Page 110 of Dead Girl Running

“Kellen?” His tone changed to pleading. “Ceecee?” He tried to embrace her.

“No.” Panic swamped her. She wasn’t Ceecee. She wasn’t Cecilia. She could never be Cecilia again. Those flashes of moments past…they were not memories. They were merely impressions. She held him off with one hand. “Don’t. I’m in pain. That shot to the chest…”

“The sound of that shot brought me up here.” Abruptly, she could see into his tortured memories, to that moment when he had been too slow to save Ceecee from a bullet to the brain seven years before.

“I’m fine,” she said.

At once, he was practical Max. “Oh?”

“Well. Solid hit over my heart.” She touched her chest. “Hurts.”

“Let me see.” Max removed the leather shoulder holster and placed it off to the side. He unbuttoned her shirt, slid it off her shoulders, then off her wrists. He worked the vest’s fasteners free, then eased her out of its protective embrace. Reaching behind her, he unhooked her bra and pulled it away.

Great. She was naked from the waist up. She pulled the throw closer around her shoulders.

But he wasn’t drooling, and she found herself with mixed feelings about that. Why she cared, she didn’t know. Yet it seemed unfair to strip down and not have the guy notice. It made her half-remembered erotic dreams seem pitiful, the imaginings of a desperate woman.

He winced as the bullet site was revealed. “Oh, Ceecee…”

She corrected him. “Kellen.” She looked down at herself. A two-inch black bruise radiated from the center of her chest, and it was growing. If she hadn’t worn the vest, Mara would have shot her through the heart. She would be dead, lost to this world, and all her struggles to regain her dignity, her strength, herself would be for naught.

She looked at Mara, cuffed and slumped against the iron grill, and she considered turning on the gas fire and letting her roast.

“I thought the vest would stop injury,” Max said.

“It stops death. The force of the bullet has to be dissipated, and it was dissipated on my sternum.” She wet her dry lips. “Can you call for help yet?”

Max checked his phone. “Not yet. As soon as Carson gets the damper removed, we’ll take you to the hospital.”

She reached for her shirt. “You can’t leave with me.”

“I can.”He held her shirt while she put first one arm in, then the other.

Okay,nowhe was looking at her boobs. She had mixed feelings about that, too. She was one big mixed feeling poured over a very confused woman. “You’re in charge of the resort.”

He started to button the shirt, got it wrong, had to start over.

Good to know her boobs still functioned as a secret weapon.

He said, “I’m not in charge.”

“Who else? Now?” She gestured around her and winced at the pain the unrestrained motion caused her.

He stood, went to the bar, brought her a bottle of water and waited while she sipped.

When she’d wet her mouth enough to speak a little more clearly, she said, “Someone has to call the cops and wait for them to show up. Someone has to reassure the staff. Someone has to…fix everything. You’re the only one capable. You know that. Annie needs you.”

She might have only just acknowledged that she knew him, but she remembered that scowl when he didn’t get his way. She drove her point home. “If you insist on coming to the hospital with me, then I can’t go to the hospital. Annie left me in charge. Someone has to be in charge.”

“Fine.” Max set his jaw and never had he looked so much like an Italian thug. “I’ll get someone to drive you to the airstrip.”

“Birdie, too. And Nils.”

“Yes, Birdie, too. And…Nils.” He finished buttoning her shirt. “But when you wake, I’ll be at your bedside.”

She thought that was a vow he had made before. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.” She thought she’d said that to him before, too.

His phone rang.

---