Page 92 of Wyatt

Into the doorway of the bedroom.

She froze, a scream wedged like a brick in her throat.

“Oh…” Her mother’s hand tightened on her arm. “Oh…God, help.”

A woman in her late forties, dressed in black pants and a formerly white oxford, lay on the bed, her throat slit, the bedding saturated, her skin deathly white.

RJ took a step toward her.

“What are you doing—”

“That’s my…that’s my boss, Sophia Randall.” She took another step.

Yes, most definitely dead. RJ turned and stared at her mother.

The woman had her gun out. A tiny 9mm Sig Sauer. “Ma, put that away—”

“RJ! Are you here?”

The voice jerked her gaze past her mother, who was turning, and right on the man who came barreling into the room, slamming his hand on the open inner door.

Blond, wearing a dark leather jacket, blue jeans, and a black dress shirt. He looked a little worn out—darker whiskers, something of fear in his expression.

“York!”

And then a shot went off, probably more of a reflex than an aim, but the sound of it bulleted right through RJ.

She screamed. Shrill and quick before she had a chance to clamp her hand over her mouth.

A hole embedded the door where York’s head had been a second earlier.

He’d ducked, and in some superspy move that she should have expected, had already disarmed her mother.

Who was shaking. “Are you okay?” Gerri gasped.

RJ stood there like an idiot, gasping for breath as York took two more steps into the room, shoved the gun into his jacket pocket, and grabbed RJ.

He pulled her to himself with almost a violence, breathing hard, his arms so tight around her she might not be able to breathe.

She’d never been able to breathe around him. Not really.

She clung to him, trying not to shake.

“Are you hurt?” he said, his voice raspy. He put her away from him, looked her over, glanced at the woman on the bed, then looked over at her mother.

“Good shot.”

“Good miss,” Gerri said, her hand on her throat. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, slipping his hand down to RJ’s. “But we need to get out of here.”

He tugged her toward the door.

“Wait—I don’t understand. Didn’t you send me here?” RJ stumbled after him, out into the parlor. “And that’s my boss—how did she—?”

“Later.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he definitely looked wrung out. He turned to her, touched his hand to her face, his expression a little stripped.

She pressed her hand over his. “You’re here.”