Free Fire of My Heart by Erin Grace Page A

to boot!” He leaned in to her
face, the odor of his foul breath making her nauseous. “I like fancy, foreign
girls.”
    “Good for
you.” She kicked down hard on his instep, which made him crumple, loosen his grip
on her wrist, then slipped free of his hold. Twisting his arm against him, she
smacked his nose with the palm of her other hand. The pain made her wince, but
she kept going.
    “Bitch!” he
cried out. His two accomplices stood there in shock, watching the demise of their
leader. She released her captor and took flight across the room, hurdled the
couch in one long leap and headed straight for the doorway.
    “You stupid
bitch!” the injured leader bellowed, close behind her. “Colin, you stay here
and start loading up anything flash. Sean, get upstairs and hurry up about it.”
    As she crossed the grand hall, heart in her throat, a younger
voice echoed out. “Bloody hell, John. Why do we get to do all the work?”
    “Quit yer
bloody yap, yer piker,” her attacker panted in reply, as she headed toward the hallway.
“When I catch her, yer both can have a poke, all right? Besides, I have a score
to settle.”
    Over her
dead body they’d have a poke.
    Racing in
the dark, she nearly lost her footing on the polished boards in the hallway,
but grabbed the doorjamb and swung into the kitchen. Never had she been so
frightened. Where the hell was Rowan?
    What a fool
she’d been, saying she didn’t want or need a man’s help. Anyone’s help.
    This didn’t
count. She was outnumbered and very much alone. Wanted to shout his name out
loud, but she was too fearful the intruders might hear.
    Making her
way through the darkened room, she tried not to bump against the tables or chairs.
The back door. She must find it--her only way out. Warm tears of frustration
running down her face, she reached out into the darkness for the doorknob.
Hell. She almost felt like laughing.
    What a
night.
    She’d gone
from turning away the best thing that ever happened to her, to running for her very
life.
    She must be
cursed.
    God damn,
Michael! The cheap bastard, would it have killed him to install at least a
phone? Her mobile still wasn’t working, and the battery probably long dead
anyway. Short of running to the nearest house, she had no way of getting any
help.
    The door
latch. At last. She pulled at it but nothing happened. No. Shit! She’d locked it,
put the key in her jacket, which was somewhere upstairs. Such a bloody idiot.
    A deafening
thud pounded in her ears. The sound of boots tramping down the hallway. She was
trapped.
    Violent
tremors shook her.
    With the
front door padlocked, she had to get the key. She had to make it to the
stairwell. In the darkness, she felt along the table until she found the large
carving knife she’d used to chop onions the night before.
    Shaking,
she picked up the weapon, tightened her fingers around the handle. Her legs felt
like lead. Running seemed impossible.
    Cripes, now
or never. A deep breath in, and she made a dash for the hallway, reached the doorway--and
collided with the intruder’s chest with a painful thud. She fell back, landing
on the cold stone floor.
    “Argh.” The
wind had been knocked from her lungs, immobilizing her.
    The impact
had forced the knife from her grasp, sent it scattering into the darkness.
Shit! Gasping for breath, she slowly sat up. The hefty oaf came toward her, the
small torch he held casting an evil glow on his smirking face. She tried to
scramble backward.
    “Perfect,”
he snarled with triumph and spat at the floor. “Just where I wanted you.”
    “Drop dead,
you creep.” A nasty stinging sensation pulsated from her palm. As she rubbed her
hands together, the pain of another graze on her elbow began to throb. Her
backside would have a terrific bruise tomorrow. She ached all over. “You’re
real brave, fighting a woman aren’t you?”
    She backed
up against the cupboard doors. There was no way out. “Rowan,” she screamed, with
every ounce of