Page 3 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
The gunshot exploded against her ears.
He staggered back. His mouth fell open, wide with shock, as his sausage-thick fingers splayed over his chest. His animalistic bellow sickened her.
Bracing herself with a wide stance, she held her gun trained on his chest. Her heartbeat thundered against her ears.
Why hadn’t he collapsed?
He gave his head a rough shake, as if to work off the pain of a blow. The foulest of epithets erupted from his mouth. He stood before her. Enraged. And even more dangerous.
“You’re only making this harder on yourself, Miss Quinn.”
She stared at him. “No,” she whispered. This could not be happening. The shot had been true.
How…how can this be?
The bullet had plowed into him.
Or had it?
She glanced to the floor. In the dimness of the pale gaslight, a telltale metal slug glinted at the base of a massive bookcase, atop the thick pile rug.
The bullet had ricocheted off his chest.
Dear Lord. The scoundrel is wearing body armor.
Desperation pulsed wildly in her veins. She didn’t dare turn from him. If he tried to capture her, she’d do whatever it took to escape.
“I would’ve treated you like a lady.” He settled his furious gaze on her. “But now…I am going to enjoy breaking you.”
He lunged forward, his movements jerky and awkward, clumsy with pain. She darted to the side, but his paw of a hand clamped over her right arm. Manacle-like fingers dug into her flesh.
Keeping a frenzied hold on the Sharps, she fought his brutal hold. His eyes hardened as he wrenched her captive arm. Pain shot through her. She choked back a scream.
The gun angled lower. Biting her lip, she struggled against the panic and the pain.
She pressed her finger to the trigger.
She fired.
The bullet plowed into his upper leg.
A metallic ping blended with the gun’s report, betraying the shield beneath his trousers.
His mouth curled at one corner, even as an evil gleam colored his eyes. Wrenching the gun from her hand, he dragged her to him.
“You will pay for that, you little shrew.” At this angle, gaslight from the corridor illuminated the sharp planes of his features. A jagged scar bisected his left cheek. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Now tell me…where is it?”
Fear enveloped her.
Her breaths came in ragged gulps. His unnatural scent sickened her. She had to find a weapon—something…anything—she could use to free herself.
A fountain pen lay on her desk. Close. Not quite in reach.
She had to reach it…
“I don’t know…what you’re talking about,” she said, stalling for time.
She edged backward along the edge of the desk. An inch or so. Then another.
