Page 16 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Fourteen

My head throbs in the darkness behind my closed lids. A hissing sound seethes close. I cough on air thick with the scent of burning plastic. Rain-scented wind rushes over my heated skin, pushing the smoke away.

Prying my eyes open, I'm forced to blink dust from my lashes. Through a haze of smoke I’m looking at a white ceiling stained with streaks of soot. Fire reflects in a crystal chandelier—or what's left of it. The thing is canted to the side, half the armature hanging precariously.

I need to get up.

Rolling to the side, glass tinkles off my body. It's all over the floor. I raise up on one elbow. The scene in front of me is almost incomprehensible.

Moments ago, I was sharing a drink with a handsome man in an elegant, romantic dining room. Now I'm trapped in a hellscape, prone on the floor, alone.

Several of the large window panes are broken.

Diamonds of safety glass litter the hardwood floor, reflecting the fires that have sprouted around the room, feeding on the overturned tables and chairs, licking up the walls, consuming the space, spitting embers out into the air that float like glowing dust motes.

Adrenaline floods my system, clearing my confusion. There was some kind of explosion. I've lost time. I need to get out of here!

My body aches as I shift to stand. My skirt is singed, ash streaks my skin, small scratches bead blood on my legs and arms—from the glass?

I take a tentative step, and my balance shifts, head going woozy. I reach out, grasping a still-standing table to steady myself.

I'm about ten feet from where we were sitting, the gaping window making my dizziness worse. It's at once terrifying and also the only source of breathable air. Wet wind whips through it, making the flames hiss.

The French doors we entered through are open wide. A red exit sign glows from the gloom beyond. Smoke curls around it. I glance back at the broken window.

The mist shrouding the city twirls, mimicking the smoke. I don't want to leave the fresh air but can't stay here.

Where is Ash? Omar? Anyone?

Ash wouldn't leave without me. Unless this was an attempt on my life and he was somehow complicit. He warned me…

Just get out of here, then worry about what's next. The compass. I can't leave without it.

What a stupid thought. I need to live. Fuck the compass. But I'm scanning the ground for my purse. Taking a step back toward where we sat, toward the shattered window, and the twenty-eight-story drop beyond it.

The table is overturned. My chair lies broken to the right. My napkin—with a shadow of red lipstick on its edge—is crumpled between me and the chair. I bend to pick the napkin up. Wrapping the cloth around my nose and mouth should help filter the smoke. Staying low, I scan for my purse.

There it is! Under a chair…that's on fire. Flames dance on the upholstery, spitting and crackling, dark smoke pluming up. The shiny beads faceted in orange glimmer at me.

Leave it. This is ridiculous. Are you really going to risk dying for this bullshit? You don't even know what it is!

I'm already crossing toward it, though. Air rushes in the broken window making the flames dance and sputter. The fire feasts on the seat, some kind of plastic blend upholstery that is dripping down to the floor in long, molten drops.

I lower to my knees, my thick leather boots protecting me from the glass and debris littering the floor.

My clutch is trapped under the chair. The heat of the fire breaks sweat across my brow and upper lip.

Tears burn tracks down my heated cheeks, catching on the napkin.

My breath comes in short, scared pants. My head spins.

This is so fucking stupid. I reach under the seat, the crystal face of my Patek reflecting yellow and orange. My fingers wrap around the beaded purse. A scorching heat sears my forearm. I scream and wrench back, dropping the purse at my knees.

My arm is shaking. A hot wad of whatever was melting off that chair flings away. In its place, a red welt the size of a small slug burns. "Fuck." My voice trembles. "I'm okay. It's okay." My skin blisters before my eyes.

I scoop up the purse and stumble to my feet.

The smoke up here is harsher. I choke and drop back to my knees.

A gust of night air pushes into the room, clearing the space around me.

Through tears I see the ice bucket holding the bottle of champagne still upright next to Omar's overturned chair, the shattered window behind it.

It's beaded with condensation—a lone survivor in this wreck of a place.

I crawl toward it, glass digging into my knuckles wrapped around the clutch. The closer I get to the window, the easier it is to breathe. I reach the stand and raise up, sinking my arm into the cool water next to the still chilling bottle.

I'm at the window's edge. A dizzying height. The city looks the same, shrouded in mist, lights haloed. All of it undisturbed. The wet air whips against me, pressing my sweat-soaked clothing against my skin.

Keeping my injured arm submerged, I open the clutch one-handed. The compass is still there, the bronze glinting in the eerie light next to my phone and lipstick. Pulling my injured arm from the water, I pull out the compass, and click open the cover to stare down into its simple face.

The thing isn't fancy but its needle trembles in my unsteady hand, finding north over and over again. It's pointing out the window. My gaze is drawn to that empty space again. And there is some dark part of me that wants to step out into it.

That exhilarating, terrible instinct causes my stomach to clench. I should throw this thing out. Let it dash onto the street below. But I don't think it's the compass itself that has any value. There must be something hidden in it.

I slip it between my breasts, pushing it down until it's out of sight from prying eyes. Then I pull out my phone. There is no service—could it have been knocked out by the blast?

Slipping the phone into the waistband of my skirt, anchoring it at my lower back, I'll just have to hope it stays there.

