Taste Page 16

  Immediately, everything changed.

  The air around us dropped ten degrees. Everything about Spencer froze.

  “Elle,” he said, his voice hoarse and afraid.

  He was staring at me like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. I followed his gaze, looking down.

  There against my white top, glowing in the inky night…

  Was a red dot.

  A laser shining directly on my chest.

  I thought of the note. Of how I was no longer necessary.

  They were eliminating me before I could be dragged in for questioning, before I could give away any information.

  Both of us stared at the seemingly harmless red dot signaling the end of my life.

  I dragged my eyes away and up at Spencer, at the man I loved.

  The stark fear I saw in his eyes ripped at my heart.

  And then everything happened at once.

  24

  The sound of a gun being fired, of a bullet whizzing through the air, was deafening.

  “No!” Spencer shouted and threw himself at me.

  His broad body shielded mine as he knocked me to the ground.

  “Spencer!” I screamed and tried to shove him away.

  But it was too late.

  I slammed into the pavement and turned in time to see Spencer jerk when the bullet hit him. I let out a strangled cry, and he stumbled. I leapt up to support his weight, but he shoved me back onto the ground and righted himself, hunching forward, still trying to shield me.

  “Get down,” Spencer grunted.

  I reached for him, tears falling down my cheeks. “Spence.”

  Another bullet hit the pavement just inches from where we were. Bits of blacktop burst upward, hitting against us.

  “Move!” Spencer yelled and wrapped an arm around my waist, towing me up. We ran the couple feet to his Mustang, and Spencer shoved me behind the car.

  I scrambled up to grab at him as he slid down the door, lowering himself into a sitting position.

  His hand was pressed against his side, and his lips were turned down. I pulled off my shirt immediately and pushed at his bloody hand to press the fabric against the wound.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said, my voice wobbly. “We need to call an ambulance.”

  “I’m fine,” he muttered.

  “You got shot! You’re bleeding!”

  “The bullet just grazed me. You pulled me out of the way,” he said, giving me a little grin.

  I didn’t care what he said. He was not okay. Blood was already saturating my T-shirt, and it was smeared across his chest. The white dress shirt he was wearing was completely stained red. I could feel the sticky warmth of his blood coating my fingers, and it made me want to scream.

  “Harder, darlin’,” he said, putting pressure with his seriously bloody hand over mine, showing me how hard to press.

  “This is why I’m a chef,” I muttered, peeking around the edge of the car. “The only emergency in food prep is when a dish is in danger of no flavor.”

  “Aww, your dishes never have that problem,” he drawled.

  How the hell could he be so charming as he bled all over my street?

  “You at least need stitches.” I worried.

  “We need to get the hell out of here,” he muttered. “They might still be here.”

  “They couldn’t possibly still be here!” I said, outraged.

  “They didn’t make their shot.”

  His voice was deadpan. Matter-of-fact. It made my blood run cold.

  As if to punctuate his words, another shot rang out. One of the windows of the Mustang shattered.

  Spencer stiffened and dug a set out keys out of his front pocket. “We gotta get out of here.”

  I nodded.

  Now wasn’t the time to freak out.

  I snatched the keys from him and reached up and opened the passenger-side door. “Can you climb in? Sit on the floor.”

  “Yeah. Climb across to the driver’s seat.”

  I nodded and started moving. He snatched me back. “Stay low, darlin’.”

  “I will.” I promised.

  He pressed a quick kiss to my lips. “Go on.”

  I scrambled across the seats, trying my hardest to stay low. Glass from the shattered driver’s window cut into my skin, but I ignored it. Behind me I heard Spencer getting into the car as I slid the key into the ignition.

  I slid the seat all the way back as far as it could go and sat on the floor. It was uncomfortable as hell, but I managed to get the car started using my feet on the clutch and the gas.

  “You couldn’t have gotten an automatic?” I muttered.

  Spencer chuckled. “My bad.”

  “You ready?” I asked him. He looked uncomfortable and in pain squished on the floor of his car.

  “Go,” he said.

  I sprang up, threw the car in drive, and peeled out. I took out the mailbox on the way, but I didn’t stop to see what kind of damage it made.

  “Respect the car!” Spencer groaned as I sped down the street.

  Another shot blew out the back windshield, and I screamed.

  “Fuck!” he roared, and I increased the speed, tearing around the corner.

  I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror, waiting for a car to fall behind us.

  But one never came.

  Spencer pushed himself up into the seat and pulled out his phone. As soon as someone answered, he began reporting about what happened, about shots fired and what direction they came from.

  I was amazed. How the hell did he know the location and direction of the shooter? I was sitting over here proud I hadn’t peed my pants and I was driving this stick shift without stripping the gears.

  “What did the guy watching the house see?” Spencer demanded.

  He let out a string of cuss words a few moments later. “You should have left a watch here!” he roared.

  “Calm down,” I told him, worrying about his blood loss.

  I heard a voice on the other line but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Spencer grunted a couple times, and I peeked beneath my shirt he was pressing against his wound and became anxious all over again when I saw the blood wasn’t slowing down.

