Chapter 4

FOUR

E mma’s pulse pounded too loudly in her ears. Framed pictures and ugly wallpaper became a blur as Truman hauled ass for the closest exit.

Behind them came the thudding of footsteps, keeping time with her frantic pulse. She wanted to urge Truman on, tell him to hurry, but her throat was locked up tight.

His arms were strong as he carried her like a bride, his grip firm and unwavering. She clung to him, her arms around his neck and her face buried against his shoulder. In the occasional daydreams that had snuck in while she was behind bars, this was not at all how she imagined their reunion.

At first, she'd been devastated. Heartbroken. Then she’d gone through a period of anger, picking fights with the other inmates. Eventually, she'd been swamped with grief. She'd lost everything because of him. Her job. Her reputation. Her future. Her future with him .

It had been a crushing blow, and depression had followed on the heels of the grief. She’d spent the past year numb and detached in order to survive the hell she had been through in Upton South.

The place was medium security for white color offenders, but to her, it was a death sentence. No joy, no family or friends, no reason to live.

“Stop!” More agents blocked their exit.

Truman pivoted, and they jetted down another maze of halls.

Here she was, once more free because of some weird glitch she didn't understand, but fleeing for her life.

She was supposed to be in for five years, but her lawyer had shown up a week ago out of the blue to show her a piece of paper. A transcript that had been missing from the original documents at her trial had somehow come to light.

The night the Queen Mother’s ring had been stolen, she’d been grading gems in her employer’s lab in Silver Spring. Not only did her time card put her there, but the security cameras showed her entering and leaving the building.

There was no way she’d been in London, regardless that the FBI and Scotland Yard believed she had connections with the Alice in Wonderland Gang. Even if they couldn’t prove she’d participated in the theft, they insisted her mother had given her the ring for safekeeping, which made Emma an accessory.

However, because of the newly found transcript, her lawyer had gotten her released, claiming—as Emma had all along—that someone had set her up.

“Shit,” Truman said, snapping her back to the present. Their escape route ended abruptly at a set of bathrooms.

The footsteps grew nearer. “Police! Stop!”

Panic clawed its way past her tight throat. “What should we do?"

He kicked open the women's door, knocking it back so forcefully that it bounced against the wall. He dashed across the threshold, breathing hard.

Like the rest of the place, the space was elegant old money dripping from the chandelier, padding the carpet, and reflecting in the gold-plated faucets.

He set her on her feet, shoving her forward. "Window."

She stumbled at the abrupt drop, the wool fiber of the carpeting rough against her bare feet. Pain burned in her ankle, radiating to her calf. Raising her eyes up, up, up, she felt a fresh spurt of panic. "It's at least seven feet off the ground.”

He flipped a lock on the door, then made a stirrup with his hands. “Hurry."

"You're too big to fit through it, and it's probably locked."

That intense gaze snapped to hers. "It's our only hope."

A fist pounded on the door. "Open up! We know you're in there."

She glanced at the barrier, back to Truman. He was right. She had no choice. Using his shoulders for leverage, she stepped into his interlocked hands.

He boosted her, and she grabbed the edge of the sill. With him steadying her, she tried pushing the bottom pane up, but it wouldn't budge. With trembling fingers, she searched for a lock.

There. The room had been updated and remodeled many times over the years to meet the expectations of the rich and famous who frequented the place, but the structure dated back to 1924. This wing catered more to the staff than the constituents who golfed, dined, and partied here, and that worked to their advantage. The window was a 1950s vintage, missing out on the cosmetic upgrades the interior had received over the years.

"It's stuck," she hissed, wiggling the metal latch as hard as she could. "I can't get it."

"You can." Truman's tone was calm and confident. "I've got you. Use both hands."

He shifted his grip to steady her by the thighs, pressing her body against the wall. Great, his face was level with her ass. A host of unwanted memories came flooding back of their time together, and she shoved them away.

She dropped her clutch and did as he instructed. First, she leveraged herself against his solid weight. Next, she used her hands to yank on the latch.

Something hard struck the door, making her jump. They were going to kick the damn thing down.

Adrenaline poured through her limbs, and she grunted as she tugged with all her might. The metal squeaked. “I’ve got it.” Flipping it the rest of the way, she shoved at the frame. The painted wood gave a reluctant groan, and the bottom section popped free.

