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She threw open the front door as the man had raised his fist to knock again. Feeling absurdly satisfied with the shocked expression on his face, she turned to traipse through her living room to where her slip-on canvas shoes rested on the floor by her favorite, oversized armchair.

“I talked to Ms. Lathan. I’m going, but I’m driving myself. You can wait and leave with me, but I have to pack some things first.”

She heard a click and froze. It couldn’t be what it sounded like, but as she raised her gaze to land on the stranger, she wasn’t surprised to see him pointing a Glock in her direction.

“Change of plans, Miss Barlowe. You’re coming with me.”

“Bell. My name is Bell. There’s no Barlowe here. You have the wrong house.”

He knew better. She could see in his arrogant expression that he knew exactly where he was and who he was holding at gunpoint.

“Don’t waste my time. Let’s go. After you.”

She’d never been good at processing change. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the man, trying to decide if his gun was real and if he was truly here to harm her. She finally pursed her lips when the truth sucker-punched her in the gut.

“You’re not one of the boys, are you?”

He leered at her, turning her stomach at the innuendo dripping from his smile. “As much as I would like to show you, I’m not a boy and very much a man, my boss is waiting for us.”

Too many thoughts rushed through her mind. She was about to be killed, and she was wearing old clothes and probably the most unattractive underwear she owned. On writing days, she was more about comfort than style, but if she’d known the turn her day would take, she may have rethought his wardrobe.

She was about to be murdered, and all she’d had to eat was a granola bar for breakfast and microwaved sesame chicken which had been left over from her dinner the night before. She would draw her last breath without finishing her book, and this one was shaping up to be a good one. Her editor would be pissed. Hell,shewas pissed.

She was going to die today, and she hadn’t told her mother and stepfather goodbye or that she loved them or that she was proud to have had them in her life. She was about to lose her life without having any answers from her father. If Ms. Lathan was to be believed, English was the reason she was being held at gunpoint, and she would die without knowing what he’d done to put her life in danger.

“Please hurry, Miss Barlowe. We have somewhere to be.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she couldn’t bring herself to move.Don’t anger the armed stranger, Ray.She wasn’t trying to goad her captor, but she’d been hit witha lotin a short amount of time.

Her feet felt like lead as she forced them to move toward the door. The man was right behind her. The barrel of the gun wasn’t touching her back, but she could almost feel it there. She’d written a scene like this many times. Imagining the scenario was different from experiencing it. If she happened to live through her situation, which right now didn’t seem likely, she may have to rethink the genre she wrote. Reality mirroring a scene out of a murder mystery wasn’t as fun her mind playing out the fantasy. Maybe a sweet romance or women’s fiction should be more her focus.

“I would move faster, Ms. Barlowe. Moving at a snail’s pace won’t rescue you from your fate.”

She shivered at the sinister tone to his voice and jerked violently when his beefy hand pinched her bottom. When she whirled around, her glare was hot enough to reduce a lesser man to ash.

“Do not touch me.” Her words were slow, measured, and full of her rage. She pushed her luck with the man holding the gun, but she refused to let any man touch her without her consent. Not without a fight.

His hand flew out before she could react. The back cracked her jaw with a force that tossed her head to the side, tweaking her neck. She stumbled backward through the doorway, stopping short of losing her balance and falling on her ass onto the porch. Pain flashed like stars in her eyes, and her hand flew up to cradle her battered cheek. He raised his gun until the barrel was lined up with the center of her forehead. His smile was gone, his face morphing into an unforgiving granite.

“Let’s be clear about something. I can do whatever the hell I want to you.”

He could. He was bigger and armed, but Reagan wouldn’t be pushed around. No matter what trouble had found her or what fate awaited her, she never backed down. She was stubborn like that. Just like…

Nope, don’t go there, Ray. Now’s not the time to be thinking of the man who got you in this mess.

She squared off against the gunman. “You can try, but I wouldn’t count on walking away without some bruises of your own.”

He cocked the gun, and fear almost knocked her legs from under her. “You little bitch.”

She held her ground and braced herself for what was to come. Except she wasn’t expecting the force suddenly hitting her from the side, pushing her down to roll along the porch. She screamed as she fell off the edge to land on the ground. Breath left her lungs in a painfulwhoosh, and she did a quick inventory of her body, hoping her injuries were minor ones.

Not feeling anything broken but noting a lot of bruised and sore spots, she sat up, ignoring the dizziness in her head and achiness in her back. When she put her weight on her right foot, her ankle protested, but she managed to balance gingerly on it. The sprain was painful but nothing she couldn’t suffer through. What immobilized her was the action taking place on her porch.

Her captor was in a struggle with an unknown man. The man was broader and taller, and from the way her captor’s body spun and stumbled, the new guy packed quite a punch. Did this guy shove her out of the way before going after her captor? Hearing a car door slam, she had little time to consider her question because she saw a third man running toward her house. But he wasn’t running to the foray which was drawing her neighbors’ attention. He was running toward her.

Releasing a shrill scream, Reagan whirled around and set off on a half hobble, half run across the yard. She focused on her breathing and not on the pain in her ankle. She didn’t have to run fast. She just had to outrun the guy chasing her long enough for her neighbors to call in reinforcements. And she would, despite her sprained ankle. She had a feeling her life depended on it.

Chapter Three