Driving her elbow backward, she connected with solid muscle. The knife scraped her neck as she twisted away, but adrenaline dulled the sting. She ran for the entrance, pushing through the heavy metal door and slamming it behind her.
Zigzagging through the cars, she yanked the back door open and raced through the lobby, tripping over a rug and sending a vase of gorgeous heliconia toppling to the floor. Surprised yelps bounced behind her, but she kept moving, racing out the front entrance and right back into the man’s path. The knife, covered with a trickle of her blood, gleamed in the sunshine.
The distant sound of sirens wailing was no comfort when he was still in pursuit of her. Britt raced away from the harbor, dodging tourists, then turned down another street. The man’s footfalls grew closer, ragged and determined. Her steps were wavering, muscles fatiguing as he gained ground.
A strong hand seized her arm, yanking her sideways through an open doorway. Before she could scream, the crack of gunfire split the air. Her pursuer howled, clutching his shoulder ascrimson bloomed across his shirt. He staggered backward, his knife clattering to the ground.
"Inside. Now." The command came from behind as the door slammed shut.
Britt pressed against the wall, staring at her rescuer or her new captor. The man was handsome with short blond hair and intense espresso eyes. “Who are you?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The man who just saved your life.” His words dripped with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Britt glanced at the open doors in the hallway. “Is this a clinic?” She asked, as her brain continued to process the man standing before her in discordant fragments—stethoscope around his neck, gun in his right hand, and white lab coat with name embroidered in dark green—Dr. Rocco Forrester. “You’re a doctor?”
“Among other things,” he said, then eased the gun into the back of his waistband. “And you’re a woman in trouble.” He nodded toward an open door. “You can hide out here until the cops track the fucker down who was chasing you with that knife.”
“You shot him.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m that good.” He pointed toward the door again.
She stepped toward the room, then winced, crumbling to the ground. The pain in her feet was suddenly debilitating now that the adrenaline had worn off.
The doctor kneeled next to her. “Will you let me help you?”
She was in no position to refuse him. She nodded, then leaned into him as he wrapped an arm around her and lifted her. Carrying her into the exam room, he placed her on the table.
“Let’s see what we have here,” the doctor mumbled. With gentle care, he removed her sneakers and then whistled as hestared at the blood-stained socks. “That’s some nastiness you got going on. But I’ll get you back on your feet and have you running even faster from the next thug who decides to chase you.”
“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired,” Britt said as he efficiently treated one foot and then the other.
“You’re not the first to tell me that, and damn sure won’t be the last,” he said unapologetically. Minutes passed in a blur as she winced and writhed from the pain as he cleaned and bandaged her feet.
“All done.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Unlocking one of the cabinets, he grabbed a bottle and tossed it at her. “For the pain. Take as directed on the bottle. Or not.”
Britt caught it, then shoved it into the pocket of her windbreaker.
“Now, why don’t you tell me why a guy chased you through a busy town, with dozens of witnesses, wielding a knife?” He brushed her neck with a cotton ball that smelled of alcohol. She winced from the sharp, burning pain.
“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t know exactly why she’d been taken and chosen to take over Brittany Freeman’s life. And she didn’t know who the man was, although she was certain he worked for The Visitor.
“Don’t know or don’t want to tell?” He placed a bandage over the cut on her neck.
“I have to go,” Britt said, pushing off the exam table.
“Of course, you do,” he said, then stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the door. He reached into his back pocket. She flinched, fearing he was about to pull the gun on her.
“Easy …” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Quite the opposite.” He extended his hand toward her. She glanced down at the thick red metal card glistening between his fingertips. The outline of a stingray was etched in silver on the surface.
“What’s that?”
“Help … when you realize you need it,” he said, then flipped the card over. “Text the number on the back?—”
“I don’t have a cell phone,” she said, then stepped around him.
