Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [78]
“I’m fine. I don’t need to go anywhere with you.”
“Don’t argue with me,” he growled, taking her hand. “I’m not in the mood for it.” As they moved into the hall she could see he had something wrapped around his left hand, stained with blood. Blood on his khakis, as well. “You’re hurt,” she said, pulling to a stop, trying to ignore the pain in her back.
“We’re both hurt, sugar. And Dean and your father are out chasing ghosts, Rachel-Ann’s disappeared, and it’s up to us to get our butts to the emergency room. So stop arguing and come on. And try not to pass out. I could carry you, but I’m not in the mood if it’s not going to lead to something more entertaining than a hospital.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Carry me. I’m five eleven in my bare feet…oh shit.” She looked down. Sure enough, she was leaving bloody footprints on the floor.
He sighed. “Where are your goddamned shoes?”
“I don’t remember. Where’s my goddamned dog?” She suddenly wanted to cry.
“I put him out in the back. I figured you didn’t need him licking your face while you were lying there in pain.”
“I like having him lick my face.”
“You’ll have to make do with me. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can,” she said, pulling her dignity around her. And she could even, with great effort, do it without a limp.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, obviously not convinced. A moment later he’d swooped her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and they were out in the evening air.
18
Discovering his car missing didn’t improve Coltrane’s thoroughly foul mood. It was only a slight relief when he realized that Meyer’s Mercedes G-Wagen blocked Rachel-Ann’s BMW. She must have taken his car in a desperate bid to escape. He’d have to assume she’d be all right—at the moment he had more pressing matters, like the woman he was carrying and the fact that his left hand was bleeding like crazy.
“We’re going to have to take your car,” he said to Jilly, still slung over his shoulder. She was right, she was no lightweight, and apart from Rachel-Ann’s escape, this night was going from bad to worse.
“My feet are cut,” she said from halfway down his back. “I can’t drive.”
He strode into the garage, opened the passenger door of her Corvette and dumped her in. “You’re not going to.”
He ignored her protests, moving around to the driver’s side. His left hand was hurting like hell, but it looked as if the bleeding had slowed. He’d managed to slice the hell out of it when he’d pushed off her, and he’d never been particularly fond of blood. He didn’t have the choice of getting light-headed, not with Jilly’s lacerated back and bleeding feet.
“I told you, you aren’t driving my car,” she said weakly as he got in beside her. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“Your sister stole it, and a good thing she did. Let’s just hope your father can’t catch up with her. Stop arguing and tell me where the keys are.”
“What if I told you they were back in the house?”
“I’d say you were a liar wasting important time.” He flipped down the visor and the keys dropped into his lap. “Put on your seat belt.”
He was having a hard time managing his with the dish towel wrapped around his hand, but it was too dark for her to see how bad it was. The engine of the Corvette purred to life, and he backed it out of the garage with total disregard for whoever might be wandering around in the dark. He would have just as soon run Jackson Meyer over—he was past the point of subtlety when it came to revenge. He wanted him dead.
Dean was pretty high on his shit list, as well. What the hell was he trying to pull tonight, with his obscure hints? What had he found on his goddamn computer that he thought could put the fear of God into Jackson Dean Meyer? For that matter, what had he found that could put a backbone in Dean himself?
He raced down the driveway, the lights spearing the darkness. Jilly was silent beside