Becca choked back a scream, her stomach heaving, as Rio slammed on the brakes and swung the car into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin.

The momentum of the turn slammed the passenger door into her right side, where it bounced off her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, forcing back another scream, as pain ricocheted out from the impact point—jolting across her shoulder and down her arm in incandescent spikes of agony.

“Grab the door,” Rio said in a calm voice, his gaze flickering toward her.

“Sure.” Becca grimaced at the faintness of her voice, wishing she sounded as calm and casual as he did. But then he was probably used to being shot at, first as a Navy SEAL, then a police officer and now a detective.

Good God, his career choices practically begged for late afternoon shootouts, followed by cruising speeds of over a hundred miles an hour.

“Becca!” He shot another quick glance at the yawning abyss along her right side.

“I know. I know. The door.” She blew out an aggravated breath.

She anchored herself in place by grabbing the edge of the seat. Without looking down at the endless ribbon of black whistling below her, she leaned outside the cruiser far enough to grab the door handle. The agony pulsing across her shoulder escalated to knife jabs and volcanic lava as she struggled to pull the door toward her. When it finally clicked into place, she groaned in relief and collapsed into her seat.

Sweaty and shaky, she looked down at her right shoulder. Had the door’s impact broken a bone? Was that why it hurt so bad?

Queasy joined sweaty and shaky, when she caught sight of the moist, red fabric of her blouse. Fabric that used to be white. Her gaze dropped to her right hand, and the crimson beads that dripped steadily to the floor.

A broken shoulder or arm wouldn’t bleed. Would they?

She scanned her left side again. Nothing looked bent, or broken, or out of whack. It just looked bloody. Maybe the edge of the door had sliced her skin…but she didn’t see a rip in the fabric of her blouse.

High on her shoulder, though, just below the fleshy curve, she found a blood-soaked, frayed hole in the fabric. A bullet sized hole.

Bullet wounds bled like the dickens. She knew that from the movies.

Someone had shot her! Which certainly explained the blood, and pain. Except…she hadn’t felt the bullet hit. Would she have been so oblivious to something so traumatic? In the movies shooting victims realized they’d been shot immediately.

Maybe adrenaline had masked the impact? Was that even possible?

“Uh Rio?”

“Yeah?” His voice was absent. His gaze didn’t budge from the road. But the car suddenly slowed. “Hang on. I need to talk to my CO.”

“Sure,” Becca said, her voice thin. Instinctively, she clamped her left palm to the ragged hole in her blouse, as though she could keep her blood inside by pressing hard enough. Instead, red liquid seeped between her fingers. “You should ask him who cleans your cars.”

“What?” He shot her a confused look as he reached for the cell phone tucked into the console between the two seats.

“They’ll need to know how to get blood out of upholstery, since I’m bleeding all over your seat and floor.”

“What?” His tone sharpened, as did the eyes that swung in her direction.

“Pretty sure I’ve been shot.” She tried for the laconic tone Dean or Sam from Supernatural adopted during similar moments of crisis, but all she heard in her voice was disbelief, laced with shock.

But then she wasn’t a SEAL, or a police officer, or a demon hunter. She was an average, run-of-the-mill therapist. A profession that rarely had to dodge bullets.

Rio didn’t respond to her announcement. At least not verbally. But he dropped his cell back into the console and guided the cruiser to the side of the road. He hit the brakes, shoved the gear shift into neutral and twisted his body until he was facing her.

“Let me see.” He leaned across the console.

Gladly.

He was, after all, the expert on guns and all things bullet related.

She turned her torso toward him and dropped her hand. “Do you see the hole in my shirt? Have I been shot?”

Disbelief flashed through her. Never, in a million years, had she expected to utter those words.

“Looks like it,” he said, hitting the laconic tone perfectly. But his face went tight and grim.

Reaching forward and down, he punched the button to the glove box and pulled out a red, zippered pouch with a big white cross blazoned across the front. He unzipped the pouch and pulled out a thick wad of gauze.

“Here.” He shoved the pad into her left hand. “Press this against the exit wound. Keep the pressure on.”

