A Cold Day in Hell by Stella Cameron

lightning.
    Gunfire. Someone had shot out the skylight and now they were firing into the bathroom.
    Christian covered Eileen, held her face against his neck. “It’s okay,” he said and she felt his body tense, as if to spring. “Hold on.” He hauled them both from the tub.
    Another shot came as they slithered, drenched, across the floor with its bruising scatter of glass pebbles.
    Christian all but threw Eileen into the shower and followed, covering her again. “The angle would be hard with us here,” he said.
    What did he mean? What was happening to them?
    The next sound was of someone scrambling from the roof. Instantly, Angel was out of the shower and rushing, naked, for the door. “Don’t go after him!” Eileen screamed.
    “If he knows what he’s doing, I’ll never catch him. But I might see his vehicle,” he yelled back at her. “And I need to look for anything he’s left behind.”
    Eileen crouched in the shower, shivering.
    Shattered beads of safety glass glinted all over the bathroom.
    A fractured mirror showed where the first bullet into the room must have ricocheted.
    Water ran from a second bullet hole in the bottom of the tub.

11
    E ileen hobbled across the floor to rescue her sweat suit and haul it over her wet skin.
    Water pouring from the bottom of the tub ran into a drain in the floor, but not fast enough to keep the tiles dry. Angel’s discarded jeans were soaked from waist to hem on one side, but Eileen grabbed them and headed out the door. She didn’t get away without punishing her feet on the glass fragments.
    He’d turned out the lights in the next room.
    Fumbling, bumping into a wall, she made it to the gallery. The rest of the house was in darkness. So, he preferred to work in the dark. Or, more likely he was trying to make sure an intruder couldn’t pick him out—and pick him off.
    She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled forward until her hand, and her head, bumped a bannister. Then she was on her feet again, Angel’s wet jeans slung over her shoulder. She felt along the stair railing all the way down to the hall.
    Cold air blew through the open front door, bringing rain with it, and leaves. Faint light also slanted across the hall and Eileen remembered the gun in her purse—in the salon.
    Every move she made was painfully slow, but she knew better than to touch the lights. Somewhere outside, Angel…what could he be doing out there? The man who tried to shoot them should be away by now.
    Who was it? Why had he tried to kill them?
    She swallowed rasping sounds from her throat. At last she held the weapon in her hand and retraced her steps, working toward the vague glow from the open front door.
    Inside the door, she stood with her back to the wall and listened. Gusts of wind and the muted clatter of rain on windows were all she heard.
    When she had time to think, she’d consider how unreal this night had been.
    Eileen slid outside and ran to the left, for the cover of tall, thick bushes. With her arms in front of her face, she forced herself into them and paused, listening again, parting branches to peer back at the front of the house. She was even more wet than when she’d pulled her damp sweat suit on.
    Whoever had shot at them would be well away by now but she still whispered, “Angel?” and a little louder, “Angel?”
    He didn’t answer. She strained to hear any indication that he heard or was in the area. Nothing.
    Holding his jeans in front of her, she doubled over and crept along. The ground squelched, pushed mud between her toes and she grimaced.
    “Darn it all, Angel,” she muttered. “You go rushing off into the night and I’m supposed to stay hiding in a shower?” She got more furious by the second. It hadn’t been her idea to go into his house and hang around longer than was good for her.
    She wrinkled her nose. So, okay, it might not have been good for her, but it was good. It might be chilly, but she had a heat all her own. In fact she felt pink