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the gall threatening to gag him, and then started his car. Ian s SUV was easy to tail. A couple
of turns later, Zach had run through the last of his small store of patience. They were headed
for Ciara s place. He knew a faster route.
What if they were right?
O Brien would be a deadly enemy. If he wanted to hurt Ciara, she wouldn t have a
chance.
* * * *
Ciara stood in the coffee shop, staring blankly at the forest green coffee shop door,
which had closed behind her friends when they left. She hated being passive and helpless but
w hat other options did she have? If she tried to tackle O Brien on her own, she d wind up at the
bottom of Puget Sound. Waiting and trusting Regan was her only good choice .
Even harder to accept than her own powerlessness was Zach s blaming her. All her
hopes for redeeming herself with him had ridden on her plan to get O Brien to incriminate
himself. Since Ian and Regan had turned her down, she needed to find another solution.
In the meantime, she still had a job and it was time to put in an appearance. Six hours
later, she left the paper and the workday behind, feeling even worse without the buzz of the
newsroom to distract her from her troubles.
She climbed into a sun-baked car for the trip home. The muggy summer evening did
nothing to cheer her. Her spirits sank down to shoe level. Zach believed she d shot him. He
hated her. When she d run to him in the precinct garage, she d been shocked to a standstill by
DANGEROUS SURRENDER Evanne Lorraine 147
the coldness of his gaze. Every time she closed her eyes, his flash of pain followed by the
thousand-meter cop stare replayed in her head.
She had let her dad down, too. She was going to be a one-story wonder, unable to
follow up on her first big break. She didn t even turn on the CD changer as she drove home.
Slowing to make the sharp turn into the driveway, she noticed headlights coming toward her.
While juggling her paraphernalia, she bumped the car door closed with her hip. Keys
clutched in her right hand, she hit the lock button by feel, and then heard the reassuring beep.
Too bad, she didn t have keyless entry for her front door. She heard footfalls on the walk behind
her and scurried up the front steps, a sudden nervous chill making her move faster.
After fumbling her first two tries at unlocking the door, she breathed a sigh of relief when
the key slid home.
Before she twisted the house key, what felt like five bags of cement slammed her face
against the door, bruising her already scraped cheek. Her laptop fell, hitting the porch floor. She
strained against the weight pinning her to the door and twisted enough to see her attacker.
O Brien grabbed her arm, wrenching it behind her back with vicious force.
Using her free arm, Ciara gouged at his eye. O Brien jerked his face back and her nails
tore down his cheek.
His erection pressed into her lower back. Fear spurred an extra rush of adrenaline into
her bloodstream blood stream . She kicked backward, connecting solidly with his shin. She
took grim satisfaction in his grunt and in the bright coppery smell of his fresh blood from where
she d ripped his face.
The minor triumph was short lived. O Brien pushed harder on her bent arm, forcing it
past the breaking point. With a sickening snap of bone, she lost the small bit of leverage the kick
had gained her, slamming back against the door. Panic began clogging her brain and slowing her
reactions. She opened her mouth and got out one yell. Not nearly as loud as she needed it to be,
before he stuffed a cloth in her mouth. A dull thud followed by sharp pain signaled the rap of
something hard on the back of head. She saw the stars for the second time in less than a week
before losing the fight to stay conscious.
When she woke up, her face rested on carpet. The faint smell of industrial rug shampoo
lingered, assaulting her nose. Her aching arms were secured behind her. Duct tape covered her
mouth. The side of her face, which had hammered the door, hurt, a throbbing reminder of her
peril.
She swallowed the fear threatening to swamp her, scanning the room through her lashes.
She kept her breathing slow, counting to eight for each breath in, and the same steady count of
eight for every breath out.
O Brien s expensive Italian loafers came into view. She held in a groan, which would
gain her no mercy. The shoes came closer. She willed herself limp. He prodded her with an
elegantly shod foot. Nausea roiled in her belly, posing a real danger. Swallowing hard, she
fought the gag reflex, which could be fatal in her current duct-tapped state.
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