“Exit wound?” she repeated, her voice reedy as she took the gauze from him. The pain had settled into an endless searing burn.

“Just press it against the hole in your shirt.” He shoved the gearshift back into drive, glanced in the rear-view mirror and shot back onto the street.

“But…exit?” she repeated faintly, her head spinning.

How much blood loss was too much? Shouldn’t he be more worried about stopping the bleeding?

“You were facing me,” he reminded her. “The shooter was behind you. The bullet would have entered from the back and exited the front.”

Great…she was bleeding from a second bullet hole, too? One she couldn’t reach? A thick wave of dizziness swept over her. He sounded far too casual about the fact she’d been shot and was possibly bleeding to death. The man had no bedside manner at all.

“Maybe you should park. Call an ambulance and try to slow the bleeding yourself.”

He shook his head, expelling a tight, controlled breath. “Can’t chance it. We don’t know whether the hit and run and the shooter are the same guy. I can’t chance stopping if someone is following us.”

And just like that he gave her something else to worry about.

Perfect.

“Relax.” He sent her a reassuring look. “You’ll be fine. The bleeding isn’t that bad, and the nearest emergency room is minutes away.” He leaned forward to flip a switch and a siren blared. Red and blue flashes glazed the windows.

Becca looked back down at the “not that bad” bleeding. The gauze was already soaked and the crimson drip, drip, drip off her right hand had increased to a steady trickle.

If this was nothing to be concerned about, why was she feeling so sick and woozy? She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the constant radiating burn.

Slowly, a painful realization wiggled its way to the forefront of her mind.

He obviously didn’t feel any lingering affection for her. Because, if he did, wouldn’t he have shown at least a smidgen of concern for her welfare?

* * *

Rio screeched to a stop in front of the E.R., killed the siren and laid on the horn. He’d decided against updating dispatch and alerting the ER to his imminent arrival, which meant there was no medical team waiting for him.

Damnit.

The missing evidence indicated someone at the station was connected to the Rachel Blaine case. They could also be involved in the two attempts on Becca’s life. No sense in advertising where she was headed so they could finish the job.

He glanced at his silent passenger as he grabbed his cell phone and shoved open his door. His stomach clenched at her white, wan face. Her eyes looked huge and black and terrified as they clung to his. Her blouse, from her shoulder across her chest, was mushy with blood.

You should have stopped, damnit. Tried to stanch the bleeding.

Except he’d made the right call. Intellectually, he knew that. He didn’t know whether the driver of the truck had also wielded the rife. If the attacks had come from two separate individuals, someone could be following them. He’d be leaving her wide open to a third, possibly fatal attack if he pulled over, particularly if he was distracted by administering first aid.

But emotionally…he flinched when she shut her eyes and rolled her head away from him. Emotionally he hated seeing her in pain. He hated the ashen tone to her face, and the blood spreading across her chest and down her arm. He hated not being able to comfort her, to protect her, or stop the bleeding.

He tucked the cell into his back pocket and threw himself out of the car. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of someone dressed in green scrubs.

“I need a gurney,” he yelled, as he booked it around the hood of the car.

He closed on the passenger door without waiting for a response.

“Hey.” He forced his voice to normalcy as he knelt beside Becca. “How you holding up?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Her voice was whisper thin and cracked in spots. “You know, considering I’m bleeding all over your car like a stuck pig.”

The threadbare smile she sent him ripped at his heart.

“Don’t worry about the damn car.” His voice came out rough and raw. He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you into the clinic.”

“Sounds good to me.” She caught her breath as he leaned forward, working his left arm behind her back and his right beneath her knees.

Although he avoided her shoulder and arm, she groaned as he eased her out of the seat.

“I’ve got you,” he assured her tightly. Did the promise sound as solemn to her, as it did to him?

He smelled blood. Her blood. And sweat—his, along with a citrusy floral scent, as he rose to his feet. It wasn’t the same wild, flowery scent she’d favored as a teenager. This one had a tangy overtone that balanced the sweetness. Just one more difference to add to his growing list. In many ways the woman in his arms bore little resemblance to the Becca he’d known all those years ago.

