His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,8

His mind called the shots, though, and he made a critical move that stopped the momentum before he went into a death spiral.

With a brutal impact, the car touched down again, landing on all four tires. The odor of gasoline flooded his nose. His mind caught up to the situation, and he stripped off his harness and bailed out as the hiss of a gas leak sounded.

He dived out, hit the asphalt, and rolled. He darted away from the car a split second before the explosion. Screams erupted from the crowd, and he looked up in time to spot the gunman standing close to the track. His team scattered, as had others. But a woman stood too close to the shooter. Moreau’s press agent.

Whatever she said to the gunman swung him around. He took aim…and Lars threw himself forward.

* * * * *

A popping noise echoed in Lillian’s ears just as the crushing blow knocked her sideways. A hard steel band circled her waist, cutting off her air supply, and she hit the ground. Screams and chaos erupted around her, and the heavy weight didn’t budge from atop her.

Am I dead? Is this how it feels to die?

A fleeting thought of her parents came right before the dream she’d clung to since childhood…of owning a small, peaceful corner of the countryside to live out her days. She’d never see that now, or her parents’ beautiful, smiling faces.

“Stay down.” Moreau’s voice came out gritty in her ear.

She realized he sprawled over her, protecting her. A second later, her mind came into harsh, terrifying focus. Moreau’s car had hit the wall and flipped several times, right before it exploded. He couldn’t have walked away from such an accident, yet, she knew that voice in her ear.

Eyes pinched shut, she took in the things her senses told her. More screams sounded. That pungent smoke and gasoline clogged her nose. A hard chest flattened to her spine and thick, muscled thighs pinned hers.

That’s not Moreau.

Her fogged mind confused too much. Of course he was Moreau. She’d seen his face as he struck her with his full weight and power, knocking her flat before a bullet wiped her off the face of the Earth.

Someone tried to kill her. Who? Why? She’d only been standing with a photographer at the side of the track. While the man snapped photos of the track and Moreau’s car approaching, a strong panic swept over Lillian for no apparent reason. A heartbeat later, Moreau’s car spun out of control.

Now she lay on the ground, her cheek smashed into some tiny rocks. The sharp pain kept her mind whirring like one of the hub caps spinning on the asphalt, though she still couldn’t make out the situation.

A scream collected in her lungs, but with Moreau’s weight on her, she only issued a squawk.

“Hurry, Lillian. Get on your feet.”

She didn’t have time to process the order before he dragged her up as though she weighed nothing. Thank goodness her sensible boots made it easy to run, because Moreau clutched her forearm in a vise grip and forced her to run through the crowd.

“Who tried to shoot me?” she called back to him over her shoulder.

“Never mind. He’s in custody, but there will be others in on it.” His voice took on a strange cadence.

She wanted to turn and look at his face though no chance of that as he rushed her past security gates. A motorbike stood parked there for the guards, and he threw a leg over the seat. With a glance back, he said, “Get on.”

Blinking, she made the quick decision and jumped on behind him.

“Hold on tight.”

Oh God. She sat on the back of a motorbike driven by France’s top racer. She threw her arms around his middle as they shot off.

Seconds later, her mind focused on stupid things. Such as how broad the back under her check was. So layered with muscle. Moreau was a fit man, but he didn’t carry much muscle mass.

A quick glance at the back of his head showed her Moreau’s thick wavy dark hair and the olive complexion all the women melted over. Yet everything in her body screamed out that this man could not be the driver she represented.

“What’s happening?” She raised her voice to be heard over the wind and whine of the engine as Pierre pushed the limits.

He didn’t respond.

He’d almost died. He should have died. Why hadn’t he died in that crash? Nobody could walk away from such a