  I imagined the man on the phone wanted to know where we would be.

  “I need to go to the hospital,” he said reluctantly. “I got shot.”

  Muffled yelling from the other end of the line made me grin. Spencer needed to get yelled at. He acted like getting shot wasn’t that big of a deal.

  “Yeah,” he said after his lecture. “See you there.”

  When the call was disconnected, he jammed the phone back in his pocket and looked at me.

  “Please don’t die,” I said, the choked words bursting from my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Hey,” he said, covering my hand on the stick shift with one of his red-stained ones. “It takes a lot more than this to kill a guy like me.”

  A sob ripped from my throat as the pressure in my chest built. He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m okay, baby. Just get us to the hospital.”

  But it wasn’t okay. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said. “You should have let them shoot me instead.”

  He grunted. “I’d rather get shot than live without you.”

  “Getting shot is not a romantic gesture,” I scolded, even though he totally owned me.

  He chuckled.

  I ran up over a curb, and the car in the other lane honked madly at me.

  “I’d like to arrive at the hospital without further injury,” he said, dry.

  I gave him an evil look and the car went over a bump. He winced and fear flooded me anew. I gripped the steering wheel tightly and fastened my eyes on the road. The hospital was just up ahead.

  That should have been me sitting there bleeding. It’s me they wanted dead.

  I wondered when they would try again.

  25

  The hospital’s bright fluorescent lights were jarring to my tired
eyes. Spencer wouldn’t let me drop him off at the emergency room door. Instead, he insisted on staying with me while I parked and then walked with me to the entrance.

  He was absolutely maddening.

  And stubborn.

  But when he held my hand on the way in, I forgot to be mad at him.

  Thankfully, when we got there, he was given first priority. It was a good thing because I was so strung out and worried that I would have gone postal on some poor nurse if they tried to make us sit in the waiting room for even five minutes.

  Turns out, gunshot wounds rated attention immediately.

  When I looked at Spencer as we waited for the nurse to wheel over a wheelchair (which he tried to refuse), I noted how pale he was looking. It worried me because he’d lost so much blood.

  “You can wait here,” the nurse said, eyeing my bra and blood-stained jeans.

  I opened my mouth to tell her exactly what I thought of her prim instructions, but Spencer intervened.

  “She stays with me.”

  “Policy states—” Hagatha started in her sour tone.

  Spencer held up his hand and spoke, his voice hard and cold, leaving no room for argument. “She is a witness in a federal investigation. She’s in danger, and I’m pissed off. She stays with me.”

  “Right this way,” the nurse said and then led me down a long, white hall.

  I made faces at her back as we walked.

  What? Yeah, I was an adult, but I was in a bitchy mood.

  She put us in a “room” that was sectioned off by a large curtain that hung from the ceiling. Spencer got up from the wheelchair as soon as she disappeared, and he stepped toward the exam table. I was at his side instantly, offering my frame for support. He didn’t lean on me, but he did kiss the top of my head.

  Once he was settled on the table, I began to pace. “I hope the doctor hurries up.”

  “I’m fine.” He assured me. “A couple stitches and I’ll be good as new.”

  “You lost a lot of blood, Spencer.” I pointed out.

  “This is nothing.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Have you been shot before?”

  “A couple times.”

  It hit me then. I realized that this was a man who was essentially in danger for a living. I guess I’d always seen him as the guy who stole cookies from the kitchen. A guy who always flirted and made me smile.

  But those things weren’t his job.

  His job was to protect the president. His job was to take a bullet for him if need be.

  His words from before settled inside me. He wanted to be part of my life and Jack’s. I wanted that, too. I wanted it more than I realized. Spencer hadn’t really snuck up on me. He’d been there for quite a while. Since the first time he’d waltzed into the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

  It had been almost a year since that day.

  And I realized that year was always leading us here. The pull between us had always been there. We just hadn’t been ready.

  How was I going to live with the fact that he was in danger on a daily basis? How would I not worry myself sick?

  “Hey,” he said softly, breaking into my thoughts.

  “Hmm?” I said, glancing in his direction.

  “Come here.” He hitched his chin at me.

  I closed the distance between us, slipping a red-tinted hand against the shirt and applying extra pressure. His hand covered mine.

  “I’m tough. I got this.”

  I cupped the side of his jaw with my hand, amazed at how fast my feelings for him grew once I allowed myself to admit them. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of my palm.

  It made me smile.

  The doctor bustled in, breaking the moment between us, and I stepped away so he could look Spencer over.

  He asked several questions, looked over the wound, and declared he needed stitches and an IV. I guess it really was a flesh wound. A bad one, but only a flesh wound.

  When the doctor sent the nurse to get all the supplies as he set about getting ready to stitch him up, Spencer started to complain about the IV, and I swung around and gave him a look. It shut him up. Guess I was getting better at the mom look.

