Blush(72)

The Beretta was under the far side of the bed. It was loaded—all she had to do was get to it and flip the safety.

Marcel backhanded her, snapping her head so she fell backward, held upright only by his fingers clamped around her neck. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and her heartbeat was manic as tears of pain stung her eyes. She blinked the moisture away, struggling with all her strength to get free.

She kicked his leg but, barefoot, it didn’t have any impact. He was an arm’s length away, so she couldn’t bite or head-butt him or knee him in the balls. All she could do was use both hands and her nails to lessen his grip on her throat.

It would be pretty pathetic if she was murdered by a drunken, wife beater instead of a highly paid assassin.

Stop being a damn girl, Amelia Elizabeth!

Thinkthinkthink. Don’t panic. Think.

“You fucking told her to leave me! Take my kid? Who the fuck do you think you are, you sanctimonious bitch?”

“I offered to help h—” Oh, crap. Wrong thing to say. He swung back the hand on her neck, giving her a nanosecond to suck in oxygen, then backhanded her again, his full body weight behind his arm. This time she saw sparkling silver dots in front of her eyes as she staggered back to slam into the wall. The impact jarred every bone of her body. She used the palms of her hands on the wall to steady herself because she couldn’t get her footing enough to maintain her balance.

“I help her, you fucking rich bitch!” he yelled, grabbing the front of her tank top, his nails scratching her chest as he dragged her upright and began shaking her like a rag doll. “She doesn’t need someone like you putting fancy ideas in her stupid brain, now, does she?”

“If Cruz finds you here, he’ll kill you.” The words came out of her mouth as a threat, but Mia realized she believed them. If Cruz saw this man with his hands on her, he’d take immediate action.

But Cruz wasn’t here. And by the time he did get back, it might be too late. She wasn’t prepared to wait to be rescued. She absolutely had to get her shit together and be smart if she had a hope in hell of surviving this.

“You think I’m scared of your pussy lover boy?” he scoffed, fingers clamped at her throat tightly enough that she felt dizzy and light-headed and the black dots returned. “A drifter?” His voice came at her down a long tunnel as blood pounded in her ears. “Where’s your phone? Call Daisy and tell her to get her ass back home where she belongs. Tell her she’d better goddamn be there when I get there, or she’ll be good and fucking sorry.”

She barely heard him over the fast drum of her heartbeat. “My phone’s d-downstairs. Why don’t you go ahead and go home? I’ll make sure she’s there waiting for you.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Do you want me to call her? You can tell her yourself.” If she could get downstairs, she had a better chance of getting out of the house. The garden was still so overgrown, she could hide in a dozen places, or go over the wall and hide between the mausoleums in the graveyard next door.

But Latour knew the garden better than she did, and the crumbling stone wall was six feet high. She’d have to run like hell. Down the gravel driveway, and—

“Give me your phone!”

“I told you. It’s downsta—”

The horrible pressure of his fingers around her throat eased, and she sucked in half a breath of blessed relief. But it was just a momentary reprieve. “You lie!” he screamed, grabbing a handful of hair at her temple and flinging her across the room.

Mia tried to break her fall, but she slid across the carpet on her side, then banged her head against the leg of the bedside table and saw stars. There was no time for pain, or rationale. She was operating on pure animal self-preservation.

“Everybody carries their phone with them wherever they fucking go! Give it to me—”

She blinked rapidly to bring him into focus, stupid and dizzy with pain and sheer, unadulterated terror. As he walked toward her, she scrabbled under the bed like a crab in the confined space, her breathing harsh and erratic. She had to get to the other side, grab the gun—

Hard fingers grabbed her ankle and yanked hard as he used his body weight, attempting to drag her out from under the bed. Mia flipped on her back, using her free foot to wedge up against the bottom of the box mattress to prevent him from pulling her free.

The lockbox was perhaps two feet away from her outstretched, straining fingers, but felt like a hundred miles. Sweat stung her eyes, and adrenaline raced through her body, making everything feel surreal and in slow motion.

Hurryhurryhurry.