That’s all working in my periphery, but what I’m really aware of is finding the asshole with the gun—and the beautiful blonde behind me, breasts rising and falling at my back with every rapid breath she takes.
“Are you hurt?” I shout over the noise.
“No.”
Her reply is faint, but I hear it. That’s enough for now.
Another shot rings out, this time so close I can hear the bullet whiz past my temple. It’s not my first rodeo with this kind of shit, but if I don’t move, it might be my last. Still, I’m under no illusions. I’m not the target of whoever’s pulling the trigger. Since his first shot went way over my head, I know he’s aiming for Sophie Larsen.
“We’ve got to move!” I grab her wrist with a curse, then hop off the float, singer in tow. To her credit, she manages to keep up and land on her feet, despite those ridiculously impractical, totally sexy heels. Even more impressive, she actually manages to run.
Still, I’m twitchy. Maybe it’s the screaming. I know the suggestive music filled with Sophie’s smoky voice singing about sex isn’t settling me. Neither is the adrenaline. But the back of my neck starts to itch.
The next shot is coming.
Abruptly, I swerve into a nearby doorframe and jerk Sophie with me, again shielding her with my body as the next shot hits a window frame inches from us, splintering the wood. I jerk the doorknob to the right to try and dive inside. It’s locked.
Fuck.
I’m hyperaware that my back is vulnerable and that she’s pressed against me, looking up at me with those hypnotic eyes she’s so well known for, a placid shade somewhere between blue and gray. Only now, they look panicked. I see past the stage makeup and the false lashes to the terrified woman underneath.
“Breathe.”
She shakes her head. “We can’t stay here.”
“No. C’mon.”
I tug on her arm again and sprint down the sidewalk. Another shot whizzes through the narrow space between our shoulders. From the timing and position of the shots, I suspect there’s one shooter across the street, probably on an upper level or roof. And if I can’t hustle Sophie around the next corner before he fires again, at least one of us stands a good chance of being dead.
Air burns my lungs as I sprint toward the corner of the big building on my right. Despite her sexy, ridiculously high-heeled shoes, Sophie keeps up. She’s got a death grip on my hand.
Another bullet zings between us, this one near our hands. The screams of the spectators grow even more shrill. Sophie flinches. She’s unnerved. I don’t blame her. This isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. Worse, we’ve still got fifteen feet before we reach any semblance of safety, and this asshole is going to get off another shot before we can make it. I’d love to turn and off him, but he’s probably a few hundred feet away. The shot isn’t impossible with my Glock, just unlikely. And in the time it would take me to find him, set, aim, and fire, he’d probably tag and bag me. And if something happens to me, what happens to Sophie?
I’m not waiting around to find out.
“Run!” I pick up speed and yank on her wrist.
She stumbles in those ridiculous shoes. “Wait!”
No time for that. I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her against my side, and haul ass for safety. Another bullet whizzes by, where Sophie stood just moments ago.
Then we’re around the corner. We’re safe—for now. We can’t stay long, but we can regroup and strategize for a minute or two. Hopefully, it’s enough.
I press my back to the wall, panting, and lower her to her feet in front of me before flipping our positions and blocking her from any other possible threat.
“You okay?”
More screaming fills the streets. Sirens roar close to the scene. She presses a hand to her chest, struggling to catch her breath. “I-I’m not hurt.”
She doesn’t try to claim that she isn’t terrified out of her mind. I know she is.
“Are you familiar with this area?”
“Not really. I’m from DFW, but never spent much time in Arlington.”
Damn. I’m not familiar with this chunk of the city, either.
We’ve got to get out of this alley—and this fucking vicinity—fast. Then we need a safe location without anyone knowing where Sophie is hiding. Only then can I figure out who wants her dead and why.
I scan our surroundings and come up with an idea. “Take off your dress.”
“What?” There’s a whole lot of hell no crossing her face.
She probably thinks I’m propositioning her. To be honest, in a less dangerous situation, if she was willing, I’d be more than game. Sophie may have been a pretty girl who burst on the music scene when she was still in pigtails, but she’s a hella beautiful woman now. I certainly wouldn’t turn her down. But that’s not why I’m asking her to disrobe.