Brazilian Escape. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
confused. Because Niklas didn’t dance. It was one of the few things that she did know about him—or had that been just another of his lies? Suddenly she was scared, and with real reason now.
Meg turned to go but he pulled her roughly back and pushed her against the wall. Then he opened his jacket and she saw that he had a gun.
‘Try to run and it will be the last thing you do …’
‘Niklas …’ she begged, and when Meg heard her own voice she heard the way she sounded when she pleaded for her life. She was trying to show him that she wasn’t panicked, trying to reason with a man she absolutely didn’t know, trying to get away. ‘Why do you need me?’ she said. ‘If you’ve escaped …’
People were turning to look at them, maybe alerted by the panic in her voice even though she wasn’t screaming. Or perhaps it was that if he had just escaped then his picture would be everywhere, being flashed over the news. Perhaps that was why he lowered his face to her.
‘Why do you need me with you?’
‘Because you’re my last chance.’
And his mouth came down on hers.
She could hear a car pulling up beside them and Meg knew this was her last chance to get away. She knew instinctively that when the car doors opened she would be shoved in, that that was why he had taken the call—to arrange all this. Terrified, Meg did the only thing she could think of to survive. She bit hard on his lip with all she had—took that beautiful mouth and bit it as hard as she could. In the second when he recoiled, as he cursed her in Portuguese and reached for his gun, Meg ran—ran as she never had—ran and ran faster as she heard gunshots.
She kept running till rough arms grabbed her and pulled her down, slamming her to the ground. She felt her cheek hit the pavement and the skin leave her leg as she rose to run again, heard another volley of gunshots and looked behind her. She saw police cars screeching up. Whoever had shielded her from him had gone. Then she stared at the body on the ground and it was the only thing she could see.
‘Niklas!’ she screamed, and tried to run back to him, for she hated the man but it was agony to see him lying dead and riddled with bullets.
She could not stop screaming. Not even when other arms wrapped around her and her face was buried in rough prison denim and she smelt him again—not his cologne, but the scent of Niklas, her drug of choice, a scent that till now had been missing. She heard him saying over and over that she was safe, that he was here, that now it would all be okay, but she still did not believe it was him—until he lifted her face and she met his eyes, saw that the beautiful mouth had not been bitten and knew that somehow it was him.
That she was safe.
It was just her heart that was in danger again.
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