“What do we do?”
“This place has to have a back door. Let's find it . . . before the police show up. We can't afford complications.” Sorrentino had allies in the force and Blake wasn't about to chance any of them being here in New Orleans.
“Blake?” she said, eyes wide. “I'm scared.”
Innocent wasn't a word he'd ever thought of using to describe Rhonda. She was tough and had the bollocks of a fighter. But now he knew she was really smart. A smart person should be afraid. “I've got you,” he assured her, squeezing her hand. “Let's go.”
He pulled her down a narrow hallway leading to bathrooms and hopefully the back offices and exit. He thought they hit a dead end when Rhonda opened a closed door. On the other side was a wee courtyard and behind it another building that looked to be used for storage.
“Carriage house?” she asked.
“Maybe, but it's seen better days. If we're lucky there's an alley behind it.”
“What else would be there?”
“Another building. This is an old city. I don't know how much space we'll find behind this carriage house. Come on, keep going.”
Sirens wailed as they climbed over broken chairs and stepped around soiled boxes and wooden crates filled with old faucets and rusty pipes. They passed a bathroom that hadn't been used in years and a set of rickety-looking stairs before finally making it to the back. There was no door, only a dirty window. A dirty window with metal bars.
“Now what?”
He glanced back at the stairs. “We go up.”
“Up to where?”
“If we get lucky, we might find a fire escape ladder on the second floor into the alley.” An alley he could see beyond the filthy window. “I think this used to be a dwelling of some kind.”
“And if not?” she asked, following him, trusting him.
“We're screwed.” Something he wasn't going to think about until he had to. Bracing a hand against the wall, he inhaled a shaky breath. Adrenaline was good, but when it started to fail, exhaustion took over.
“Are you all right?” Rhonda brushed his cheek with her knuckles.
If they weren't in trouble, he'd consider laughing at her trick for measuring his skin for heat. “I don't have a fever. I'm just tired.” Lying to her would be useless. She'd see right through him. “I'll be fine,” he assured her. And he would be, if they got out of this. “I'm going up first, to make sure the stairs hold.”
“Are you crazy?!”
A commotion in the club had them both turning their heads to the sound. “Cops,” they said in unison. His adrenaline spiking, he didn't wait. Now or never, he held his breath and ran up the stairs. They held.
“You
are
crazy,” she hissed and ran after him.
Upstairs, slivers of light shone through broken shingles and wallboards. Through the dust-filled air, they found another window. Fingers crossed, Blake grabbed the bottom, praying it would open but ready to smash it if it didn't. It lifted. He stuck his head outside and saw the rusty stairs. Down below lay a small alley that led to a side street.
“Let's go,” he said. “Before the police blockade the streets.”
Once they were down, he wiped the rust off his hand onto his pants, waiting for Rhonda to do the same before taking her hand. “Stay close behind me. We don't know what's out there.”
As they rounded the corner, an ambulance pulled up. Blake looked to the rooftops but saw no gunman. They were no longer on Bourbon Street. He was certain the shots had come from up high. He heard tires screech and he yanked Rhonda behind him, going for his gun.
“Dozier.” She pointed to the next block down.
True enough, it was their car, Dozier waving them over from behind the wheel.
“Walk fast,” he told her, “but don't run.”
She nodded and together they made it to the car.
“I've been looking everywhere for you two. We've got trouble,” Dozier said once they were inside. “And what the hell's happening on Bourbon?”
“Trouble,” Blake said.
“Someone shot at us,” Rhonda finished for him. “They missed then hit a bouncer.”
“Three shots,” he corrected. He guessed Rhonda hadn't heard the first one.
“Shit. You guys okay? Blake, you look like crap.”
“Thanks ever so much.” Blake leaned back against the seat, his muscles starting to feel the fatigue. He not only looked like a pile of shit, he felt like one too. What had begun as one of the nicest days of his life slipped through his fingers.
“Blake?” Rhonda scooted closer, her fear gone, replaced now by concern.
He held up a hand, letting her know he was all right.
“Let me check your vitals.”
He snatched his wrist away before she could. His heart rate was racing, as it should be after what they'd been through, but she wouldn't see it that way.
“If you argue with me, I'll shove a thermometer up your ass when we get back.”
“You and what army?”
