"Where?" Rafe asked. Woods surrounded the home on all sides, accessible by a long driveway also bordered with towering trees. Dozens of places for a shooter to hide. And damn difficult for them to pinpoint. Shit. Shitshitshit.
"I think the shot came from the left." Chay craned his neck, peeking through the frame where splinters of the busted window dangled like loose teeth. "I can't see anything though. Fuck." He glanced at Rafe. "You armed?"
Rafe shook his head. He was licensed to carry-Chay and most of their employees were. But he rarely carried a piece since most of his work took place at the computer. "You?"
"It's in the car, under my seat."
Rafe swore under his breath. "Shit. I-"
The door to the mansion flew open, and Colleen Taylor appeared on the landing. "What's going on out here?" she demanded. Then her blue eyes widened as she took in Rafe and Chay hunkered down beside the truck, glass sparkling over and around them like fucking fairy dust. "Oh my God."
"Call 911!" Chay barked. "Now!"
With a jerky nod, she disappeared back inside her house. In response, two more rounds popped off, one thumping the vehicle and another shattering the urn of a potted plant near the base of the steps.
"He's getting desperate," Rafe guessed. "Those shots were wild." He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his pounding heart to calm while his mind raced. "Okay, I'm going to run for the column near those bushes. Get his attention." He dipped his head toward one of the two palatial, Grecian-like pillars flanking the wide staircase. "You get the gun. It might hold him off until the cops get here."
"That's a shitty plan." Chay scowled, shaking his head.
"Yeah, but it's all we got. Ready? Now!" Rafe didn't give him a chance to argue further but charged across the open area, swearing he could feel the scope of that gun on his back, tracking him. Damn, damn, damn, damn. He dove over the waist-high shrubbery, the asphalt where his foot had been a second earlier kicking up where a bullet struck it. His shoulder slammed into the ground, pain driving the air from his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he rolled into the impact, scrambled to his feet, and darted behind the column.
Behind him more gunfire blasted.
Then quiet. Ominous, heavy quiet.
"Chay," Rafe roared. Had he been hit? Oh, Jesus. Not for me.
"I'm good, I'm good," his friend called out.
Relief flooded Rafe. In the distance, the wail of sirens split the silence. His chest rising and falling on deep, rough breaths, he straightened, shoving to his feet. He cautiously rounded the stone pillar, sweeping the driveway and focusing in on Chay, who remained kneeling beside the SUV. As the first of the squad cars peeled up the driveway, Chay lowered his gun, pointing the barrel at the ground.
Slowly, he stood to his feet. Glared at Rafe.
"Who the hell did you piss off now?"
Chapter Twenty-One
"I can't believe it," Greer whispered. Again.
Behind her, Gabriel Devlin chuckled. Somehow she managed to drag her gaze away from the easels, canvases, drawing pads, paints, pens, and pencils stockpiled in the sunroom, and turn around to face the sexy, Tom-Brady-look-alike version of Santa Claus who'd delivered the art supplies.
When Raphael's best friend had arrived, she'd immediately recognized him. Not just from the images on the internet when she'd researched Rafe back in December. She'd read Gabriel's best-selling legal suspense thrillers long before she'd heard of Raphael and was enough of an admirer to have a fan-girl moment when he walked into the house. But even the appearance of one of her favorite authors couldn't supersede the shock and joy at the boxes and bags he'd carted in with him. Completing the task had required two trips out to his vehicle. By the time Gabriel finished rearranging the sunroom, setting up the easels, stacking the canvases, and laying out the other supplies, her eyes had ached from how wide they were. And her jaw had been seconds away from locking in the open position.
"This"-she couldn't resist surveying the room again-"is too much. I- Why?" she asked, spreading her hands wide.
He crossed his arms and shrugged a wide shoulder. "Rafe called me yesterday morning and asked me to pick up and deliver some things he'd ordered from a supply store."
