Clawing at the wood, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. She had to get out of here, get back to the hospital. Gray. He had no one to help him but her . . .
“Goddamn Nicholas. All he had to do was hold on to that human long enough to clean his mind.”
Sara stilled. The voice coming from the stairs was male, but it wasn’t Tom. Who—
“Nicholas said there were police in the area.” Another voice. Female this time. “He did the right thing holding back.”
Sara started to crawl, her left side hugging the wall. Maybe these people were working with Tom, or for him. Her breath was shallow and dense as she inched forward. If she could just get to a room with a fire escape . . .
“Oh, shit,” the man said, his tone full of panic. “She’s out of bed.”
Quick, heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, and in seconds, Sara felt hands on her—large, male hands. And she was being lifted.
“No!” she uttered fiercely, struggling like a cat in the man’s arms.
“Please don’t fight, Dr. Donohue,” he said, his tone gentle. “You’ll injure yourself further.”
“Let me go!”
“Sara, please.”
His voice suddenly registered in her consciousness. She turned and, through her blurred vision, saw who held her.
It was him. The man outside her apartment, the one she’d helped.
Beneath long black lashes, his scarlet eyes implored her. “Sara ...”
“You won’t hurt me,” she said.
He shook his head. “Never.”
“I don’t want to die,” she said, completely spent now.
“And you won’t,” he said as he carried her back into the bedroom. “I will not allow it.”
6
“Lie down, my dear.”
The woman’s voice was soft and maternally soothing. “Yes. Good. There we are.”
The scene in the hallway had taken its toll on Sara and she allowed herself to be directed back against the pillow. The man was gone now. He’d deposited her in bed and disappeared, leaving her to wonder where he was and if he was coming back.
She sighed when she felt the woman’s cool hand on her forehead. The gesture reminded her so much of her mother and those days she’d been allowed to stay home from school, eat Chef Boyardee, and have as many Pudding Pops as she wanted. Those normal, coveted days before the fire . . .
“Better?”
It hurt to move her head, but Sara managed to nod.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” the woman asked. She was somewhere in her fifties, and had eyes the color of olives and short, gray hair.
“No.”
“If you change your mind, I have some fruit and juice here on the side table.” The woman smiled as she placed a hand around Sara’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Sara asked weakly.
“Checking your pulse.” The woman pressed two fingers into the groove along the inside of Sara’s wrist.
“Who are you?”
“Leza Franz.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes,” the woman said, giving Sara a tight-lipped smile.
“What hospital?”
“I’m a . . . private physician.”
Sara shifted uncomfortably. This was wrong. Something was wrong—she could feel it in her gut. Where was the man?
She stole a glance at the window, then the door. If she could just get up, if she could just get to a phone . . .
“You have a concussion, my dear,” the doctor said gently. “But it’s a mild one, and with a few days’ rest, you should be up and—”
“I should be in a hospital,” Sara interrupted, her tone as forceful as she could manage. “Why am I not in a hospital?”
The doctor hesitated for a moment, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you want me to . . . ?”
“No. I’ll explain it to her.”
Sara’s pulse jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. He was here. The whole time. But how? She’d seen him leave . . . hadn’t she?
She lifted her chin. Where was he? She wanted to sit up, see him, demand he tell her what was happening—but her body wouldn’t respond.
“Very good, sir,” said the doctor. “I’ll return in an hour.”
“Thank you, Leza.”
The low, almost growling timbre of his voice seemed to take up residence in Sara’s chest, the vibration warming her blood.
The doctor walked to the door, and, suddenly panicked, Sara called out, “Wait!”
Before the door clicked shut, Leza glanced back and smiled empathetically. “Not to worry, Dr. Donohue. You’re safe here.”
Safe? Who is she kidding? Pressing the heels of her palms into the mattress, Sara pushed herself into a semisitting position, then gripped the sheets when a rush of dizziness came over her.
“I can feel your fear, Sara.”
Sara blinked to recover her vision. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“Right in front of you.”
“No, you’re not. I can’t see—”
Fire roared to life in the hearth across the room. “I swear to you there is nothing to fear here.”
He sat in a massive black wingback chair in the shadowed alcove directly across from the bed—a chair Sara didn’t remember being there before her unsuccessful escape moments ago. He was dressed for cold weather in a thick gray sweater and black pants. He watched her intently, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
In the amber light of the fire, he looked to be somewhere in his thirties, and was far from good-looking. In fact, with the buzz cut, narrowed burgundy eyes, and those two small, black key-shaped markings carved into the hollowed flesh beneath his high cheekbones, he had a face to fear, a face that might make some recoil. But strangely, Sara felt nothing but relief under his watchful gaze. Yes, he looked relentless, ready to spring, but even so, every fear within her eased, warmed even, and the hum his voice had created within her returned.
Clearly, the knock on the head had screwed with her brain.
“Who are you?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Alexander Roman.”
“I don’t know you.”
“No.”
“Where am I?”
“My home. In SoHo.”
The way he stared at her mouth when she talked made a muscle quiver in her thigh. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”
“You were attacked.”
“I know that, but why am I here and not in a hospital?”
He leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “Unfortunately, that little bastard who attacked you got away, and I’m fairly certain he still wishes you harm.” Alexander growled softly. “He will be found and dealt with, but until then I want to make sure you’re safe.”
The news that Tom was still walking around Manhattan and not locked up in a jail cell devastated Sara, but she didn’t show it. She had another problem to contend with, an immediate problem. “I’m not safe here.”
“You are,” he assured her.
“No. I want to go to a hospital.”
His expression was sympathetic, but there was an immovable flicker in his gaze. “I can’t allow that. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
He sighed. “I’m bound to protect you, Sara.”
With those words, the vibration and the calming heat from a moment ago moved from her chest to her belly, then threatened to dip lower. She ignored it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or who you think you are—but I don’t need your protection. If Tom’s still out there, and he goes after me again, I’ll call the police. Have them deal with it.” She watched his eyes flash in the firelight at the suggestion. “Where’s my phone?”