Charlotte Douglas - Licensed To Marry

Then, suddenly, it was quiet.

Before she could lift her head, she felt someone grip her elbows and lift her to her feet. She glanced up into Kyle Foster’s grimy but handsome face.

“C’mon, Laura.” His face lit with the same killer smile. “We’re busting out of this joint.”

Before she could protest, he swept her off her feet and into his arms.

“I can walk,” she protested.

He gripped her tighter. “You don’t know the way through the wreckage.”

In spite of carrying her, he moved with a swiftness that amazed her, surefooted on the treacherous debris. She twined her arms around his neck and held on tight, her face buried against the broad expanse of his chest.

Dust clouds choked them.

Debris tumbled around them.

Although her rescuer seemed calm, she could feel his urgency in the fierce pounding of his heart beneath her cheek. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears. What if the building collapsed on top of them?

Suddenly she was blinded by daylight.

Laura heard cheers go up from a group of people in the distance. She lifted her head and saw a band of firefighters, police officers and paramedics gathered in the parking lot, applauding and smiling.

“You can set me down now,” she told Kyle. She preferred to face the crowd of strangers on her own two feet.

“Nope. Not until the paramedics check you out.”

A thundering roar and a blast of dust hit them from behind, and Kyle staggered slightly, still heading for the group in the parking lot. The waiting crowd went silent.

“My God!” Laura said. “What was that?”

“The building.” Kyle’s rich voice was tight with emotion. “The ruins caved in. We got you out just in time.”

“The children?”

“Everybody’s out. We were the last ones.”

She sagged against him in relief.

Ahead of them, the crowd parted, forming a corridor to the triage center the paramedics had set up. Kyle slid her onto a chair beneath the awning strung from the back of the truck. A young woman in paramedic blues took Laura’s blood pressure, checked her pulse, listened to her heart and lungs, and did a quick body scan for injuries.

Kyle remained by her side. “She okay?” he asked the medic.

The woman nodded. “But I want her to stay here for now so we can keep an eye on her, just in case.”

“The little boy,” Laura said, “Jeremy. How is he?”

“Broken arm,” the medic replied. “And a concussion. We’ve already transported him to the hospital. But he should be fine in a few days.”

“His parents?”

“They were waiting for him,” the medic said. “As soon as the explosion hit the news, we’ve had the parents of children in that class pouring in here to learn if their kids were safe. Jeremy’s parents rode in the ambulance with him.”

“And the little girls?” Laura looked around for Jennifer and Tiffany, but didn’t see them. Only then did she notice that Kyle had disappeared.

“They both checked out okay,” the paramedic said. “Their parents took them home. Wanted them away from all this as soon as possible.”

Laura glanced behind her at the awful wreckage and shuddered. “Can’t say that I blame them.”

Kyle Foster reappeared and handed her a bottle of water. “This will clear the dust from your throat.”

She accepted it with thanks and drank. Water had never tasted so good. When she’d finished, she remembered she was wearing his jacket. “If the paramedics will loan me a blanket,” she said, “I can return your coat.”

“Keep it,” he said. “You can return it later.”

“But it’s getting late. And colder.”

His slow grin made her pulse race. “I’ll be too busy for a while to be cold.”

She remembered her father then, dressed only in his best suit. At his age, he chilled easily. She needed to find him quickly and take him away from the destruction that surrounded them, back to the warmth and security of home.

She stood, silently cursing the weakness in her legs. “I have to find my father.”

Kyle apparently noticed her unsteadiness. He grasped her elbow and braced her against him.

“You really should stay quiet,” the medic warned.

Laura cast a pleading glance at Kyle. “Please, I need to know he’s all right.”

Kyle nodded. “There’s a check-in area for evacuees across the lot. I’ll go with you.”

“But you have work—”

“This is part of it.”

He helped her pick her way through snarls of fire hoses, clusters of emergency vehicles and crowds of panicked people, also searching for their relatives. When Laura and Kyle reached the checkpoint, it was mobbed.

“You don’t have to stay,” Laura said. “Looks like I’ll be standing in line a while.”

“Your father wasn’t with you in the building?” Kyle asked.

Laura shook her head. “He was meeting with the governor.”

The sudden careful stillness on Kyle’s face frightened her. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He was gone only a couple of minutes before he returned. “Come with me. The governor’s in the sheriff’s command center.”

“And my father?”

Kyle didn’t answer. With a protective arm around her shoulders, he threaded them through the teeming, sometimes hysterical crowd to the edge of the lot. He knocked on the door of what looked like a huge recreational vehicle except for the lettering and insignia that clearly marked it as the sheriff’s command center.

An officer opened the door and offered his hand to Laura to guide her up the stairs. Kyle followed. Inside, Governor Haskel, a bandage around his head and his arm in a sling, pushed up from his chair and approached her. For once, his smooth, political smile was absent, his charismatic face grimly set.

Laura whipped her head around, searching for her father.

He wasn’t there.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked the governor. “Was he hurt? Have they taken him to the hospital?”

Harry Haskel shook his head. “I’m sorry, Laura. Your father…he was killed in the blast.”

“What?” Everything took on a surreal aspect. She saw everything through a muted haze. The handsome, sympathetic face of Kyle Foster, whose strong arms kept her from falling. The silent sheriff’s deputies who manned their posts without looking at her. The pained expression of the governor.

“There must be some mistake,” she pleaded in desperation. “Have you checked the hospitals?”

The governor’s expression didn’t change, and when he spoke, his usually booming, hale-and-hearty voice was gentle. “I’m sorry, Laura. We’ve confirmed it. Your father’s dead.”

The last thing she remembered was Kyle Foster catching her as she fell.

KYLE STOPPED the night-duty nurse as she came out of Laura’s hospital room. “May I see her now?”

The stout woman nodded, but fixed him with a stern stare. “Don’t stay long. She’s had a terrible shock and needs her rest.”

Kyle hesitated before entering, wondering if he was doing the right thing. At the hotel, where he and the other agents had showered and changed after long hours of investigation and conferring with the other authorities, he had debated whether to visit Laura or not. He knew she was grieving, that she probably wanted her privacy, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

In the bombed-out building that afternoon, he’d heard her long before he’d met her. He’d caught the clear, pure notes of her soprano voice leading the children in song, guiding the rescuers to them. And when he’d seen her, her long dark hair framing her pale face like a midnight cloud, her startling blue eyes calm and bright, he’d been amazed by her composure. She’d stripped away her blouse to bandage the boy’s wound, but she’d exhibited no false modesty. In fact, she’d been so centered on keeping the children calm, he would swear she’d been totally unaware how provocatively gorgeous she’d looked, clad only in a short skirt that emphasized her slender hips and revealed slim legs, and a wispy piece of lace that did little to hide her small, firm breasts.