Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,56

is?”

Harte pushed past Paul with Dani in tow. Paul’s strident voice penetrated the haze in his brain. “Good Lord! You’re bleeding! Is that a gun?”

“He’s been shot,” Dani cried. “We need to get him to a doctor.”

Paul sent her a quizzical look, then turned back to Harte. “Who is this? And what’s going on?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, despite the bullet wound that hurt like hell, Harte shook his head at Paul’s blithering. But the black at the edges of his vision was growing and he knew he’d pass out if he didn’t sit or lie down. “Shut the door, Paul. We’ve got dangerous men after us.”

Paul’s black eyes widened, showing white all the way around the irises. “Dangerous men?” He craned his neck around the door, then pushed it closed and locked it with shaking hands. “Why did you come here?”

While Paul was talking, Harte felt Dani’s hand on his good arm. She pulled him through the foyer and into the large, too-warm front room. A fire was blazing in the large fireplace. He was already feeling light-headed from loss of blood. The heat made him feel as though he couldn’t get a breath. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the faux-finished walls of his aunt Claire’s house, trying not to pass out.

“Not in there!” Paul cried, hurrying toward them as Dani guided Harte toward an ornately carved sofa upholstered in ivory. “Take him to the kitchen. Through there.” He gestured in a shooing motion. “Put him in one of the kitchen chairs.”

Harte let Dani guide him through open French doors that separated the living room and dining room and on past the huge mahogany dining table into the dark kitchen. He sank into a chair with a pained sigh. His pulse was racing and he thought he could feel blood pouring out of his wound. There was a towel on the counter and he got his feet under him and reached for it, but Dani put her hand on his chest and pushed him back into the chair.

“You sit right there,” she ordered him. “And give me that!” She took the SIG out of his hand, thumbed the safety on and shoved it into her purse.

She straightened and turned to Paul, who had grabbed a candelabra in his hand—a real silver candelabra sporting eight blazing tapers. “Where’s your phone?” she demanded.

Paul set the candelabra in the middle of the wooden kitchen table. “Does it look like we have any of the conveniences?”

Harte squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get rid of the odd haze that was enveloping his brain. He dug out his phone and flipped it open. “Still no bars,” he said, hearing the strain in his voice. “And I’m about out of battery too.”

Dani had sat down next to him and was trying to pull the material of his shirt away from the bullet wound in his upper chest. “I need a first-aid kit,” she commanded.

Paul gestured vaguely with his right hand. “It’s up there—in the cabinet above the sink,” he said.

“Get it, please,” she said archly. “Hot water too, and cloths.”

Harte winced as another square inch of material tore away from the dried blood at the edge of his wound. He could barely swallow. He needed fluids. Blinking against the haze that seemed to be growing denser every second, he saw that Paul held a highball glass in his hand. “Hand me that drink,” he said.

“This is my Pimm’s and lemonade,” Paul said, glancing at Harte, then at Dani. “That’s the last of the ice.” With a shrug, he handed it to Harte.

The glass was about half-full and dripping with condensation. There were three tiny, melting ice cubes floating in it. When Harte wrapped his fingers around it, a chill slid through him. He turned it up and drank. The cool liquid burned his throat as rivulets of water dripped down his chin and neck. He shivered.

By the time he’d drained the glass and wiped his face with his wet hand, Paul had set a plastic box and a couple of kitchen towels on the table and was running water into a bowl. Dani grabbed scissors from the first-aid kit and started cutting Harte’s shirtsleeve off. “He needs more water,” she said.

Paul picked up the glass and went to the sink.

“Just wrap it—stop the bleeding,” Harte protested. “Paul, give me your car keys. We’ve got to get to a police station.”

“Harte, for crying out loud,” Paul snapped as he set the glass down