Dozier cleared his throat. In a fair fight Blake could hold his own with Dozier. The guy had a few pounds on him, but Blake was quicker and more agile. But today wasn't the day to put that to the test.
She took his pulse. “Fast, but that's to be expected.”
Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles.
“Dozier,” he said, forcing himself to focus, “if you didn't know about the shooting, what trouble are you talking about?”
Dozier eyed them in the rearview mirror.
“How bad is it?” Blake knew that look.
“We got it handled, if that helps. There's good too.”
“Good first.” He sat back, closing his eyes.
“You won't have to look at my sorry face anymore. Ryan is shipping me out.”
“As much as it pains me to see you go, why?” he asked, his tone wary.
“ 'Cause of the bad.”
When Dozier didn't elaborate, Blake leaned forward. “Are you going to make me pry it out of you? 'Cause Rhonda has one mean thermometer she can shove up your ass.”
“Sorry, man. Just trying to figure this out without freaking Rhonda out.”
“We just got shot at. I'd say she's already freaked out.”
Rhonda said nothing. She didn't have to. Of course she was freaked. Who wouldn't be?
“We got word, a little late if what just happened is any indication. Krupin knows the funeral was bogus. Ryan is moving you out of New Orleans. Everything is packed and in the trunk.”
“So where are we headed?” Blake asked, gently squeezing her hand.
“How's your sailing skills?”
“Rusty.”
“Well, oil them up. You're going sailing.”
Chapter Twelve
R
honda couldn't believe they were on a boat. Blake explained that she was a forty-five-foot sailing yacht that slept six. It had two double bunks that doubled as a dining and lounging area, and forward, one very James Bondish V-berth with privacy doors.
“How cute,” said Rhonda when he showed her the galley and the tiniest shower she'd ever seen. Blake argued they were not cute, but functional. The rest, speed and construction, were lost to her. She knew squat about boats, except that they were supposed to float.
Ryan had figured the best place to hide them was on an ocean. As long as they kept a low profile, they should be fine. The missing diamonds hadn't turned up. The whole thing gave her a headache, and not just because she was running for her life because of something that had nothing to do with her. Her life was in the hands of people she would never know. When was it going to be her own? She forced what had happened on Bourbon Street to the back of her mind, the only way to stay sane.
“Are you sure this is safe?” she asked Blake, who was resting on one of the long bunks, eyes closed.
“As I said, this boat is fully computerized.”
“What does that mean?” Her car had a computer but she wouldn't flip the cruise control and hop in the back seat.
He opened one eye. “You're worrying for nothing. Relax.” He reclosed his eyes and sighed.
“That doesn't answer my question.”
She shouldn't be pestering him. The day had been a long one and he needed rest. But they were on a boat. In the
middle
of the ocean. With no one driving the boat. In the
middle
of the ocean. What would be worse? Getting shot or drowning? She waited patiently for him to answer. After a few minutes, fear beat out patience. “Blake?” Had he fallen asleep?
“Hmm?”
Not wanting to sound like a freaked-out nag, she kept her tone neutral. “Boat. Ocean. No driver.”
He groaned and pushed up to sitting.
“I didn't mean for you to get up. You should rest. Unless one of us has to drive this thing. Then you need to get up. Which sucks. 'Cause you need rest.”
He smiled. No, not smiled, more like refrained from laughing.
“Are you laughing at me?” How appalling that he didn't take her well-deserved concern seriously.
“No. I was simply thinking how cute you sound, all frazzled and such.”
She opened her mouth to refute it, then realized she couldn't. She was frazzled. And she didn't like it. Yet again, her life was in someone else's hands . . . this time floating on an ocean.
“Let me explain,” he began. “First, we are not in the ocean. We are in the Gulf of Mexico, near shore. Second, if anything gets too close, the sensors will automatically steer away from it. The autopilot is programmed to take us down the coast. It's set to a slow pace. We're basically just trudging along. I can sail, but I'm too tired to handle the rigging right now. So, we'll rely on the engine. But if using the autopilot makes you nervous, I can drop anchor and we can begin again in the morningâwith me at the helm.”
“We won't hit anything?”
“No. This isn't the fanciest of boats, but it's state of the art.”
“Are you sure?” Would he lie to her?
“Yes.”
“Sorry I sound like a doofus.” It was ridiculous of her to think he'd just turn the engine on and walk away.
