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Sitting in the typewriter carriage was a beautiful piece of what she was pretty sure was handmade paper. Sitting on top of that so she couldn’t see what was written on it was what looked suspiciously like a ring box. She picked it up and examined it. It looked like a very old ring box, and she remembered what he’d told her about his Rolex and how it had been passed down through his family.
She looked around; there was no note telling her she shouldn’t open the ring box, so she did and damn near dropped the thing. She gasped. The platinum ring inside was exquisite. She was no expert, but she was pretty sure it was also incredibly expensive. The engagement ring itself had matching guard bands on either side, presenting a stunning centerpiece of a large marquise brilliant cut central diamond, flanked by two tapered baguette diamonds. The guard bands had channel set baguettes.
“Hey, you,” Ryker said, as he stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. She glanced toward the kitchen island and saw breakfast waiting. “It was my mother’s. I wanted you to see the whole thing, but you don’t get to wear the guard bands until we take our vows, and you don’t get to wear any of them until you answer the question in the typewriter.”
Grateful for something to do other than stare at him, she looked down. There on a piece of handmade paper, typed with one of the world’s oldest typewriters, was a very simple message of fifteen characters and three spaces:
Will You Marry Me?
“Hmm,” she said, twisting slowly in the morning sun. “Let me think about it.”
Carefully, she put the ring box back where she’d found it, before launching herself in his direction and leaping into his arms. He barely had time to set his coffee mug down before catching her as her legs circled his waist.
“I’m going to need to hear verbal confirmation of your answer,” he laughed.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him. “Yes.” Another kiss. “A thousand times over, yes!”
* * *
Baltimore, Maryland
Fifteen Years Ago
Deep breath. Stay calm. The warehouse was on fire, and she had to get out. No, more than that, she had to get Bryson and then get out. They had followed the suspects into the warehouse—a sucker’s play. The leaders of the cartel had set them up. As soon as they entered the door closed behind them and from up on the stacked boxes, Martel’s goons had opened fire. Both she and Bryson dove for cover. She was hit in the thigh; she wasn’t sure about Bryson.
Christie heard movement along the catwalk. “I’m going to leave you two lovebirds here to die tragically in the fire. It will be such a sad story. But with your deaths all of my problems will go away. Don’t worry about perishing from the flames, the explosion will be what kills you.”
She could hear his laughter as he moved through toward the back of the warehouse where she was sure he had a boat waiting. But that didn’t matter. She had to find Bryson. She managed to find him behind a stack of boxes and pallets. He wasn’t moving and blood gushed from several wounds.
She wasn’t going to lose him. They had too much to share in the life they’d been planning. Death was not going to take him away from her.
“Bry? Baby?” she said desperately. “Can you move?”
“No. I can’t walk. Get out. Martel wasn’t lying. There are explosives all over the building. You have to get out and run as fast and as far as you can.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” She depressed the button on her shoulder that activated her emergency radio. “Officers down. Officers down. Request immediate backup and paramedics to this location. Be advised; building is on fire and has been rigged to explode. Bombs have been activated. No idea on the length of the timer.”
“Christie, get out. If I mean anything at all to you, you have to.”
If? They were about to die and he’s still questioning my love? I am so going to kick his ass when he’s better.
“That’s not happening, Moss.”
He groaned. He knew she only called him by his last name when she was pissed.
“Crofton. I outrank you, and I’m ordering you to get out.”
She tugged at the collar of his police jacket, dragging him along the cement floor toward the door that would lead to the outside and their car. If she could roll him into it, she could hopefully get them out of the blast zone and to the hospital. Her head hurt, but she couldn’t be concerned with that right now. Now she only had thoughts of survival.
Bryson groaned and tried to swat at her, but he was in no position for that to be effective and she paid him no mind. Step-by-step she got them closer to a chance at life. Just a few more feet and they’d be at the door. She prayed they were too arrogant to lock it—sure that they were wounded and unable to get themselves to safety.
She tried the lock, and it didn’t give. “Goddamn it!” she shouted and slammed both fists on the door.
It didn’t open, but it gave a little. In the distance she could hear sirens. She had to get them out. She let go of Bryson’s collar and slammed her shoulder into the door. The force made it groan but didn’t make it open. Shit. She hit it again, putting all of her weight behind it, and damn near fell through the thing when it burst open.
Reaching back, she reached down, placed her arms under his and locked her fists together and began dragging him out. She had barely made it to their car when the paramedics, the bomb squad, and their fellow officers showed up.
“Christie, let go. I’ve got him. Danny? Get Christie. The bomb squad wants us and the paramedics beyond the potential blast zone.”