Her relief was short-lived when she forced the lower pane up, and it stuck after only a few precious inches. Cool, spring air rushed in, but the opening wasn't big enough. Not nearly enough.

Another thud and more yelling and threats from the other side.

All of it faded away. She was going back to jail, and Truman would be in trouble, too. All she could feel was that awful numbness creeping over her.

"Emma.” Truman squeezed her legs, muttering into her ass. “Emma!”

And then she was sliding down his body, her feet landing on the ground again. She blinked as she watched from a detached place as he grabbed a stool from under the mirrored vanity and shoved it to the wall. He moved her aside, and as the door splintered behind her, he stepped up onto the upholstered seat, raised his elbow, and…

Smash

Glass flew, and Emma ducked. When she peeked at him, he was using his jacket to brush away shards.

Lithe as a snake, he slid through the opening.

Leaving her.

Her world narrowed to that empty hole.

What to do?

She was going back to prison, sure as the sun would rise tomorrow.

Panicked, she started to sink to the floor.

“Come on,” he yelled, appearing in the space and reaching back.

His hand dangled above her head, coaxing her to grab it.

More wood exploded. She glanced back to see a pair of eyes over a cruel mouth peering through the hole that had been made. A man smiled at her, the cat who’d caught the canary and was licking his lips in anticipation of eating her.

A weathered hand snaked through the opening to flip the lock.

“Grant!” Truman hissed.

She stepped on the stool, her future suspended in time. Of its own volition, her hand extended. Found his.

His grip was tight, his face—a face she still loved—as calm as a placid lake.

“Help me,” she whispered.

“I’ve got you,” he said and hauled her up.

The night felt shockingly alive as they shimmied down the outside wall, landing in the grass. Her ankle barked, but she bit her lip.

She gave herself up to him as he took her hand and towed her across the manicured lawn. More police were arriving, and various security guards and partygoers were now pouring out of the country club. The President and First Lady were being hustled out to a waiting SUV.

When Truman motioned for her to duck, she obeyed. When he shoved her behind bushes and down narrow garden pathways, she did her best not to trip or cry out at the rough treatment. He was a missile, focused on fleeing.

The cover of darkness worked to their advantage, Truman using it to become a shadow himself. Her bright yellow dress was a problem, she realized, but outside of stripping down to her underwear, there was little she could do about it.

Like all the guests, he’d no doubt used valet parking. Keeping them crouched, he avoided the cameras and the now roaming security guards and police officers looking for them to guide her through a maze of vehicles.

He found the one he wanted—she wasn’t sure whether it was his or not. Probably so, since the Jaguar was a seventies vintage and had more style in its rearview mirror than modern-day versions had in their entire body. That was Truman—designer, vintage, an eye for detail that most men lacked. It was one of the many reasons she's been so attracted to him.

Even amid their harrowing getaway, he opened the passenger door for her. “Keep your head down."

Again, she followed directions. The numbness scratched around the edges of her mind, trying to slip in again. Adrenaline made her limbs shake, but collapsing into the seat helped her breathe.

Without the keys, he had to hotwire the car. In the back of her mind, she wondered if that was another reason he chose the older model vehicle—bypassing the ignition system in an emergency was easier. Was there some part of his training that always pointed him toward a getaway car?

Crouching in the footwell, she watched him work, his face in profile, illuminated by the parking lot solar lights. "Why are you doing this?” she asked.

He wrapped several wires together. The engine roared to life. "I have my reasons." His serious, if still utterly calm, expression lightened. He grinned. “Besides, I haven't had this much fun in ages.”

"You're sick."

He slammed his door shut and gave a shrug. "I've been called worse. Hang on."

Tires squealed. Shots rang out. Emma tried to make herself as small as possible as her heart rate shot up all over again. “Are they shooting at us?"

A bullet pinged off the car. Truman floored the gas pedal. “This night just keeps getting better," he yelled over the noise. “First, a daring escape, now a car chase! Cracking good!”

She stood by her opinion—the man had a sick sense of humor. She was absolutely terrified, and yet, seeing his grinning face as he tore away from the country club, something in her heart did a little flip.

There is something wrong with me . Bonkers. Even with bullets flying and a fresh set of sirens wailing in the background, she’d never felt giddier.

Or safer.