I look back at the smoky exit. At the red glow in the gloom.

I need to get the fuck out of here. And yet the idea of moving away from this window and into that darkness terrifies me.

There is a cloth napkin over the champagne bottle, and I dunk it into the water, wrapping it around my wound.

I take in a final deep breath of the fresh night air and turn to face the smoke-swirled exit. Time to leave.

What if there are people out there waiting to shoot me?

No. All this destruction can't be for me, it must be for the prince. There's no way any US entity would risk a member of a royal family of an allied nation when going after me. Right?

I don't have to figure this out now, but I do have to get the fuck out of this burning building. The entire wall leading toward the kitchen is covered in flames. The heat is intense, the ceiling almost invisible through the dark smoke. I'd rather get shot than burned alive.

Decision made, I move quickly through the dining room, the air thickening, darkening. When I step through the French doors I cough against the napkin over my mouth. My eyes burn, blurring. I need to get lower.

Dropping to my hands and knees again, the air is a little clearer but the space still looks like a charcoal drawing of a tempest. I shuffle across the grit-lined marble floor, the red exit sign my beacon.

An ember bites the skin at my waist, bared by my shirt riding up. I swipe at it, hissing through the cloth. Fuck, that hurt.

The smoke twirls and dances. Each blink sends a tear down my cheek. There is something in front of me. A darker shadow in the swirling sea of them.

I crawl closer and the outlines of a body form. A giant is slumped against the wall.

It's Ash. Adrenaline surges. Fuck.

He's lying on his side, back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him. I reach out. His hair is silky and thick, his scalp warm. I lower my head, laying my cheek against the floor, putting my face down in front of his.

Smoke films between us. His soot-streaked face is slack in unconsciousness. How strange to see him so defenseless. My chest tightens. He can't be…

I place my fingers on his throat. A pulse thrums against his skin. Relief surges through me.

His heart is beating but I need to get him out. If I leave him, he’ll die. No time to think. I just need to do this.

I shift to get my hands under his lower shoulder and push. Fuck, he's heavy. My breath catches as I haul him into a sitting position, his back against the wall, chin on his chest, legs straight out in front of him now.

Slumping against the wall next to him, I use my own body to keep him upright while I take a precious moment to catch my breath. It doesn't work. The smoke seizes my stressed lungs and I cough hard, bending forward. There isn't time for this!

Tears pouring, I get my legs under me, crouching next to him. I need to drag his giant ass to that exit, and I need to do it now!

Pushing between Ash and the wall, I hook my arms under his armpits and slide my hands up so I'm grasping the top of his broad shoulders. Shuffling along the wall, dragging his body with me, I begin to move toward the exit.

Glancing over my shoulder, it seems I've made no progress. Closing my eyes against the smoke, I keep going. Shuffling. Dragging. Coughing. Shuffling. Dragging. Coughing. Checking. A little closer but it still feels like there is an entire nightmare between that red beacon and me.

Labored step. Sweat runs down my spine and pools at the back of my knees. Dizziness threatens to turn to unconsciousness. And then I'm at the door.

Resting Ash against my thighs, I turn to slam into the push bar. It swings open. Smoke rushes into the space of the stairwell, polluting the cooler air brushing my skin. Keeping one foot cocked to keep the door open, I bend back down to grab Ash again.

Taking tiny, almost impossible steps, my back against the door. I get us mostly into the cement stairwell, the bright emergency lights illuminating the smoke we are escaping—a black seething swell billowing after us.

Ash's legs never seem to end. I hit the stairwell’s metal railing, and his calves are still propping the damn door open. The charcoal tempest delights in flooding the stairwell.

Tears blur my vision as I shuffle out from behind Ash's heavy body and lean him against the railing. My legs buckle, and I land hard on the cement. Fuck!

I grab at Ash's pants and get my hands under a knee, bending the leg closer to me. The door hits his other calf. Black dots spiral at the edges of my sight.

I crawl to Ash's other leg and clutch his thigh with both hands. I lean back, practically crawling into his lap lifting it. The door swooshes closed and clicks into place.

A sob escapes, quickly turning into a raging cough. I sit up and fold forward, ripping the napkin off my face, sucking in big lungfuls of the quickly clearing air.

We need to keep going, but how?

My gaze is drawn down the stairs. Harsh cement under bright lights with metal banisters—a fireproof space not designed for carrying giants down.

Twisting around, I face Ash fully, knees between his legs, our bodies as close as they've ever been. "Wake up." My voice comes out a croak. "Ash." His name is a plea. "Wake up! Please, Ash. I cannot drag you down these stairs." And I can't leave you here.

His face is so still. Blackened from the smoke, slick with sweat. His suit is filthy, dotted with burns from the floating embers.

My gaze falls to his mouth. His lips are soot-stained and slightly parted. I raise my hand to touch them…to check for breath. They are warm, firm. Smooth. Air pulls over them, pushes out.

He moves so quickly I don't realize what's happening until my wrist is trapped in Ash's bruising grip. His eyes, sharp and narrowed, find mine. There's no spark of recognition in his gaze.

Ash swallows, blinks. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he rasps.