Donna Young - The Bodyguard Contract

Ian jerked when she fell but didn’t turn until the two men dropped, dead, on the ground. Quickly, he grabbed their guns. “How bad?”

She clutched her stomach, covering the bullet wound. Fear rose, coating her tongue with acid and bile. “It’s nothing.” She moved, using the desk to stand. Lara fought off the wave of nausea and weakness. “Let’s finish this,” she whispered. Blood soaked her suit. She could feel the warm stickiness against her skin. She shifted her weapon to her left hand and braced her legs apart to keep them from shaking. “Options?”

“Stairs.” Ian snagged her computer and glanced at the screen. “I’ve got four more closing in.”

Lara nodded, only to stop when the room tilted. The loss of blood was already making her light-headed. “Let’s go.”

She staggered a few steps, then recovered long enough to reach the wall next to the double doors. Light from the hallway spewed into the office, its glare almost painful to Lara’s blurring vision. Taking short shallow breaths, she waited for Ian to give the go-ahead.

“Get ready, Red.”

“I’m ready.” She gripped the weapon tight to cover her trembling. With a jerk, she slid closer to the door.

Ian glanced back at her and swore.

Lara followed his gaze. Blood streaked the wall behind her.

The bullet had gone completely through and out her back.

Angry with herself for not realizing, she said, “There’s nothing you can do, Ian, except get us the hell out of here.”

Lara wasn’t a woman who relinquished control. She’d learned long ago that doing so would only bring pain. This time, ironically, pain was forcing her to do just that, leaving her no choice but to trust Ian to save them. “You’ve got about five minutes, hotshot. Then you’re going to have to carry me.”

“When this is over…” Gun raised, Ian used his foot to kick the double door open. The ding of the elevator ricocheted through the white hallway. “Get down!” he ordered, then grabbed a compact explosive, the size of a small metal hockey puck, from his belt. He tossed it directly into the path of the elevator and shoved Lara into a nearby doorway, shielding her body with his.

The explosion rocked the floor. A burst of heat surrounded them, rancid smoke of burned tile and plaster filled her lungs. Lara coughed, tasting the blood and bile.

Ian eased back, his eyes finding hers. “Can you make it?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” she whispered through the viselike pain that squeezed her chest, then prayed she was right.

Without help, Lara reached the stairway door first, but it was Ian who yanked it open.

Somewhere below the slap of running shoes echoed through the circular concrete stairway. Ian motioned her up the stairs.

Her legs grew weaker, shaking uncontrollably. She grabbed the railing to pull herself up the steps, but her hands, slick with sweat, slid. With a cry, she fell facefirst onto the concrete. Pain exploded in her chest, seared her belly.

“Lara.”

“Go,” she rasped. Blood bubbled up her throat, making each breath an effort.

Ian grabbed her by the shoulder, his arms braced to lift her.

“No!” The fire in her gut intensified. Weakly, she lifted her hand, showing him the steel puck clutched under her fingers. “Get out of here.”

Before she set the timer, Ian’s hand covered hers.

Too weak to tug free, she didn’t even try. “Let go, Ian. I’ll detonate it when they reach me. By the time their friends realize you’re not here, you’ll have the files and be long gone.”

“No.” He swung her up into his arms, pausing when she gasped with pain. “Not this time.”

A man yelled from the stairs. Lara heard the blast of gunfire, felt Ian shudder with each bullet’s impact. The warmth of his blood mingled with hers, its metallic scent suspended between them.

Slowly he pressed her back against the wall, his body now more deadweight than not. Still, he protected her.

“Ian,” she rasped, ignoring the movement behind them, the growing echo of feet as the bad guys closed in. Instead, she concentrated on the small flecks of silver in his blue irises, the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips—trying to absorb the strength behind each. “Game over.”

“No, Red, it’s just beginning.” Ian leaned in until his lips hovered only slightly above hers, his breath brushed warm, reassuring against her cheek. Anticipation—and maybe a little panic—rifled through her and came out in a shuddered breath. All she needed to do was lift her chin….

“I breached the building first.”

“Damn it, MacAlister!” Lara sat up, pulled her hands out of the computer cuffs and tugged off her Virtual Imaging helmet. A cascade of red hair tumbled free. With fast, jerky movements, she disconnected the sensor wires from her training suit. An instant later, lights flashed on and the VI program shut down—leaving all four walls of the lab room an iridescent blue and the air silent. Anger whipped through her. “You sabotaged my operation, didn’t you?”

Ian removed his helmet, tossed it into the leather seat next to him. He ran a casual hand through his chestnut hair, now sweat darkened to a charred brown. Cropped military short, his hairstyle complemented the broad sweep of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and a nose that was a touch off center and, she suspected, had been broken more than once.

“Answer me, MacAlister,” she demanded. Born from a French mother and an Irish father, Lara had more than her fair share of temper. Most times, she kept a tight rein of control over it. Other times…

“I can’t. I’m dead, remember?”

“Funny,” she bit out the word. “Did you or did you not sabotage my operation?”

“Now why would I do that?” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m the one who developed the program.”

No one would call Ian MacAlister handsome in a pretty boy sense. But with the strong, striking features of his Celtic ancestors and his laser-blue eyes, no woman could walk past him without a second glance.

“Who better to change it?” she snapped, finding her own eyes lingering, her heartbeat accelerating. Annoyed, she shoved her hair behind her ear and slid from the leather seat.

“All the programs have failure sequences in them,” he responded with equanimity. He disconnected his suit and stood in one long, fluid movement—a jungle cat satisfied after a night on the prowl. “No mission goes smoothly.”

“Usually, it’s a random process,” she argued, cursing herself for letting her guard down. “This time you decided what was going to happen and when. That’s why you made the bet with me. Isn’t it?”

“You decided the challenge, not me. Besides, I didn’t need to reprogram anything to win. The fact that you went in by yourself told me you hadn’t thought the mission through.” He slid the zipper on his training suit down to his waist. He wore no shirt. Lara’s gaze flickered over him, settling on the ripple of movement across his chest as he jerked his arms free. He left the top portion of the suit dangling off his hips.

Her eyes dipped, following each carved muscle that flexed with power under his sun-bronzed skin—remembering from months before how the bare skin gave way to a small, sexy line of sable hair just below his navel. Too damn sexy for her own good, she understood now. Still, the heat danced through her, lighting little fires along her nerves.

His gaze caught hers, and in an instant the planes of his face sharpened, his jaw tightened with awareness.

With effort, she drew one deep steadying breath.

Then just that quick Ian’s features smoothed, the passion sliding under a relaxed, easy smile—an undeniable arrogance.