Chances Are - By Christy Reece Page 0,41

terrible, terrible knowledge that something was very wrong.

The policeman tipped his hat. “Best get home then. A cold night to be out and about.”

She managed a whispered “Thank you” and turned to head to her apartment, her steps much quicker than before. Now that the excitement was over, her limbs were shaking with reaction. She dashed inside the building and ran up the stairway as if death itself was on her tail. Stopping in front of her apartment, she cursed as she gripped the keys in her left hand. She was shaking so badly, she was having difficulty inserting the key. Her right hand hung uselessly at her side.

“Angela, listen to me. Take slow, even breaths. You’re fine.”

For the first time, she realized that Jake had been saying those words repeatedly the entire time she’d been running.

Finally, at last, the key went in and she twisted the doorknob. Half a second later, she was inside and slamming the door closed. Leaning back against it, she drew in breaths as she tried to control the panic. As the terror slid away, something equally devastating was taking its place. How had she not seen this coming?

Between bursts of her heavy, sporadic breathing, she heard Jake enter the apartment next door. Seconds later, he came through the attached door and into the living room.

For the life of her she couldn’t make her frozen limbs move. A disdainful voice inside her told her to straighten up, walk toward him, assure him she was fine. Laugh off the incident as a moment of slight panic and nothing more.

When she didn’t move, the voice called her a coward. She couldn’t deny the words. Pangs of disillusionment and disappointment were quickly swamping the fear. The astonishment on Jake’s face confirmed her thoughts. Who would have thought that Angela Delvecchio was actually a paper tiger?

Jake carefully approached the terrified woman slumped against the door. Seeing the strong, confident Angela reduced to a shivering, frightened girl hurt him in ways he’d never expected.

Fearing she was still in the grips of panic, he stopped a foot away and bent his knees to get eye contact. Relieved to see recognition in them, he moved forward and gently drew her into his arms. “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

With Angela, he had come to expect the unexpected. Never could he have been prepared for what came next. With a cry that sounded as mournful as a beaten animal, she buried her face against him and burst into tears.

So used to a sassy, in-your-face Angela, Jake began to panic himself. Had she been hurt and he hadn’t seen it? Pulling away from her, he whispered urgently, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?”

When she kept her head down and continued to cry, he shook her gently. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She answered brokenly, “I’m a big wuss.”

Relief flooded through him. The urge to shake her again for scaring him was overwhelmed with the need to hold her and be grateful that she was unharmed. Just as he put his hands on her shoulders to pull her back into his arms, he noticed the hand she held at her side.

“Dammit, you are hurt.”

Gingerly he lifted her right hand and hissed as he assessed the damage. Without a doubt it was sprained, possibly broken.

“Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

She stared at her hand as if it were a foreign object she’d never seen before. Shock was rapidly taking the place of the adrenaline overload from her scare. Moving carefully to keep from startling her, Jake scooped her into his arms, taking special care not to jar her hand.

In three strides he was at the couch where he placed her gently against the pillows. He turned and headed to the kitchen. Hot, sweet tea for the shock and then they were going to the hospital to get her hand x-rayed.

He glanced over his shoulder. She lay where he left her, the hollow, desolate look in her eyes worrying him more than the damage to her hand. He wanted to hold her and reassure her, but had a feeling doing that would be more for his benefit than hers. She had scared the hell out of him.

With quick efficiency, he poured water into a cup, dropped in a teabag and put it in the microwave. Not the proper British way to make a cup of tea but he was looking more for expediency than taste. The instant the bell dinged, he