Hunting April

Noble Romance Publishing, LLC

Hunting April – Book Two, The Men of Sanctuary

ISBN 978-1-60592-476-2

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright 2011 Danica St. Como

Cover Art by Fiona Jayde

Edited by Mary Harris

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Blurb

Wounded while escaping from fiancé Angelo Martone, a disguised April Hall panics and crashes into surveillance expert Glennon Garrett at a coffee shop. Bleeding and drawing a crowd, April begs Glennon not to call police or ambulance--then collapses in his arms. Former Marine Force Recon Garrett takes charge and carries her to his penthouse apartment. Her secret? Her whirlwind romance seriously went to hell when she discovered the man she planned to wed was a sadistic, blackmailing psychopath with Mob connections. After vigorously defending herself during his attack, she fears that she may be wanted for manslaughter!

When April regains her senses, life becomes complicated as she admits to her rescuer the reasons for her flight. Does Glennon feel sorry for her, or is the growing sexual attraction between them real?

Humiliated when Glennon rebuffs her, April doesn't wait to hear a reason. She makes a break for freedom in the middle of the night. Before she reaches the street, she's grabbed by former Army Ranger Daniel Wyndsor. The problem? As her ex-fiancé's bodyguard, he kept his desire for her under wraps until he broke his contract to take up the search.

With April in jeopardy and time getting short, the men whisk April away to the fortified lodge at Sanctuary. She finds one sexy alpha male with an overbearing attitude bad enough--two men are too much for April to handle. All she wants is to break free of Angelo's thugs and disappear, to go home. But who else is hunting April?

"Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men
long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter."

Ernest Hemingway
, "On The Blue Water: A Gulf Stream Letter"

Esquire
magazine, April, 1936

Monday evening

"Oh, boy, this is just nasty." April Hall checked the bandage after she lifted her shirt. The surgical tape still held the thick gauze pads in place, but the edges of the wound seemed inflamed, the flesh overly warm to her touch.
Crap, this could be trouble
.

The blunt blade of the engraved letter opener had left a long ragged gash along the bottom of her ribcage.
At least the bleeding is under control. For the moment.
She hoped the dark shirt color would provide temporary camouflage, if necessary.
Let's leave the shirt
untucked, so it won't wick up any blood. Just in case
.

She pushed her hair under a dark blue and white headscarf, knotted the ends artistically below her left ear. She assessed her reflection in the old silver-flecked wall mirror. Brown eyes—courtesy of colored contact lenses—stared back from a pale face she hoped no one would notice. She thrust a few stray hairs under edge of the headscarf, hiding the rest of her hair, shorter now, and dyed Elvira black.
I guess this will
do for the moment.

April shrugged into a navy blue summer jacket two sizes too large and tried not to pull the bandage loose. She took a long, last look around the cheap no-tell motel room with its pond scum green décor. No evidence she had ever been in the room, nothing left behind to give her away.

Wiping the key card with a sanitizer-soaked paper towel—as she had done with everything else she touched—April left the plastic card on the nightstand. She gathered up the new brown canvas duffle bag, her shoulder bag, laptop bag, and the tightly tied plastic bag of trash. She quietly closed the door behind her, wiped the doorknob, then slipped into the darkness.

Time to go
.

Thursday, early morning

The hot coffee smelled fresh and tasted rich, just the ticket. April intended to enjoy every sip while she took advantage of the free Wi-Fi.
Hey, I'm a paying customer,
not a freeloader
.

Tucked into the back corner of the coffee and pastry shop, she scanned all the metro news she could find by way of her laptop.
Still nothing. I wonder if no news is a
good thing, or a bad thing
. She powered down the computer and collected her trash.

Looping both straps around her neck, she adjusted the shoulder bag and laptop bag to hang just so. Laptop on right hip, shoulder bag on left. Then she patted both bags, caught herself.
Definitely OCD. I should work on that
. She carefully pushed the trash deep into the bin. Preoccupied with worry about her compulsive habits, she turned to leave—and crashed into a solid body whose earthy, exotic scent immediately identified it as male.

"Whoa, hold on there, what's the hurry?" The man held her arm to steady her.

April regained her balance, then caught a glimpse of the leather portfolio in his other hand. Tucked under the strap was a glossy, eye-catching, green and gold, Angelo Martone Marketing brochure.

Oh my God, he found me! Angelo found me!
April panicked. "So sorry, my fault, so clumsy."

Pulling free, she turned her face away from the man.
Maybe it's coincidence, maybe
he didn't recognize me
. With fear foiling any cooperation from her feet, she stumbled again as she tried to slip by.

"Hey, are you all right?"

"Fine, just late, need to go." She couldn't seem to keep her equilibrium.
Maybe I
should have eaten something. Nothing worse than suffering from bone-chilling fear on an empty
stomach
.

"Hang on a moment, are you sure you're okay?"

"Really, I'm fine." April weaved through the people in line and bolted for the exit.

Head down, face averted, she bounced off a solidly built customer who plowed through the doorway like a tugboat.

"Hey, watch it!"