Her courage during the shooting and subsequent race to the E.R. illustrated that difference. Other than the surprised little cry she’d let loose when the passenger window had shattered, she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t complained, hadn’t cried. Instead, she’d faced the circumstances and pain with wan smiles and stoic silence.

“You should put me down,” she told him, even as she cuddled into his chest. “I’m too heavy. You don’t want to strain your back.”

In the distance the rattle, rattle, rattle of steel wheels over cement announced the arrival of the emergency room crew.

His arms tightened, and he forced a light chuckle. “The day my back gives out because of carrying a pretty woman is the day I’ll give up my badge and retire.”

“Pretty?” Her laugh was breathless and pained, but still wry. “Oh yeah, blood and bullet holes are so attractive.”

No, but petite, black-haired women with big, brown eyes, sure as hell were.

The rattle of the gurney came closer. “Hang in there, baby. They’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

“Did you just call me, baby?”

Suddenly she grimaced, apparently misreading the shock on his face at the inadvertent slip.

“Sorry. I must be hallucinating.” She offered him a wobbly smile. “I hear blood loss can do that to a person.”

“What do we have?” a man in blue scrubs asked. He pushed the gurney up next to Rio.

Thank Christ for doctors, nurses and gurneys. The combination saved him from having to address his Freudian slip.

He didn’t bother to present his badge. The flashers and siren had already identified him. Besides, most of the staff would recognize him. Too many witness statements were taken next to an ER bed.

“Gun shot. High on the shoulder,” he told them tersely.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” The doctor sounded surprised.

Since it was obvious he hadn’t dressed the fucking wound, Rio let the question hang. There were other matters that demanded his attention.

“Our arrival needs to be kept quiet. If anyone inquires about a gunshot victim, you know nothing. Got it?”

The doctor nodded, sudden understanding on his face. “You can put her down now.”

Rio stopped walking. “Pass it around. Nobody’s seen her. Nobody’s treated her. She was never admitted.”

The nurse nodded, exasperation touching her face. “Got it. Now put her down.”

Rio’s arms tightened, the reluctance to release his hold on Becca digging deep.

“We can’t treat her if you don’t let her go,” The doctor reminded him dryly.

“What’s wrong?” Becca asked, her head rising from his chest. She glanced around the ER entrance. “Is it not safe here?”

He felt her heart rate and breathing increase. Fuck, his procrastination was scaring her to death. Bending, he carefully lowered her to the gurney, settling her on her back. It took way too much effort to force his arms to let go.

When he straightened, he found his right arm, from hand to shoulder, soaked with blood. Her blood.

Jesus. She’s bleeding bad.

His breathing hitched a few times before he got it under control.

The doctor leaned over her, attaching a blood pressure cuff and asking her a string of questions as the nurse wheeled her toward the ER. Rio tagged along behind.

As they approached the entrance, the nurse turned to him. “You’ll have to move your vehicle. We need the loading bay for ambulances.”

Yeah. Wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t leaving Becca alone.

“Call security. Have them move it,” Rio said, as he grabbed his cell. He needed to update Fuentes, but after he called in Taggart and Trammel.

Protecting Becca was his top priority.

He followed the gurney through the sliding doors and into the belly of the E.R. as his call to Tag rang through.

“Rio. What’s up, bro?” Tag’s slightly hoarse voice asked.

“I need your help.” Rio dropped the pleasantries in favor of getting the protective detail rolling.

“You have it.” Tag’s voice sharpened.

“Meet me at the E.R. Fifth Avenue. Bring Tram.”

“On our way.” The call went dead.

As the doctor slid a needle into Becca’s arm, attached a line, and hooked up a drip, Rio dialed Fuentes’s direct line. The call was picked up on the first ring.

“Where the hell are you?” The question was hard and pissed. The captain obviously knew it was Rio calling. The wonders of caller I.D.

“At the ER. Rebecca Blaine took a hit.”

