Would she ever feel safe?
Anneâs thoughts kept churning through the morass of danger that lurked. Would a hit man slit her throat as she slept? As she came out of the school building? Went to the grocery store?
And what of Professor Patrick McClain? And how much she enjoyed being around him?
Thinking about Patrick was more productive than worrying about the threat she couldnât control. There was something very steady and reassuring about him that drew her in and made her wish he could see her as she really was.
But she couldnât afford to get attached to anyone. She was pretty sure she could keep from revealing her past, but she wasnât sure that she could keep her lonely heart from wanting what she couldnât have.
A friend. Love. A life without fear.
At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA>® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Readerâs Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.
You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, or visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.
March
Gunfire!
The plush private suite on the top floor of the Palisades Casino and Resort in downtown Atlantic City, New Jersey rocked with the deafening noise of gunfire, echoed by the screams of its once-privileged occupants.
The womanâs heart slammed painfully against her ribs and a cry burst from her lungs. The tray of glasses she held fell to the carpeted floor with a thud, the liquor soaking the rug. The stench of alcohol mixed with the smell of gunpowder. A potent combination.
She dove behind the free-standing bar. Crouched and shuddering with terror, she clapped her hands over her ears to muffle the retort of weapons firing and the sounds of men dying.
âOh, God in Heaven, please, help me,â she prayed, rocking on her heels. She didnât know why she was praying. Did God even exist? But if there was a time to glom on to any hope that He was real, now was that time.
A manâs body dropped to the floor beside her. She gasped. Jean Luc Versailles, the owner of the Palisades, groaned. Thankfully he wasnât dead, but a deep crimson stain spread across the white dress shirt beneath his tuxedo jacket.
Adrenaline pumping, she grabbed him by the arm and struggled to drag him closer to the relative safety behind the bar. Tears clogged her throat and ran down her cheeks. He had always been nice to her.
âYou have to get out of here,â Jean Luc said with a croak, his voice expressing the pain reflected in his dark eyes.
âYouâre hurt,â she said inanely, her mind trying to recall her first-aid training from high school P.E. Like that had prepared her to deal with a gunshot wound.
Pressure. She had to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Gagging from the sight and smell of blood, she yanked two bar towels from the shelf beside her and pressed them to his shoulder. She cringed as more gunshots filled the air.
His hand fastened around her wrist like a vise. âMy jacket pocket. Get my wallet.â
Keeping one hand firmly on the towels, she slid out his black leather billfold from the inside pocket of his tailor-made jacket with her free hand.
âNow what?â she asked.
He closed her hand tightly around the billfold and thrust it against her stomach. âTake the money. Use it. Disappear.â He let go of her and pushed himself up to a seated position, the bar at his back. âEscape through the wall panel. Run and donât stop. Go.â
Acutely aware of the massacre taking place on the other side of the bar, she whispered, âI canât leave you. We need the police.â
âNo police.â He struggled to his knees, swayed slightly, and reached around her. From behind several liquor bottles he pulled out a large silver gun.
She shrank back, wishing sheâd called in sick today. Wishing Jean Luc hadnât invited Raoul Domingo to his private suite. Wishing she were anywhere but here.