Mumbling another apology, April spun, pinballed towards the opening, then shot out between heavy glass doors to the sidewalk. The toe of her running shoe caught a raised crack in the sidewalk, which sent her sailing headlong into a Jeep idling at the curb. Her forehead bounced off the front fender before her arms could break the fall.

Palms and knees hit the concrete.

"You
really
need to watch where you're going." Him again, the great-smelling man. He helped her to her feet.

Martone's goons were lowbrow and tacky. This man oozed handsome and class.

Yeah, well, believing in coincidence could get me killed
. Frantic, she twisted and broke free of his hold. "I'm fine, I need to go."

Rubberneckers gawked from inside and outside the shop's glass walls. The gathered onlookers prevented April from making a clean getaway. A disembodied voice barked out, "Maybe someone should call 9-1-1."

Oh, hell no!
"I'm fine, really, no need to call anyone. I'm okay."

She struggled to stand steady, straightened her jacket, patted her shoulder bag and laptop bag. A warm, wet feeling spread over her skin, under her shirt.
Cripes, I'm
bleeding again. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta get away
.

A strong hand took her by the upper arm. "Your head needs treatment, and you're wobbling like a Weeble. Are you sure you don't want me to call for an ambulance?"

Damn, him again, the attractive man who smelled so good. The man with the brochure. The glossy, colorful brochure
she
designed, that
she
finessed to fruition.
Oh
God, I even sound like an advertisement!

"N-n-no, I'm okay. Please, no police or ambulance. I'm fine, really." April put her hand to her forehead, felt the sticky blood.
Shit, that's a good reason for everyone to stare
.

She rummaged through her oversized shoulder bag for a handkerchief. "No need to call anyone. I'm okay, I'll be fine."

With her hand still buried in the big leather bag, she folded like a sheet.

* * * * *

Glennon Garrett stared at the woman in his arms in disbelief, then scanned the crowd.
Okay, someone needs to come forth to claim her.
No such luck. Then he smelled it—

the unmistakable, coppery odor of fresh blood. He dropped his gaze, glanced at the dark stain that oozed through her lightweight jacket onto his cream-colored shirt.
Shit.

Of all the days not to wear black.
"No problem, folks, I'll get her to the ER."

The crowd dispersed as quickly as it formed. He was sure the gawkers were relieved that someone had manned up and taken control of a socially uncomfortable and potentially inconvenient situation.

Garrett rearranged the woman and the collection of gear tethered around her neck so he could carry her more easily, then headed across the street into a parking garage. Once inside, he slid his ID card into the elevator lock, elbowed the button for the penthouse.

"What . . . where . . . ?" The young woman opened her eyes, wide. One eye was dark brown, the other a bright hazel-green. "Who are you?"

"Your personal EMT."

"But who . . .
oh
, my head . . . ."

Her eyes closed again, and she grew heavy in his arms.

He sighed. "All because I'm too damn lazy to brew my own damn coffee."

The penthouse apartment displayed a wide landscape of chrome, glass, and modern art, which he never really noticed anymore. He settled her gently on a soft, deeply cushioned black leather sofa, then tucked a red and silver sofa pillow under her head.
At least if it gets smeared with blood, no one will notice
.

Glennon grabbed a pile of clean dishtowels and knelt next to the woman. With the jacket unzipped, he could see the dark shirt soaked with fresh blood, making it difficult to eyeball the source. "Oh yeah, this is gonna be ugly. I need a better place to work."

He spread oversized bath sheets to protect his bed, then settled the woman on top of the towels. The stained jacket, rolled up and tossed, landed on the bathroom's tiled floor. When he folded back the hem of her shirt, the blood stench assaulted his nostrils.
Damn, that's just nasty
. He carefully lifted the blood-soaked bandage. The mass of soggy nonstick pads came up with the tape, revealing a gash about four inches long.

The edges of the wound were ragged and definitely indicated an early stage of infection.
Fuck
.

"Miss? Ma'am? Hello?" Nothing.

Garrett grabbed a fully stocked medical field kit from the bathroom closet.

Wielding razor-sharp scissors, he sliced through the bloody shirt to peel it off—
hmm,
naked shapely woman here
—irrigated the area with saline solution, then took a closer look.

This bugger really needs a surgeon to do it right.
He considered calling in a favor.
But
s
he
really acted desperate to avoid police and emergency personnel. And to escape from me.

"Well, then, let's see what we can do with you." After he dried the area, he taped the edges of the wound together with butterfly strips every half inch, which would allow the wound to ooze, if necessary. Then he covered the area loosely with sterile nonstick gauze, and secured the corners.

The head wound was minor, a small surface split from hitting the fender, with a whopper of a lump under the skin. He flushed, dried, and closed it with a single butterfly strip. The fall abraded her palms, so he cleaned them up. Not much else to do there. Her jeans protected her knees; the knees looked all right, but the jeans hadn't fared as well. Nothing to do there, either.

He untied the headscarf, wiped the dried blood from her forehead. A stripe of reddish blonde or auburn showed at the roots.
Why would a woman cover up such
beautiful hair?
The pitch-black dye job didn't suit her; she certainly didn't appear to be Goth.