Читать книгу House Of Secrets - Tracy Montoya - Страница 12

The impact literally knocked Emma off her feet and sent her soaring into the air in a tangle of arms and legs.

She landed in the tumbled earth in front of her stoop. Her gardening shovel jabbed into the small of her back, and her head was surrounded by soft white flower petals. The force of the blow and the landing emptied her lungs of air, and all she could do was open and close her mouth like a beached fish, unable to take a breath. The newspaper and washcloth had gone flying with the impact; when she turned her head, she could see them a few feet in front of her.

Joe raised his head from where it lay between her shoulder blades, and it was then that Emma realized he was the unbalanced force that had hit her—and now he was lying on top of her. She craned her neck to look at him and opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, trying to convey with her expression her surprise, her gratitude that he’d pushed her out of harm’s way and her fervent wish that he get the heck off of her. Simultaneously, she contracted her chest muscles a couple of times, but still she couldn’t breathe.

“Gun!” Joe hissed, a hunk of glossy black hair falling into his amber eyes.

“Unnnhhh,” Emma responded, greedily sucking in oxygen as her lungs finally, finally opened up. “Omigod,” she gasped, pausing to take in a few deep, gasping gulps of air.

“Someone’s shooting at us. We have to move.” Joe rolled over so he was on the ground beside her instead of on top of her, using his body to shield hers.

Shooting? Her heartbeat went into triple time, while Joe looked as if he were discussing the weather, albeit very intensely. Emma wagged her head up and down in agreement and started shuffling as fast as she could for the side of the house, keeping low to the ground while still gulping air.

He gripped her elbow and began to crawl along the grass with her. Smashing flowers left and right, they quickly made their way to the side of the house, and then Joe pulled her upright and together they ran to the back.

“Oh, no!” Emma gripped the brass knob on the back door and rattled it, knowing what the result would be. “It’s locked.”

Glancing around, Joe reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out what looked like two oversize metal toothpicks. “Duck here,” he said, gesturing to the shrub beside him. She did as he asked, then noticed with some guilt that he was once again shielding her with his body. He inserted the picks into the keyhole.

“Isn’t that going to take a while?” Feeling guilty about using him as a human shield, she stood.

He didn’t even look at her but continued to work the lock. “You know, it’s hard to concentrate when I’m worried about you getting your pretty head shot off.”

“You say the sweetest things.” When her sarcasm made him stop picking so he could stare at her, she crouched back behind the bush, if only to get him to open the darn door faster and preserve their lives. In an attempt to be helpful, she peered over the top of the shrub, keeping watch in case their sniper friend decided to come around the corner. Every slight movement, every noise rattled her, but she gritted her chattering teeth, clenched her shaking hands and swallowed the impulse to run away screaming like a banshee. Banshees probably made very good targets.

As Joe worked at the lock, Emma’s breathing finally slowed, in tandem with her pulse. She couldn’t help feeling somewhat amazed that she could feel even a smidgen of calm in a situation like this. Sure, adrenaline was still racing through her system like a hormonal freight train, heightening her hearing and sharpening her vision of the world into bright, crisp clarity. But still, you’d think she’d be a panicking mess. You’d think…

She yelped when a sharp click sounded near Joe, like an empty gun being fired.

“It’s okay,” Joe said, still concentrating intently on her door. “That was just me.”

So much for her Zen-like calm. Emma watched him work and willed him with all her mental energy to hurry.

Fortunately, Joe made short work of her lock, opening her door inside two of the longest minutes of her life. And here she thought the house had been burglarproof. Jeez.

Gripping her elbow, he hustled her into the house, closed and locked the door behind them, and pulled her through the back enclosed porch and her walk-in pantry to the kitchen. She felt a burst of gratitude that the windows in that room were small and facing the neighbors, making them much more difficult for someone to shoot through. All the same, Joe sat down on the floor, his back resting against the under-the-sink cabinet, and gestured for her to do the same.

She sat and waited, toying with the sleeves of her beige summer sweater while he took a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the local branch of the LAPD. When he’d finished, she hugged her silk-clad knees to her chest and asked the question that had been burning in her mind since the first hole had appeared in her newly painted siding. “For the love of God, I’m an English professor, and I’m nice. Most of the time. Why on earth is there a sniper in my front yard?” She struggled to keep her voice calm, but her confusion and, yes, even anger at the thought of someone wishing her ill—major, major ill—made her last word end on a humiliating squeak.

Joe snorted. “No clue, but if he were a sniper, we’d be dead. Not a bad shot, but he did miss.”

It was a sobering thought, that their lives had hung in the balance between good aim and great aim. And Joe sounded so blasé about it. Emma stared at a knothole in the hardwood flooring of her kitchen and quietly freaked out for a few seconds, her arms still wrapped around her knees.

“You okay?” Joe finally asked after the silence had stretched out for too long.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Her brain had obviously gone on automatic pilot for a moment, because even she knew as soon as it came out of her mouth that the question was ridiculous, given their situation. The offer had been automatic, made partly out of reflexive politeness and mostly out of denial. People didn’t shoot mild-mannered English profs stuck in ruts. Not even in Hollywood.

He shot her a look that was a blend of mild amusement, his mouth curving upward into a half smile that was starting to look familiar. “Sure. And do you have any of those little cakes?”

“Sorry.” Resting her elbows on her knees, Emma pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, as if she could block out the bizarre events of the last couple of days. “Apparently, my brain is still processing the fact that someone wants to kill me, and my mouth went on without it.”

She felt him put a hand on her shoulder. His touch felt warm. “I know. I shouldn’t be giving you a hard time. It’s normal in a situation like this to want to pretend everything’s fine.”

“But it’s not.” With a sigh, she folded her arms across her knees and rested her cheek on them, facing Joe. “I’ve known you for exactly two days, and my life seems to turn into an episode of Jungle Raider whenever you’re around,” she said, referring to the only non-reality show she watched, an action-adventure program with a heroine who kicked booty on a weekly basis. “Why?”

He drew his knees up and let his wrists rest on them. “You know, you’re awfully calm for someone who just got attacked twice in two days,” he said.

Truthfully, even Emma couldn’t believe the calm she was projecting, all things considered. “I’m having a hysterical hissy fit on the inside.”

“Ah,” he replied soberly, keeping his eyes on the back door. “Actually, I think you’ll be fine once I leave you alone. I’m pretty sure it’s me he wants, and you’ve just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He flicked a glance at her. “I’m sorry about all of this.”