Thank God for stilettos. She stamped down hard on Mwana’s foot.
The next few moments blurred into one. The instant Mwana’s arm loosened its hold on her, Nick lunged forward and yanked her away, spinning her aside. She crashed against the sink, but managed to stop herself from falling.
Nick grabbed Mwana’s arm holding the knife and landed a punch in his solar plexus.
The madman didn’t even wheeze in pain. Calmly, he reached behind him.
“Watch out, Nick, he’s got a gun!” she cried, trying to get round Nick again.
“Belle, get back!” he bellowed.
Expecting the gun to be leveled at them any second, her stomach lurched with terror. She struggled to get past Nick, but his body blocked her, pinning the hand with the knife against the cupboard.
Mwana continued to grope, and after a second, a look of incomprehension crossed his face.
He spun around.
And came face to face with Bertrand, who held Mwana’s gun firmly in his hands. The butler looked bruised, but not bloodied, thank God.
Mwana turned back to Nick, a look of pure hatred burning in his eyes. With a curdled cry, he lunged.
Nick met him halfway, this time with a fist to his jaw. Mwana crashed back against the granite kitchen island. He scrambled to rise, and again Nick punched him in the face. The sickening crunch of shattering bone ricocheted through the kitchen.
Mwana flailed backwards and lost his balance. Nick aimed a kick squarely at his ribs. The rebel leader grunted in pain and went down like a sack of potatoes. Belle heard a horrid crack as his head slammed against the stone corner of the counter, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Nick, barely breathing hard from his exertions, stood looking down at Mwana’s still form, his face expressionless. Then he turned to Belle and tugged her close.
His hands gently cradled her face. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yes. I th— I thought—” Fear for him still held her in its grip.
He pulled her to him, clamping powerful arms around her. “It’s okay now.” After a moment, he turned to Bertrand. “Are you all right, my friend?” At his nod, Nick stretched out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
After Bertrand handed it over, Nick said, “Take her into the living room, okay? Get her a drink. Then call Jameson. Tell him to contact the police.”
Belle shook her head. “But—”
“Go, Tinkerbelle.” His voice brooked no argument.
Bertrand fussed and settled her into a sofa, brought her a glass of water, and called Nick’s chief of security.
About to take a sip, she had a niggling thought. There was a phone in the kitchen. They could have made the calls from there.
She slammed the glass down, kicked off her remaining shoe, and raced back to the kitchen. Bertrand and the two bodyguards who’d burst in were hot on her heels.
Nick was crouched over Mwana, the gun pointed over the rebel’s heart, deadly intent on his face. Her husband had killed in the line of duty. She knew what he was capable of.
“No, Nick! Don’t do it. Please.”
His eyes remained on the man. “He threatened your life, not once, but twice. I can’t let him live.”
“Yes, you can. You’re not a cold-blooded killer,” she pleaded, placing herself in his line of sight. “The police will be here in a minute. And he—” she looked down at the man, writhing on the floor as he regained consciousness “—he’s not going anywhere.”
Nick’s deadly gaze remained on Mwana. “He threatened to take you from me. He held a goddamned knife to your throat!”
“But if you go through with this, you’ll be sentencing us both to death, Nick, don’t you see? You’ll go to prison, and I can’t live without you. It would kill me if you were taken away from me. I love you, Nick. Please put the gun down.”
Slowly he looked up at her. Her heart caught at the emotion blazing in his eyes. His chest heaved. Then he shook his head. “I can’t—”