Free Hush by Karen Robards Page B

doubt.
    Oh, God, if he catches me . . .
    Her heart thundered. Her pulse raced. Her feet felt like they had lead weights attached. He was closing fast: she could hear him, hear the breath rasping in his throat, the rustle of his clothing, the rushing thud of his footsteps. She could feel the hate and anger rolling off him in waves.
    â€œHelp! Fire! ” she screamed, as a trick she’d been taught in a rape prevention class years before burst into her mind. She grabbed one of the lightweight dining chairs as she passed it, slinging it behind her to land with a crash in his path like it might actually slow him down.
    It didn’t. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him dodge around it even as she reached the door.
    Hurry, hurry, hurry .
    Dancing from one foot to the other, so frightened that she felt like her body was electrically charged with fear, she fumbled with the lock—the chain was off, thank God the chain was off!—and twisted it open. Then she grabbed for the knob.
    â€œHelp! Fire!” she screamed as she yanked the door open.
    Risking one more terrified glance over her shoulder, she saw that he was no more than a few feet away, his face contorted with fury, both hands—one horribly red and shiny with blood—stretched out to grab her. More blood covered the side of his neck, disappeared into the open V-neck of his shirt. She could see that it still poured from the wound she had made.
    â€œGet back here!” He snatched at her and missed, the rough warmth of his fingertips just brushing her back as she leaped out into the wide, dimly lit hall with its many closed doors, screaming “Help! Fire!” at the top of her lungs.
    â€œI will kill you! Suka! ”
    â€œWhat the fuck?” The roar was loud enough to be heard even through her eardrum-shattering screams. It came from in front of her.
    Head snapping around, Riley discovered that (thank God, thank God!) there was a man in the hall. A large man in a dark suit. He ran toward her from the direction of the elevators, responding to her screams, she thought, and he had a gun in his hand .
    â€œHelp!” She sped toward him with the urgency of a heat-­seeking missile. Behind her, her attacker erupted through her apartment door with an enraged cry. Another terrified glance over her shoulder told her that he, too, had acquired a gun. He must have had it on him all along.
    â€œLook out! He’s got a—” She screamed a warning at the man racing toward her, breaking off before she got the all-­important last word out as he lunged at her, hooked an arm around her waist, snatched her off her feet, and whirled around with her.
    Bam! Bam!
    The gun—her attacker’s gun—fired twice, in rapid succession. Face muffled in her rescuer’s chest, Riley screamed. The sound of two hands smacking the wall one right after the other not a foot to her left and the resultant shower of plaster chips told her where the bullets had hit. The man holding her—­having already put his back between her and the weapon, she realized—threw her to the ground and dropped down on top of her, shielding her with his body. Hitting the floor hurt and having his considerable weight crash down on top of her hurt, too, but abject fear of her attacker was what had her screaming like a crazywoman into the suffocating curve of the wide chest that now arced above her face.
    â€œGet down!” her rescuer yelled, presumably at someone who’d stepped into the path of possible gunfire.
    A woman’s cry. A man’s shout. Running footsteps. A curse. The sounds were muffled by the big body above her.
    From his position—one arm was braced beside her, holding the bulk of his weight off her, while the other seemed to be extended back down the hall toward where her attacker should be—she got the impression that he was aiming his gun but for whatever reason he didn’t fire.
    As her scream died away,