“Kinga?” His voice sharpened and she could easily imagine him sitting up, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you come?” she asked, her voice thready. “To my apartment?”
“On my way,” Griff instantly responded. “Do you need help? Should I call 911?”
“No. I’m fine.” Sort of. “I just need some help.”Getting to my front door.
When he got here, he’d realize she wasn’t the strong, always-in-control woman he thought she was. Kinga cursed herself for her impulsive decision to call him. What the hell had she been thinking? He was a business associate, not a friend.
“Look, don’t worry, I’m fine. I’ll make a plan.”
But looking into the dark, she didn’t know if she could. Jas had died in the dark, a short distance from her home. Kinga’s head swam...
“Shut up,” Griff ordered, his tone harsh. “I’m coming.”
The minutes—hours, years—passed and Kinga held the steering wheel in a death grip, finding it increasingly difficult to get air into her lungs, feeling like the car was closing in on her. A short, sharp rap on her door made her jump and she turned to see an indistinct blob standing outside her car. She screamed and fumbled for the button to check whether she’d locked the car, forgetting that she always, always locked her car.
“Dammit, Kinga, it’s me, Griff!”
She looked at him through the rain-wet window and it took a minute, maybe more, to recognize his face, hair plastered against his head, his dark green eyes worried and his normally sensual mouth stern.
Griff tapped on the window. “Open the goddamn door, Kinga.”
Kinga hit the locks and Griff pulled the door open, and the shock of cold air had her gasping.
The sound of her seat belt releasing sounded like a gunshot and then she felt two warm hands on her face. She stared into Griff’s eyes, wishing she could breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She just managed to whisper the words. “Panic attack.”
“Right, I want you to breathe with me. In for four, hold it...” Kinga listened to the command in his voice, his eyes a lifeline in a topsy-turvy world. “Now blow out in a steady stream. I’m here, sweetheart, I’ve got you. Right now, all I want you to do is breathe in and out,” Griff told her, his gaze warm and sympathetic and his voice oh-so-steady.
“You’ve stopped taking deep breaths, honey. Come on now. In for four, hold it and release in a long, steady stream.”
Kinga concentrated on his words and closed her eyes, sucking in air. She held her breath before releasing it in as long a stream as she could. It took three or four, maybe more, times before she felt her heart rate dropping and her tight chest easing. Kinga placed her hand on Griff’s shoulder and she felt his warmth through his leather jacket and the ice in her veins started to dissolve...
A few more minutes passed and eventually, she felt the last tendrils of fear flee, felt like she could breathe properly. As oxygen hit her brain, Kinga started to take in some details. His car was parked in Tinsley’s space, the door open and the light on, and it looked like he’d barreled out of the vehicle without locking up, as if he’d rushed to get to her.
He sat on his haunches outside of her car, snow falling on his bare head, but his eyes fixed on her, his expression sympathetic.
“You okay now? Chest and throat loose?”
Kinga nodded. “Yeah.” She shivered, feeling the wind whipping around her legs and rustling her short hair. “God, you must be freezing,” she stated.
Griff shrugged and stood up. “I’ve been warmer. Let’s get you inside, sweetheart.”
The endearment sounded good on his lips, like it belonged there. Kinga looked at the strong, tan hand he held out to her and placed her palm in his, allowing him to help her out of the car. Knowing that her knees tended to be a bit liquid after a panic attack, she held on, not wanting to fall facedown onto the snow-covered pavement.
Debilitating tiredness would soon follow and she hoped to be in her apartment before it struck.
Griff ducked into her car and picked up her bag, snagging her car keys from the ignition. He slammed the car door closed.
“I’ll come back and sort out my car and get your laptop,” Griff told her, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Have you got your keys?”
“In my coat pocket.” She leaned into him, happy for his support, and let out a squeal when he picked her up and cradled her against his broad chest. “Griff, I can walk.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m freezing and would like to get inside before I turn into an icicle.” Griff strode across the small patch of lawn and hurried up the steps leading to the front door of her building. He asked her for her code, punched it in on the keypad and used his shoulder to push the door open. Two paces later he was at the door to her apartment and, balancing her on his upraised knee—God, the guy was strong—dug around in her coat pocket with his free hand to pull out her set of keys.