“No. You've never sailed before. I get it. Now, if I've assuaged your worries, I'm going to sleep. Okay?”
“Of course.”
He lay back down and closed his eyes again.
“Are you sleeping there?”
“Yes.”
“What about the bed up front?” It looked far more comfy.
“I thought I'd leave that one for you.”
She glanced between the V-berth and Blake. The bunk was comfortable, but it didn't feel right that an injured man shouldn't take the nicer bed. “You take it. I'll sleep here.” His slow breathing revealed he'd fallen asleep.
She found linen in the storage compartment under the bunk and covered him with a blanket. Then she took the other bunk and settled in for the night. Or at least tried to.
She trusted Blake. She did. It was the boat she didn't trust. What if it had a computer malfunction? What if they hit a whale? Could the sensors detect a whale? Did whales swim in a gulf? She chewed on her lower lip, considering how much damage a whale might do to a boat of this size. Looking up, she was relieved to see lifejackets overhead. If the boat had sensors, it would have alarms as well. If they crashed into something, alarms should go off. She'd have more than enough time to grab the lifejackets. She shut her eyes, only to have them pop open. They'd be stuck in the water. It would be cold. Not Titanic cold, but cold. Then there were sharks. Oh hell. What was wrong with her? If Blake said they were safe, then they were safe. If they weren't, she'd kill him.
* * *
It didn't take Rhonda long to discover she hated sailing. Blake said they were headed for the Keys. Great. Problem was her stomach was still in New Orleans. How was she going to eat in Florida with no stomach? She wiped her mouth for the third time that day, thanking the sea king, Titan, for the mouthwash, then left the head. Seasickness sucked. Sailing sucked.
“How're you feeling?” Blake, as promised, had stayed on deck.
He'd told her just to hang her head over the side, but no way did she want him hearing or seeing her spill her internal organs. It was embarrassing enough that she didn't have “sea legs.” What a stupid expression. What did legs have to do with her stomach? She could walk just fine on this dumb boat. She just couldn't eat on it, and even then, she discovered it was better to have something in her belly, to give back to the ruthless sea gods, than dry heaving.
“How am I going to survive two weeks on this boat? It's been two days, Blake. When am I going to get those legs?” She stood halfway up the short steps, testing her stomach before committing to going up on deck.
“We'll stop for provisions and gas along the way. Maybe even dock the boat and stay in a hotel. How do you feel now?”
She thought about it and realized she no longer felt like making the tiny bathroom her home away from home. “Better.”
“That's good. Give it another day. You seem to be adjusting.”
She nodded. He was right. She was starting to feel more human. This was the first time since she'd woken up two days ago that the salt air didn't make her gag.
“Here.” He extended her a hand.
She took it, afraid her legs might embarrass her and give out. When the ground . . . boat . . . beneath her feet felt like it wouldn't be yanked away, she reluctantly dropped his hand.
“Wow.” She looked out into the wide expanse of water. “This is beautiful.” The sky, a clear blue, went on forever.
Blake glanced back from his post at the steering wheel. He smiled, nodding in agreement. “There's nothing like it.”
“Do you do a lot of sailing?”
“When I was home, yes. I don't own a boat, but I have friends who do.”
“Must be nice,” she said, trying her hardest not to sound peevish. “Having money.”
“It has its ups and downs.”
“Downs? Really? Like what? Deciding which expensive car to buy?” She snorted. “It's funny, people with money saying it ain't the be-all and end-all. But imagine what your life would've been like without it.”
“I can't complain about my family's money. I took full advantage of it growing up, too much so, as my grandmother will attest. But everyone wants to be a prince, forgetting all the bullshit that goes with the title.”
Just how aristocratic was his family? “Your family has a title, don't they? Are you like a lord or something?” She'd forgotten her sunglasses below and now had to shield her eyes as a small cloud no longer blocked the sun.
“First, promise me you're not going to get weird over this?”
“Promise.” She'd try not to, anyway.
“I think your life would have been better with money, and that would make me a very ungrateful sod for having it. But if you knew my grandmother, you'd be grateful for having been born poor.”
“Is she a bitch?” She put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. She is your grandmother.”
“No, that's quite all right. But that word doesn't do her justice.”
“Wow, I'm sorry.”
