What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(103)

Yet the money...my God. When she married Gregory, it had been in the tens of millions. On his death, his sister Erin had taken up the reins of the industry; she had been a brilliant businessperson, and fully as crazy as her brother.

Kellen’s mind clicked through the facts: Gregory had lived long enough to tell Erin that Cecilia still lived. Last winter, Erin had hunted her down, tried to kill her, and killed herself instead. Cousin Dan must have been thrilled to think he was the sole heir and the fortune was his, but Erin had left information letting him know that Cecilia lived. And true to the family’s mad creed, he had come after her—and her daughter—intending murder. Not for vengeance, but because by now, the fortune must be worth...

Wowza. A lot.

Kellen wanted to jump on him and kick him into next week. Maybe she could have, if she wasn’t wearing this wedding dress and all its petticoats and the corset and...

Damn Zio Federico. And praise him, too. Right now, these spike heels were the best throwing weapon in her arsenal.

First, she needed Daniel to face her. She stretched the garter between her hands like a giant lacy rubber band and shot.

The stupid thing didn’t so much fly as wobble, catching unseen air currents and doing no more than ruffling Dan’s thinning hair. He half turned to look behind.

Rae spotted her and shouted, “Mommy!”

Kellen pulled one spiked heel out of her belt and flung the stiletto heel as hard as she could.

It bumped Dan’s chest with enough impact to make him exhale with an “oof!”

She threw the second heel.

He leaned forward, into the arc of the next heel, and the stiletto lived up to its name—it took a divot out of his cheek.

He let go of Rae and grabbed his face.

Blood dripped.

“You bitch,” Daniel shouted.

Kellen heard the hint of a Boston accent. He had been the one pinching Rae’s cheek and questioning her.

With the pruning shears in one hand, she slid down the curve of the barrel and dropped six feet to the cold concrete floor. Her feet slipped out from under her—damn slick silk hose!—and she landed in an ungraceful heap. Pain shot through her hip. She struggled to right herself and move into the fight.

He lifted his Glock and took aim, his brown eyes cold and intent.

Kellen was about to die, and her daughter would die with her.

Instead, her daughter—her daughter—yelled, “Watch this, Mommy!” and swung the pink princess doll case at the side of his knee.

Rae couldn’t do any real damage. She didn’t have the muscle mass. But she used all her strength.

He stumbled sideways.

The shot went wild.

In a stunning follow-up, Rae opened the case and flung five naked princess dolls under his feet.

He stepped on one, then another, off-balance, arms outstretched, weaving madly.

“Rae, run!” Kellen shouted.

Rae whacked him, a good princess-case blow to the groin—groin, groin, groin, groin—and took off toward the back, toward the barrels, where she could hide.

Kellen didn’t take the time to stop and laugh. She laughed as she charged, pruning shears extended. She laughed as the points hit him in the belly right above the waistline.

Daniel screamed. Red stained his white suit jacket, but the material must have been patented for superheroes, for the shears bounced back and out of her hands. They clattered away on the concrete floor.

Daniel put his hand over the wound, lifted his palm and stared at the blood. He looked up, she gazed into his eyes and she saw his soul. She saw the evil cruelty that permeated the Lykke family. The differences she saw settled the debate of nature versus nurture; viciousness was bred into their bones and had corrupted their hearts.

Kellen whirled and ran back toward the oak cask, grabbed the wooden bucket and, when she turned back toward him, he was once again lifting the pistol in his bloody hand. She ran forward and swung the bucket by the handle, up and around in a wide circle. Discarded red wine blasted her, the floor, the walls. The heavy oak hit his wrist with a resounding thunk, not enough to crunch bones, but his hand flapped out and up, and he lost his grip on the pistol, it flew through the air and smacked the side of the stainless steel barrel.

Kellen ducked reflexively, fearing the unsecured gun would discharge.

But the Glock skidded away to hide under a cask.

There. She felt a bone-deep satisfaction. That made things a little more even.

He grabbed his wrist, staggered backward, stepped on another princess doll, did a clumsy dance to keep his balance. Then, before she could blink, he pulled a thin knife out of his sleeve.

The son of a bitch had come prepared to fight, and like Gregory, Daniel was tall and long-armed.

Damn men. They always had the unfair advantage, and took it, too.

He lunged at her, blade outstretched.

She retreated. The hose on her feet was beginning to shred. She had traction again. Thank God, because this gown dragged her down and the only way to fight this guy was—lifting her skirts high, she kicked at the hand holding the knife.

The weight of the gown slowed her.

Daniel anticipated the kick, moved aside and slashed.

She swung in a circle and stumbled. Agony slithered up her leg. Blood, sticky and warm, slithered down from the gash in her ankle. She gasped, unsure how badly she was hurt, unsure if she could stand.

“I’ve had to keep up my fighting skills to get parts,” the actor told her, and lunged with the point of the knife.