Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(132)

Jake cut her off just a few feet from the car, snatching her up into his arms, sprinting away from the intense heat and building conflagration. She fought like a wildcat, kicking, scratching, the blood making her so slippery he lost his hold more than once. Each time he dropped her, she didn’t hesitate to turn back, her eyes on the burning car as she tried to run, then crawl, back toward it.

“It’s too late,” he cried harshly. “He’s already dead!” Ruthlessly he flung her to the ground, covering her body with his own, pinning her down while the earth beneath them rocked with the force of the explosion.

“Andy.” She whispered the name, a lost, forlorn sound wrenched straight from the heart.

In an instant, all the fight went out of her. She lay motionless in Jake’s arms, small, completely vulnerable and broken, her eyes staring up at him unseeing. Again, time seemed to stand still. Everything tunneled until he was focused wholly on her eyes. Enormous, tilted like a cat’s, aquamarine with dark orbs, unusual and mesmerizing, now haunted. She seemed familiar—too familiar. He knew her, and yet he didn’t.

For the first time in his life he felt a strong protective urge welling up out of nowhere. He became aware of the gathering crowd staring down at the woman as others came upon the scene. Instinctively he shielded her, barking orders to check the overturned convertible, to ensure ambulances and the police were on the way.

He worked furiously to stem the flow of blood pouring from the woman’s temple and from her leg. A part of him knew he should be thinking instead of Shaina and the child she was carrying, but his mind was consumed with the woman he protected. All he could do was silently vow not to allow her to slip away as she so clearly wanted to do.

Her grief-stricken green eyes begged him to let her go. Where had he seen those eyes before? He looked into them again, drawn by some unseen force. Almond in shape, pupils round and black, the irises a rare aquamarine, the blue-green surrounded by a golden circle. Unusual. And yet he knew those eyes. Where had he seen them?

“Let me go.”

She knew then that his will held her when she wanted to slip away. Jake found himself leaning close to her so that his mouth was against her ear, his breath warm against her skin. His golden eyes glittered ruthlessly, mercilessly into hers. “No.” He said the word implacably. “Did you hear me? No.” He denied her a second time, his white teeth snapping together in finality as he applied more pressure to the pumping wound in her leg.

She closed her eyes, tired, and turned her face away from him as if she had no fight left in her. The ambulance was there, paramedics pushing him aside to work on her. A short distance away, firefighters draped a blanket over Shaina’s friend. This was one accident Shaina’s father could not make go away with his money.

More paramedics were working desperately at Shaina’s side. It took him a minute to realize they were taking the baby—his son. His heart in his throat, he waited until he heard the triumphant cheers. The child was alive, more than they could say for the mother. He waited to feel emotion, any emotion, at Shaina’s death or his son’s birth. He felt nothing at all, only a sense of contempt for the way Shaina had lived and died. Silently cursing his own cold nature, he looked down at the woman lying so still, her dark eyes staring past the paramedic to the burned car. He shifted slightly while they worked on her, to block her view.

Jake followed the ambulances carrying his son and the woman to a small hospital. Although the place seemed a little primitive by Jake’s standards, the overworked staff seemed to know their jobs.

“I’m Officer Nate Peterson.” A young highway patrolman thrust a cup of coffee into his bloody hands.

Her blood. It was all over him. Jake’s shoulders sagged and all at once he was immensely tired, but he needed to find out if she was still alive.

“Can you tell me what happened, sir?” the officer asked. The young patrolman was shaking so badly he could hardly hold his pen. “Andy and I were good friends,” the man admitted, choking back emotion.

“Tell me about him,” Jake asked, curious about the man who inspired such loyalty that a woman would run through fire to save him, even with her own terrible injuries. A man who could make a patrolman shake and hold back real tears. Jake could feel the genuine emotion pouring off the other man. He looked around the hospital and found others looking just as distressed.

“His name was Andrew Reynolds and he was twenty-five, best mechanic in town. He could fix anything with an engine. I was best man at his wedding only five months ago. He was so happy that Emma married him. They were so happy.”

Emma. That was her name. “Is she still alive?” He held his breath.

The patrolman nodded. “As far as I know. She’s in surgery. Did you see the accident?”

Jake crumbled up the paper coffee cup and threw it in the trash can. “They were drunk. I followed them from Senator Hindman’s party. Shaina Trent, the woman, was carrying my child. She didn’t want him and had signed him over to me, but it didn’t stop her from drinking and partying with her friends. I was worried because both of them appeared to be drunk. I’m sorry, I don’t know the man.”

Jake gave the rest of his statement as clearly as possible, knowing the skidmarks would bear him out.

Jake overheard a young nurse crying in the hall and he walked over to her on the pretext of comforting her. “Are you all right?”