FOUR
Michael wasn’t prepared for the sight in front of him. Isabel was covered in blood and was so pale she looked as though she was about to pass out.
The policeman with her stepped forward to introduce himself. “I’m Officer Patrick Field,” he said. “And who are you?”
“Michael Buchanan,” he answered, but his attention remained on Isabel.
“And you’re here for Miss MacKenna?”
“Yes.” His answer was curt.
Field was pretty sure he knew what Michael was thinking, and so, for at least the fifth time, he wearily said, “It’s not her blood.”
Relieved, Michael said, “Good. That’s good.”
“She wasn’t injured,” Field insisted.
Isabel remained silent. She was having difficulty getting past the surprise. Dylan had sent Michael to help her. Wasn’t he supposed to be in Afghanistan or somewhere else halfway around the world? Apparently not, since he was standing a foot away from her. Her reaction to him was quite strange and not at all rational. Instead of getting her back up because he was such a bonehead, she had the almost overwhelming desire to throw herself into his arms and plead for him to get her out of there as quickly as possible.
They stared at each other for a long minute, or so it felt to her. She really couldn’t tell the difference between minutes and hours. Ever since the shooting, time seemed to stand still.
Michael hadn’t changed much. He could still make her shiver and irritate the dickens out of her at the same time. Nothing new about that. He was one attractive man in an outdoorsy way, even when he was frowning. He had a little more muscle now; his hair was longer, and there were fine lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
He gave her a slow once-over, and she knew he had to be appalled. Probably couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Admittedly, she looked as though she had jumped into a vat of blood. Not a pretty image to anyone but a vampire. She knew there was dried blood on her face and neck. And everywhere else, she supposed. Even the tops of her tennis shoes were saturated. God only knew what she smelled like. Maybe iron. It was not a perfume she would have chosen.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked.
The sympathy in his voice almost unhinged her. “Yes,” she answered. She wanted to yell, No, I just killed a man! How do you think I am?
Michael was doing a good job of hiding his reaction to her. He didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered. She couldn’t say the same for everyone else they passed. It had been noisy when they entered, but as soon as they started across the crowded office, where a large number of detectives, police officers, and staff members were working, everyone stopped what they were doing and gawked at her. No one made a sound. It was mortifying.
Their poor manners were a reminder to her. She looked up at Michael and said, “How are you, Michael?”
He didn’t smile, but he came close. “I’m good.”
“I’m sorry you were dragged into this. You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
There was a thread of steel in his voice that actually was comforting, and she immediately felt a tinge of relief. She wasn’t going to have to go through the rest of this nightmare alone. Unless they decided to lock her up. As soon as the horrid thought popped into her head, she blocked it. Now was not the time to panic. She could handle this.
When they reached the hallway, Field turned to her and said, “I’m going to put you in one of the interview rooms. You can wait there for the detectives.”
Until now she hadn’t made a fuss. In fact, she’d been extremely cooperative and had done whatever was asked of her. All that was about to change.
“No, I’m not going to do that.”
“What?” Field asked. He was sure he hadn’t heard correctly.
“I’d like to wash my face and hands, and then I’d like to leave.”
“That’s not possible. You have to answer questions before you can leave.”
“Am I being arrested?”
“No, but you—”
“If I don’t get this blood off my face and hands, I’m going to start screaming.”