Startled by Rafe’s gruff voice, she rattled off Shane’s address on Sheridan Avenue near the waterfront.
When the car pulled out into traffic, Rafe darted a look behind them. On a deep breath he finally settled back in the seat, dropped his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.
Lisa tried to do the same, but her pulse was racing, making it hard to feel anything other than mind-numbing fear. Pain finally registered—in her back, in her legs, in her arm. If it hadn’t been for Rafe, she’d have gone up in flames right along with that car.
He stretched out his long legs, groaned. The backpack landed with a thud near her feet.
And that’s when it hit her.
Holy crap. He’d saved her life.
Not only that, but he’d pulled her pack from the vehicle before the explosion. He’d gone back for it knowing he could have been caught in a raging inferno. He’d gone back for it not knowing what was inside.
A wave of unease rolled through her as she glanced toward her feet.
If he’d known what was in that backpack, he’d have grabbed it and run. And she had a pretty strong hunch he wouldn’t have bothered to pull her to safety first.
Rafe waited while Lisa unlocked the door to her brother’s third-floor apartment. Her hands were shaking. She was having trouble getting the key in the latch.
The adrenaline was starting to go. He knew the signs all too well. She was about to crash, and from the look of her, she was going to hit hard.
He slipped the key from her hand and turned the lock himself. She didn’t protest, confirming his suspicions, and the door gave with a pop. He pushed it open and let Lisa go in first, then watched to make sure she didn’t lose it right there in the doorway.
She hadn’t said anything in the cab on the way over, which meant she was still processing everything that had just happened. Better for him. When it all finally hit her, he had a feeling the heat from that fire would barely register on the Celsius scale in comparison. The woman had a mean-ass temper. He’d already seen it in living color.
She stopped in the middle of the living room. Rafe stepped around her, dropped the dirty backpack on the floor near the couch and headed for the kitchen. He flipped a switch on the wall. Three small triangular lights over the granite island flickered on, illuminating the stainless-steel appliances in the adjacent room.
He moved to the cupboards and opened them one by one, searching for any kind of alcohol to deaden her senses before reality settled in.
“Oh, my God. Someone was shooting at us!”
Too late. He needed to work faster.
He flipped open another cupboard, swore under his breath when all he found was canned food.
“What the hell did you do to make someone try to kill us?”
Temper sizzled just under his skin. “You automatically think that was about me?” He pulled open another cabinet, a jolt of relief rushing through him when he spotted a bottle of Jameson.
“You’re damn right. No one’s ever tried to kill me in downtown Chicago before!”
He found glasses, poured a generous shot in each and pushed a tumbler into her hands. “Drink.”
“I’m not—”
“Drink it,” he said louder.
She studied him a second as if judging his mood, then downed the shot in one long swallow, her fight-ready eyes never wavering from his.
“Again.” He refilled her glass before she could protest.
She glared at him but drank the second without argument.
He swallowed his shot, set the glass on the counter and braced both hands on the granite as he tried to settle his own nerves. “Contrary to what you might think,” he said as calmly as he could, “I don’t like guns. I don’t like people who use guns, and I make it a point not to get too chummy with anyone who does.”
“So why was someone shooting at you?”
“I don’t know.” He took the glass from her fingers and set it on the island before she got smart and cracked it over his skull.
“Bullshit.”
Her eyes were still blazing, but some of the fight had slipped from her voice.
“I’m not kidding.”
She laughed—a smug, disbelieving sound that only jacked him up more—as she stepped away from him.
“Look, lady. In the last two days since you showed up at my door, my house has been trashed and I’ve been very nearly roasted like a Thanksgiving turkey. Neither one is