Her warmth seeped into him, and his chest flooded with something other than blood, something not mushy but strong and steady and loyal and hers. Always.
Hers.
Her eyes shone with tears as she gazed up at him and he could feel his own burn with emotion. If he’d lost her . . .
If he’d fucking lost her again . . .
She reached up to gingerly caress his jaw but her hand fell, her face scrunching up at the sight of his crimson-soaked chest.
“Zach,” she murmured. A sigh shuddered out of her lips. “Zach Rivers. I knew . . . I saw you and I knew . . . you were my love.”
“Am I, Paige? Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh Christ.” He was afraid to hurt her, tried to be careful, but he could not stop holding her, rocking her, smoothing her hair away from her damp, pale face. “Everything you said.” His fingers shook on her face. “It tore me apart listening. I love you. I want to have babies with you, baby. I want to buy you a house.” He kissed her lips, rocked her harder. “Would you like that? Hmm? To be with me? To be my wife? I promise we’ll do everything we couldn’t do before and more of what we could.”
She murmured, “How lovely,” and drifted away, her lashes resting on her cheekbones.
Sirens wailed outside and his brows shot up in surprise. That was even faster than he’d expected. Within seconds, Cody and his tie crashed into the room, gun drawn, eyes bouncing the walls, settling finally on them. “You two okay?”
The rest of Zach’s team burst onto the scene. A dozen detectives, all of them homicide, guns drawn, badges flashing. Within seconds they found the corpses, prone on the blood-soaked carpet. Not looking as fine as their surroundings.
As Cody maneuvered to where he and Paige were slumped against each other, Zach gazed into her face. “I thought you were bluffing.”
“So did O’Neill.” She grinned weakly.
“An ambulance is on its way,” Cody said, eyeing them both with grim solemnity. “Rivers, you’re a lucky man.”
“I know.” Zach closed his eyes, then stared down at Paige Avery and placed a kiss on her blood-soaked lips. “I know.”
CHAPTER 8
HER NAME WAS . . .
Beep.
Paige Avery.
Beep.
Her name was Paige Avery and she was twenty-five years old. Daughter of Thomas and Leticia Avery. Born in Phoenix, Arizona. Had a cat named Whiskers who ate nothing but tuna, and a degree from the Art Institute of Seattle.
Her name was Paige Avery and she was terribly in love.
“Sir, you can’t be in here! You should be in your room. Where’s your IV?”
The bed creaked, and suddenly she was surrounded with the scent, the solidness, the delicious familiar heat, of one Zach Rivers climbing into her hospital bed.
Her lashes fluttered open.
She gasped at the mesmerizing sight of him, shifting to his side so he didn’t fall over the edge of the tiny bed. He held her against him with one arm and drew her gently to his chest. A bandage covered his left shoulder. Vaguely she wondered why he got to wear his clothes, and she a plasticky blue robe.
He’d been shot and he was still so gorgeous, his expression terribly concerned and his eyes . . .
They shone down on her like beacons.
“Zach, your shoulder,” she whispered.