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“Just … away, all right?”
His brow furrowed, and he stared at her intensely. Did he know she was lying? Could he feel her fear? Did he have any clue how appealing he was?
He was so honorable and gentlemanly, this princely doctor. Too bad she’d never see him again after she somehow escaped.
The door opened behind Steffan, and they both turned to look. A lean, dark-haired man a few inches shorter than Steffan leaned against the door frame and grinned. “Prince Steffan. Chasing Jane Does around the hospital, I hear?”
Steffan gave an unsteady chuckle as Hattie’s heart raced out of control, her stomach dropped to the floor, and her palms got sweaty.
Detective Jensen.
Her life was over.
She couldn’t get past Steffan and escape and now Jensen was here as another tough, manly barrier she’d never bust through. This was an absolute nightmare. As soon as Jensen looked at her …
She was in a crap-load of trouble.
Jensen’s eyes swung to her, and he put out his hand as if to assist her. “Don’t worry, Miss. I won’t let this too-charming prince doctor …” he trailed off, his eyes widened, and then he jerked his hand back. “You!”
Steffan’s gaze swiveled between the two of them.
“Please.” Hattie’s voice trembled. “I didn’t mean to crash land in Augustine. I promise I wouldn’t have broken my word. Please, please just let me go.”
Jensen stared at her as if she were a ghost from his past he never wanted to meet again. She supposed she was. He stepped into the stairwell and let the door close behind him. Was he going to bust out the handcuffs or pepper spray? Hattie edged closer to Steffan. She hated to let him take the shot of pepper spray, but maybe it would be her chance to make a run for it.
“Ah, no,” Jensen muttered. “You can’t be here. Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through to keep everybody from believing Treven and keep your full name and description from being sent to Interpol?”
Interpol. Hattie thought of those movies with Matt Damon where he was running through countries and every police force in the world seemed to be after him. She’d have to hire a lot of help. First she had to get out of here and get access to her money.
“Interpol? What is going on?” Steffan looked at Jensen.
A muscle worked in the detective’s jaw, and he studied Hattie as if she were a pit viper ready to spring at him.
“I’m so sorry,” Hattie managed. “I never would’ve come here willingly. Please just let me go. I have money and power and I can stay away. I promise.”
“Angelica?” Steffan stared at her now, his blue eyes demanding answers.
“That is not Angelica or Jane Doe,” Jensen said. “Her name is Hattie Ballard—billionaire, famous socialite, and,” he lowered his voice, “wanted for the murder of one Jane Presley.”
“Murder?” Steffan’s voice pitched up. “Hattie?”
Hattie couldn’t even focus on the disappointment of Steffan finally saying her name, but not all sweet and romantic like she’d envisioned. She leaned against the wall, despair filling her. Wanted for murder. Would Jensen help her again, or had he done all he could do? Was there a Matt Damon character out there she could hire to run through countries with her? Wolf would know somebody. It sounded terrifying, miserable, and she’d never see Steffan again.
“Please,” she whispered, grateful the stairwell was deserted. “Let me call my cousin Sadie. She and her husband Wolf will come for me. They’ll take me away and you won’t ever have to see me or deal with me again.” She could also call the enigmatic and famous Sutton Smith. He’d helped her send Wolf to save Sadie.
“Not see you again?” Steffan’s blue eyes looked wounded. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Murder, Steffan,” Jensen said in a deceptively soft but very steely voice. “She’s wanted for Jane Presley’s murder.” His jaw worked. “Nobody knows who you are or that you’re here?”
She shook her head. “Except for you two.”
“Nobody’s recognized you?”
“Nurse Shaylee asked if I was famous, but I lied my way out of it. Probably helps that I don’t look too fabulous.”
“You’re not dolled up like usual,” Jensen sort-of agreed.
“You don’t have amnesia,” Steffan stated flatly.
