Baddest Bad Boys(70)

Ellie shivered. That meant the man was still out there. Could try again. She hugged her arms in front of her.

“I got a partial plate number,” Max went on. He unbuttoned his wet shirt as he talked, then stripped it off.

She watched, distracted by his bare chest. Her mouth opened, shut. She realized he still talked, that he held out his shirt to her. She tried to cover with a joke. “That will hardly keep me dry.”

“I was more concerned with keeping you covered.” He tipped his head back toward the gate. “I told you, I’ve got security people out there.”

Ellie glanced down and for the second time that night, she felt utterly mortified. Her soaked gown had turned completely transparent. In the dim light her pale skin seemed luminescent. Cold and wet, her nipples jutted out obscenely.

She raised her arms to cover herself. Max moved closer and settled his shirt over her shoulders. Before she could speak, he swept her up into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. In spite of the rain and wind he radiated heat. She shivered, miserable and ashamed.

“Let’s get inside and get you dry,” he said. “My men will contact the police.”

Ellie shook her head. “You’ve done enough.”

“Enough? I haven’t even started.”

She bristled at his irritated tone. “I can handle this, Max.”

“Like you handled Bridgette at the penthouse? I don’t think so.”

3
The storm unleashed its fury with a triple explosion of lightning. Max crushed Ellie against his bare chest, doing everything possible to shield her as the gale-force winds turned even the tiniest bits of debris into projectiles.

His first instinct had been to take her away from here—but right now they needed shelter from the weather. He also wanted to check her foot.

He crossed the deck and used the same door the perpetrator had broken into. Shards of glass smashed beneath his shoes as he shouldered his way through the open French door. Ellie gasped, as if just realizing that this was how the man had entered.

The near-constant lightning illuminated parts of the interior of the house. Moving slowly, Max negotiated around the living room furniture and headed for the kitchen. While he hadn’t been in the house in ages, he doubted he’d ever forget the floor plan.

Ellie squirmed in his arms. “You can put me down now.”

“No.”

“Please, Max—”

He tightened his grip. Doing so cut off her argument and discouraged further conversation. And right now, the less he said, the better.

The thought of what could have happened eroded what was left of Max’s fuse—not that it had been long to begin with. He’d driven here in a foul mood, rehashing the scene with Bridgette, remembering Ellie’s note. As soon as he arrived, he’d noticed the parked car across the street, half hidden beneath trees. Something about it had pinged his radar.

He had decided to look around and spotted Ellie climbing out the window. It was a no-brainer that something had spooked her, most likely a break-in. He’d seen a flashlight beam move in the house, but the man slipped out and went after Ellie.

Damn it! What if Max hadn’t gotten here when he did? What would have happened to her? His thoughts had zeroed in on the reports of a stalker. Was it the same guy? His desire to beat the crap out of the bastard spiked.

In the kitchen, Max set Ellie on the counter beside the sink. The storm’s ferocity continued to swell. Thunder reverberated, a lethal warning of more to come. Rain hammered the glass, sounding more like metal pellets than water.

He shoved the curtains away from the large window in an attempt to let more of the strobe-like lightning fill the dark kitchen. It didn’t help.

“Flashlight?” he snapped.

“Uh…there’s a jar candle in the cabinet to your left.”

But the candle wasn’t there. He shook his head. Swearing under his breath, Max started opening and slamming drawers until he found it. Then the ancient disposable lighter next to it didn’t want to work. It took a few tries, but finally the candle’s wick ignited. He set it next to the sink. The glow, while soft, was at least steadier than the lightning.

Moving back to Ellie, he grasped her left foot and angled it toward the candlelight. A thick, triangular-shaped piece of glass was still wedged into her heel.

“How bad does it look?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Max twisted the cold water faucet on full blast. The anger that he’d felt earlier over not catching her assailant flooded through his veins again. Because of that f*cking creep, she was hurt. He wanted to—

“Please talk to me, Max.” Ellie touched his arm, drawing his attention. “Say something.”

“This will hurt.” He yanked the glass out, then held her foot under the faucet.

He felt her fingers dig into his forearms. He heard her gasp as she sucked in air and just as quickly cut off a cry. He looked up, but she had dropped her head. Pulling away, she reached for one of the hand towels.

Regret swamped him. That he’d hurt her—even under the guise of helping—instantly deflated his temper. Left him feeling like a brute. Before he could apologize, a loud boom resounded. The tree outside took a direct hit. Clusters of lightning seemed to explode inside the kitchen as branches slammed against the window.

Max had already swung Ellie back into his arms. “Let me get you someplace safer.” In the living room, he had to pause to let his eyes adjust, then carried her to one of the sofas and set her down. “I’ll be right back.”