  When they started giving him numbing shots and sticking the IV in the back of his hand, my stomach got queasy again. I went across the room and sank into the chair, averting my eyes from what they were doing to him. Instead, I looked out into the hall between the gap in the curtain that afforded us some privacy.

  My eyes grew heavy as I sat there. All the adrenaline, stress, and lack of sleep was seriously catching up to me. When I finally did get to go to bed, I’d probably sleep for twelve hours straight.

  My eyes were drifting closed when someone walked by our little room. He was walking at a turtle’s pace and looked right in between the curtain. My eyes sprang open all the way as I watched him disappear out of sight.

  Something about him was familiar. I thought I knew him.

  I glanced over where the doctor and nurse were bent over Spencer, who was lying on the table, and I quietly slipped around the curtain.

  Up ahead, a man with pressed khaki’s and a dark-colored sport coat was continuing down the hall. Not far away, the hall ended, which caused him to turn back around.

  He stopped when he saw me.

  I did know him.

  I rushed down the hall toward him, knowing he was here to get an update on Spencer.

  “Mr. Caroway,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Hello, Ms. Bond,” he said, inclining his head. “We are all very concerned about Mr. Waller. Word about him being shot has spread through the White House. The vice president asked me to come down here and get an update on his condition.”

  Something niggled in the back of my head. Something about what he said just didn’t sit right with me.

  “Of course,” I said, realizing he was waiting for a reply. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure Spencer will be happy to know so many people are pulling for him.”

  “Are his injuries that severe, then?”

  Why did that sound like he was hopeful? That strange feeling wormed its way through my chest. The whisper in the back of my mind turned into a scream.

  “How did you know Spencer was shot, Mr. Caroway?” I asked.

  “I told you,” he said. “It’s all over the White House.”

  “But Spencer wasn’t shot at the White House. How would everyone there know?”

  “Walsh, of course,” he answered smoothly.

  Wrong.

  I knew, knew that Walsh would never tell everyone about Spencer. This shooting was part of the plot to kill the president. It was top secret. Walsh would never be that sloppy.

  He cleared his throat to draw my attention. “Is everything okay?” he inquired. “Spencer?”

  “Yes,” I said, watching him carefully. “Spencer will be just fine.”

  A little bit of panic passed behind his eyes.

  His icy blue eyes.

  The dream flashed before me. The man with the ski mask and the icy eyes invaded my brain.

  I gasped.

  “It was you!” I burst out, unable to contain the reaction to figuring out who had been terrorizing me.

  “I assure you I don’t know what you are talking about.” He sniffed, trying to step around me.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realized before. He was the same build and height of the man who broke into my home. He had the same deep voice.

  Now I knew why he was so eager and non-hesitant to eat my cookies in the kitchen that day. He wanted to throw me off in case I was suspicious. He wanted to prove he didn’t think twice about my food.

  “You’ve been plotting against the president,” I whispered fervently. “You shot Spencer!” My voice grew louder with the accusation.

  “Shut up,” he growled, menace dripping from every pore.

  “I will not,” I growled. “How dare you threaten my son!”


  I turned to yell for help. Mr. Caroway grabbed my ponytail and yanked, making me yelp. He dragged me behind the nearest curtain and forcefully threw me into a rolling cart. The tray sitting atop went flying, clattering to the floor, and I fell. My knees took the brunt of my tumble. I grunted as pain shot through my legs, then pushed up to run for help.

  He pounced on me, straddling my backside and wrapping his hands around my throat from behind. “I knew you wouldn’t keep your mouth shut,” he spat. “All you are is a loose end that needs cutting.”

  All four fingers of each hand pressed against my windpipe, threatening to crush it.

  I gasped and gagged for air. He was going to strangle me if I didn’t so something!

  I blinked, trying to clear my vision and look for something, anything, I could use as a weapon.

  “It’s the perfect plan,” he growled, squeezing just a little harder.

  I began to wheeze.

  “The president is dead. No one would have known why, and then my boss, the VP, would have had the position.”

  Did that mean the VP didn’t know about this? Or was he the one behind it?

  It was getting harder and harder to breath. My lungs seized, begging my body for air it wasn’t allowed to have.

  “But for it to stay perfect, you have to die.”

  “He’s not dead!” I rasped, forcing the words from my throat.

  The pressure on my windpipe immediately went away. I sagged against the floor, gasping for breath.

  “What did you say?” he hissed.

  “I said it was all a lie. The president isn’t really dead.”

  I had no idea if I should be telling him all this, but I needed to buy myself some time.

  “No!” He gasped, shock radiating through him.

  I seized the moment and twisted out from beneath him, scrambling to my feet.

  “Yes. And now that we know who’s behind this, he can come out of hiding.” I taunted.

  His eyes were wild and unfocused. I felt like I was prodding a wild animal, and I had no idea how he would react.

  My eyes focused on a silver instrument that must have fallen off the tray when I knocked into it. It was close to my foot, just within reach.

  “I’ll kill him myself,” Mr. Caroway growled, straightening and taking a step toward me. “Right after I kill you.”