Dance with the Devil by Cherry Adair Page A

firmly, locking it, while Jack went to scope out the bedroom.
    Empty. Their friends had taken their toys and disappeared. There was a blossom of a bloodstain on the carpet right in front of the door. Mia shivered and averted her gaze.
    She found a white shirt for Jack and helped him into it; his own shirt was soaked with dark red blood. The wound in his shoulder still seeped at an alarming rate, and he was sweating, while Mia still couldn’t feel her extremities from the cold.
    She tucked a small, folded hand towel against the wound, helped him button the shirt, then slipped his jacket back on.
    â€œWhat’s the plan?” she asked, slipping on the shoes she’d kicked off what seemed like days ago. She winced and worried her frozen toes would snap off.
    â€œFirst we find a convenient bedroom to muss up—just in case we have to explain our absence. Preferably something on the other side of the house. Then we saunter downstairs as if nothing happened and walk out.”
    He talked a good game, but she wondered if he’d be able to walk down the hall, let alone “saunter.” Then she remembered that this was Jack Ryan, a man who wouldn’t know the meaning of “quit.” “That easy?”
    â€œYou bet.” He opened the door with a decidedly shaky hand. “Let’s do it.”
    â€œI’m not going to have to carry you, am I?” she asked, trying not to show just how concerned she was.
    He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe over the threshold later.”
    Threshold. Wedding. Marriage.
    She grinned at him. “Stay put,” she told him casually. “I’ll go find another room to muss and come back for you.” She expected him to protest. It worried her even more when he didn’t.
    â€œDon’t be long.”
    Mia flew down the landing. Hearing the chatter of party guests and the clinking of glasses from the floor below was surreal. She forced herself to slow her steps and go as far down the private corridor as her nerves could stand before opening a bedroom door. It only took a moment to rumple the bedspread and punch the pillows. Then she raced back down the corridor to where she’d left Jack.
    She found him slumped in the chair near the door. He was clearly struggling to stay conscious, but he opened glassy eyes as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
    â€œReady to rock?” she asked, helping him stand with difficulty.
    â€œCall, Robert. Have him come upst—”
    Oh, God. He wanted his driver. This was bad. Really bad. “Phone?”
    â€œInside p-pocket. Speed d—eigh—eighteen.” He fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.
    Mia knelt between his spread legs and patted his pockets looking for his cell phone. Her fingers were clumsy with panic, but she found the tiny phone, flipped it open and hit 18.
    It rang. And rang. And rang.
    â€œAs long as you’re kneeling there…” He lifted one eyebrow.
    Mia shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
    â€œInsatiable,” Jack licked dry lips. “Help me up.” He slung his arm around her neck. “Whoa! Steady t-there.”
    Mia staggered on her high heels under his weight. “You outweigh me by eighty pounds, pal.”
    â€œAll muscle.”
    â€œYeah, between your ears.” She wanted to distract him from what must be nearly mind-numbing pain. She kept him teasing as she guided him down the hall to the stairs.
    â€œIs that any way to talk to your future husband?”
    â€œMom always said to bend a man’s twig in the direction you want him to grow.”
    He chuckled. “Twig bending? Sounds pornographic.”
    â€œThen you should love it.”
    â€œWanna see my twig?”
    â€œIt’s my twig now, buster.”
    â€œTrue. My twig is your twig.”
    They made it down the stairs. Barely. Jack’s hard head was the only thing keeping him upright. And they still had to get across