When he didn't elaborate, she shook her head. He worked the laconic writer thing to perfection. Yet while he might be economic in words, his smiles were warm and freely given. She-like the rest of the world-had read about the loss of his family several years ago. But she suspected that the woman who'd called him shortly after he'd arrived could be credited with the light and peace that seemed to emanate from him. Good. He deserved happiness.
"Thank you, Gabriel," she said belatedly.
"Gabe," he corrected. "And no problem. I actually thought Rafe would beat me here. I would've been here earlier, but a signing this morning went over." He arched an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth kicking up. "So … I take it you're an artist," he observed drily.
She laughed, still a bit breathless. Raphael had done all this? Bought all this. For her. Gabriel-Gabe-had said when. Yesterday. With the morning doctor's appointment, the lunch date, his clandestine meeting with Chay and Justin Durrin, and then the attempted kidnapping … Well, the day had been busy, so she understood why Raphael had asked his friend to help him out. But that still left why? Why had he done all this?
"I'm applying to art school," she said.
"So? Doesn't make you any less of an artist. Before being published, I was still a writer." He nodded in the direction of the easels. "What do you plan to study?"
"Illustration."
"Illustration, huh?" He gave a little hum in the back of his throat. "Do you have anything I can look at? If you don't mind, that is."
The instinctive denial rose inside her. And not because of the stereotypical "sensitive artist" claim of not letting anyone see her work when she wasn't finished. The reluctance ran much deeper. Too many years of being scoffed at, of being told her drawing was a waste of time, that she wasn't talented. The ridicule and rejection had taught her to hide, to protect her work … and herself. But when she'd vowed to take her life back-well, more accurately, to get a life, one she desired and owned-that promise had included not allowing her father's derision and her mother's disregard to cripple her anymore. To no longer be afraid of displaying her art, whether it was to an admissions board or a person who just asked to view it.
So, she inhaled. Time to put up or shut up.
"I'm working on pieces for my portfolio now. I have some of those in the bedroom."
Ten minutes later, Gabe silently studied the painting she'd started after arriving at Raphael's home. He'd already examined a couple of the live-situation pieces and three-dimensional object canvases she'd finished. Not her passion but required for the admission portfolio. He'd spent the most time thumbing through her sketches, drawings she'd completed for her joy and amusement. When he flipped to the ink and pen picture of Raphael, she fought not to cringe. The illustration was one of her favorites. She'd drawn him in his lair, sprawled in his office chair at his beloved computer. In reality, Raphael fairly vibrated with a raw, vital energy that made him impossible to ignore. Longish hair, tattoos, piercings, and the I-will-kick-your-ass-and-like-it vibe aside, he pulsed with magnetism and charisma. And she'd captured the brilliant gleam in his near-black eyes, the hard sensuality in his wide, full mouth, the controlled tension in his lean, tall body. She'd paid careful, loving detail from the hoop in his eyebrow to the bare feet peeking out from under the frayed hem of his jeans. Anyone studying the drawing would detect her fascination with her subject.
She doubted Gabe, whose profession included weaving details together, missed it either.
"You're very good." He turned from the easel, his expression inscrutable. "Very good."
Pleasure cascaded through her like a refreshing, needed rain over parched land. The blunt honesty, sans flowery praise, warmed her in a way the most effusive acclaim could not.
"Thank you, I-" She fumbled over her tongue. "Thank you."
"I really like your sketches." He picked up the pad, and skimmed through the pages until he arrived at the image of Raphael again. She didn't try to duck his narrowed, contemplative scrutiny. What would be the point? Her absorption, her affection, her … her convoluted feelings for his friend were there for Ray Charles to see. "I can see why your main study will be illustration. This"-he tapped the paper-"is amazing. And so Rafe. You've captured everything-the way he slouches, how he squints when he's thinking, the rubbing of his eyebrow … everything." He set the pad down, slid his hands in the front pockets of his faded jeans. "My agent is negotiating the option rights for a Michael Rice graphic novel series. Would you mind if I sent her a sample of your work? I don't know what your eventual career goal involves, but if you're interested, I think you would be perfect. The realism and detail in your work … "