Free Guns and Roses by Sylvia Day, Allison Brennan, Lori G. Armstrong Page A

head.
    “I work for a woman…” he whispered into a kiss. “Who could get you and your grandmother’s ashes to Paris on a private plane.”
    She whimpered and slipped a little.
    “You could be there by tomorrow night.” That still wasn’t enough to breathe life back into her. He needed something no one else could possibly give her. He needed… Jeremiah. “And I’d bet six thousand more dollars, she can get you the identity of that spy.”
    She stiffened and sucked in a breath. Oh, yes, his gut instinct was right on that one. “You… she… could?”
    “Would you like to know that, Callie?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then just hold me, just—”
    The snap of metal against metal cut him off and they both turned to the door. There it was again, a crack of… hope.
    “I think the lock just broke,” he said, taking a chance on letting her go. She stayed standing. Barely.
    “Don’t move. Less than a minute now.” He pushed the plastic panels away, reached for the handle and shook hard. The door popped with a smack of suction then opened to a darkened—and warm—pantry.
    After a quick check of the room, he went back into the freezer just as Callie’s legs buckled. He caught her before she hit the floor, lifting her with strength he didn’t know he had left. “You’re too beautiful to die,” he whispered. “Much too beautiful to die.”
     
    ~*~
     
    He could tell her. He could tell Callie the answer to a question that plagued her since Granny had unburdened her heavy conscience and shared her secret the morning that she died. He could answer a question that haunted her great-grandmother to her grave, long after she moved to America, met another man, and finally settled on a farm in rural Florida.
    The possibility—however remote— kept Callie breathing. It kept her calm and centered and determined to live as Ben pulled her out of the freezer into blessed, holy, insanely wonderful warmth.
    “You need air,” he said, gulping some of his own. “Oxygen. We both do. Come on.”
    “Okay, okay.” The relief was almost instantaneous.
    She gave him his shirt back, as clarity poured over her, as welcome as the warmth, each of her cells thawing back to normal with every passing minute.
    “Let’s go,” he urged, taking her out to the hall.
    She managed to stay upright, walking with him, warmer with each step up two flights of stairs. Back in the banquet room, the tables and chairs were being dismantled by a crew of hotel workers. Ben paused, surveying the room, getting his own clarity back.
    “We can find her,” he said. “We have to find her.”
    “The chef?”
    “Angela McManus. That is, if she’s still alive.”
    He set off, his arm still around Callie, letting her cling to the man who saved her life, practically tripping as they ran past the partially bussed tables. The tables…
    “Wait a second.” She brought them both to a halt near the back of the room. “Just one. I need one.”
    She plucked a Black Cherry bloom from a centerpiece and stuffed it into her pocket. One would be enough to start next year’s crop.
    He didn’t argue, but took her hand again and led her out, up the escalator, to the lobby doors.
    “Oh thank God!” she exclaimed when they stepped outside and sunshine poured over them. “I will never complain about the Florida heat again.”
    “C’mon, Callie, run.” He didn’t give her a chance to soak up the glorious sun, dragging her across the street, into the parking garage, and all the way up more stairs to the top where they’d parked.
    With every step, her head throbbed, still bruised from the handle of Monica Stone’s gun. The pain just reminded her that the woman was a killer and if they didn’t move fast, God only knew what Mrs. McManus might eat.
    Ben peeled his car out of the garage, driving with one hand and punching a number into his cell phone with the other. He threw the phone on the console in speaker mode so Callie could hear it ring.
    “I told you no