Run To Rome

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The guy on the patio had given him a roundhouse kick in the chest that knocked him on his ass. He’d be dead right now if the wrought iron chair he’d grabbed hadn’t deflected the bullet meant for his head. Not only had the chair saved his life, it made an effective weapon, too.

Trent pushed to his feet and promptly dropped onto the back half-bench seat. A sharp jab in the ass reminded him he’d jammed the gun deep in the back waistband of his jeans before hollering for Halli to go. The extended length of the silencer screwed into the barrel is what bit him in the butt.

He leaned forward to pull it free, and Halli stared.

“Where’d you get that?”

“That guy you laid out in the grass didn’t seem to need it anymore.” He released the ammo clip into his left hand, checked to find four bullets left, and punched the clip back in before setting the gun on the seat. “Nice job back there, by the way.”

“Turns out I didn’t kill him.”

“So you said.” He didn’t think he’d killed her guy either, though he was pretty sure he’d hit at least one of them before diving for the boat.

With the worst of the agony in his arm having subsided to an insistent throb, he angled toward the rear running lights and gingerly pulled on his left elbow to get a good look at the gash. It hurt like hell, but luckily the bullet had only grazed his bicep.

Halli’s indrawn breath made a hissing sound through her teeth. His sideways glance took in her ashen face as she stared first at his arm, then the dark stains on her hands.

“You’re not one of those people who freaks out over a little blood, are you?” he asked.

Wide blue eyes rose to meet with his, then dropped back to his arm. A thick, red rivulet had worked its way through the wet hairs on his arm until it dripped off his elbow onto his jeans.

“Uh…that’s more than a little.”

Another drop hit his thigh as she reached a hand to grip the side railing. He took note of her white knuckles. “Sit down before you pass out.”

She blinked before visibly pulling herself together.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She took a step toward him. “I can help. Ah…first thing is to stop the bleeding. Right? What do we need? Bandages. First aid kit. You have to have one on a boat, right? Where would that be?”

She whirled toward the front of the boat and back to him with the last two questions.

Trent picked up the gun again and stood. “Slow down. I’m getting dizzy watching you spin.”

“What are you doing? Sit down,” she instructed when he tried to move past.

Funny how the blood rattled her, but she didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the weapon in his hand anymore.

And she didn?

?t move out of his way. “I can get the kit if you tell me where—”

“Right now, I’m more concerned about how far we are from the house than my arm.”

“We’re far enough.”

“I’m still going to check the GPS.” He tried to sidestep, but she moved with him.

“You’re getting blood all over the place!”

Her palm pressed flat against his chest as if she thought she could actually force him to sit down. Trent took a hasty step back. Away from the heat of her hand and the unexpected yearning it triggered the moment she made contact with his bare skin. “What do you want me to do about it? For Christ’s sake, making sure we’re safe is more important than a few drops of blood.”

A sound of frustration rumbled in her throat, and the next thing he knew, she yanked her brown sweatshirt over her head and thrust it under his elbow. “There. Now you can check your stupid GPS while I find the first aid kit.”

On her way below deck, he heard her mutter, “Like I’m dumb enough to stop within shooting distance of the house.”

“It’s in the head,” he called.