He laughed. “Now you're feeling sorry for me?”
She shrugged. “No one deserves a wonky family. Even rich people.”
“No, I suppose not. Wonky. What a unique way to describe the old broad.”
“So, what is it? What's the title?”
He hesitated then finally relented. “My grandfather was the Duke of Oakley. My grandmother is now the Dowager Duchess.”
Okay, those were titles. “He's gone?”
Blake nodded. “But I can guarantee he's watching over the family.”
And he didn't seem too happy about that. “So, your father is now the duke.”
“No. My twin brother is.”
Twins? There are
two
of them?
Now that just isn't fair to other men.
She'd hounded him enough about his looks and kept her comment to herself. “Your brother was born first?”
“No one knows. And that was a dilemma.” He opened a drawer under the controls and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, handing them to her.
“Thanks,” she said, slipping them on.
“In a family such as ours, an heir must be decided. When we were born, the nurse on duty failed to remember which of us came first. Apparently the birth had its complications and there was concern over my mother's well-being. Nevertheless, my grandmother, lovely woman that she was, had the poor girl fired.”
“Cold.”
“Yes, very. Long story short, my parents had to decide. They chose the larger of their sons, my brother, Colin.”
“So because you were scrawny, you lost out? Doesn't seem fair.”
“It had to go to one of us. Look,” he said. “Come here.”
She took his outstretched hand and stood beside him as he pointed to a distant spot in the ocean. A school of dolphins dove in and out of the water. They were so beautiful it almost made up for her sick stomach. Almost. “I have to sit.”
“Queasy?”
“A little. So you guys didn't know which is the heir and which is the spare.”
“Terrible phrase, that. Imagine your existence being reduced to
the spare
.”
“Ohhh.” Rhonda sat on one of the outdoor benches.
“Ohhh?”
“Oh.” It felt like her stomach would co-operate.
“Care to elaborate?”
“You don't like being the spare,” she said.
“I quite like it, thank you very much. Can I get you something? You haven't eaten much in the last few days.” He flipped a switch and the boat seemed to slow.
“Is it your turn to take care of me?”
“And why not?” He came to sit beside her.
“Sure, don't let something as trivial as a bullet wound get in the way of your chivalry.”
“Bah.” He waved her off. “I feel fine.”
“Right.” She didn't believe him. Since she'd gotten seasick, he'd been going out of his way to prove he was fine. “We should change your bandage.”
“I took it off. The hole is healing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm perfectly capable of making that decision.”
“Sure you are. How about you prove it to me?” She turned, tucking one leg beneath her. “T-shirt off, please.” The last thing either of them needed was his getting an infection this late in the game.
“Ohhh,” he said, mimicking her.
“Ohhh?” He was such a smart-ass.
“You want to see me naked.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“You got me.” She flung her hands up. “Can't put anything past you.”
He sat beside her and slung an arm around her shoulders. “You first.”
“You are
so
funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be funny.”
“And yet you achieved it beautifully. Come on, up the T-shirt.”
“Such a nag,” he muttered, but did as asked.
It was healing nicely and wouldn't require a bandage.
“Satisfied?”
She nodded. “You were right.”
“Now, I showed you mine. Show me yours.”
“So, you don't care to be king?”
“Nice deflection,” he said, sounding impressed.
“Thanks, it's a talent of mine.” She wasn't showing him anything.
“One of many.” He snuggled so close she could smell the clean scent of his shampoo.
“Stay on topic, your lordship.” For both their sakes. So far they'd managed to keep their hands off each other. And while the idea of getting down and dirty with Blake appealed to her more than she'd ever admit, in all honesty, she didn't trust her stomach to not embarrass her.
Blake sighed, turned forward in his seat, but kept his arm exactly where it was. “Now, you're a nag, evil
and
no fun.” He kissed her cheek. “I don't talk about this with anyone. My life as a duke's grandson was a little scandalous.”
“But you're going to tell me,” she said, more curious now than before.
“Why? Why you, when I haven't told Christian?”
“You want
me
to answer that?” Not that she could. She had no idea why he trusted her. Sure, they were running for their lives, but she'd bet he and Christian had had their own share of life-threatening situations. It couldn't be that they'd slept together. He'd slept with who knew how many women. And since when did sex equate to trust?