“Shit.” Fuentes’s voice went flat. “She alive?”

“Yeah. She took it in the shoulder.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to exorcise the image of blood dripping from manicured fingers.

“Okay. I’ll call the clinic admin. Have them keep her presence quiet.” A short pause crawled between them. “What about you? Any damage?”

Rio’s fingers tightened around his cell. “No. The bastard was aiming for her.” He shook the burst of rage aside. “What about Herrera? Simmons? Anyone else hit?”

“No. You’re right. The shooter appeared to target her exclusively. SWAT's on the way. They’ll sweep the buildings.”

Rio glanced toward the curtained cubicle they’d wheeled Becca into. “What about the hit and run? Has the truck been located?”

“It has. In a parking lot behind Aero. An easy walk to the crime scene. It’s being hauled in for processing.”

Frowning, Rio eased closer to the curtain they’d drawn around Becca and paused to listen. A running litany of orders and questions drifted through the fabric. But the voices were calm, unhurried, missing the terse urgency of a life and death struggle.

The sudden release of tension left his muscles weak. He struggled to focus on the words coming through his phone.

“…sit on her until we figure this thing out…can’t trust anyone at the precinct…”

Rio nodded absently. At least he and the captain were on the same page. “I’ve cashed in a favor. Brought in outside help.”

But another thought kept circling through his brain. Since the truck had been found so close to the crime scene, the shooter was probably the hit and run driver. Which meant Rio could have stopped…could have tended to her…could have stanched the bleeding. He grimaced at the second guessing.

A bark of laughter traveled down the line. “Let me guess. You called in those SEAL buddies of yours. Well, they owe you big for that business last year.”

That business, as Fuentes called it, had gotten Rio his detective badge. Recovering half a million in stolen diamonds made the department look good.

“Soon as they get here, I’m headed back to the scene.” Assuming he could tear himself away from Becca’s side.

Fuck…what the hell was happening to him?

“Fine, I’ll tell the crime scene guys to hold off processing until you get there.”

Once Fuentes had hung up, Rio stuffed the cell phone into his back pocket and took to waiting. A blue-suited security guard swung by and Rio handed off the keys to his cruiser. More waiting.

It seemed to take forever before the doctor ducked outside the cubicle to update him. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. It was a clean in and out. No damage to nerves or blood vessels. No need for surgery. She’ll require a couple of stitches, front and back, and we’ll admit her for the night to keep an eye on her. But she should be good for release tomorrow morning.”

The breath Rio released sounded raw with relief. “How much blood did she lose?”

“A fair bit. We’re giving her fluids. She’s responding well.”

Another deep, raw breath. This time it lifted his entire chest. “Thanks Doc.”

“No problem. We’ll get her cleaned up, some stitches into her, and then you can see her.”

The doctor had barely ducked back behind the curtain when Tag and Tram showed up. Rio caught the appreciative looks from several nurses, as his old teammates headed across the ER toward him.

They greeted each other with fist bumps and back pounding.

“You two up for a bit of guard duty?” Rio asked.

“Absolutely.” Tag shot him a grin, but fatigue clung to the edges, as though he hadn’t gotten much sleep and was just going through the motions. “What’s the situation?”

Rio frowned slightly, eying his buddy. But hell, even without sleep, he’d take Tag over pretty much anyone. Well, except for the rest of the guys he’d served with on ST7.

“You’ll be guarding Rebecca Blaine. She came in this morning, and requested we take another look at her mom’s suicide case. A few hours later, she barely escapes a hit and run. Half an hour after that, someone took a couple of shots at her.”

Tram glanced toward the curtain behind Rio, his brown eyes thoughtful. “Sounds like someone’s running scared. She took a slug?”

“Yeah,” Rio’s belly rebelled at the memory. Christ—he needed to get these fucking reactions under control. “It was a clean shot. In and out. They’re keeping her overnight for observation. Releasing her in the morning. There’s a chance someone from SDPD is involved, so I need men I can trust to sit on her while I work the case.”

“Rebecca Blaine?” Tag’s eyebrows bunched. “Why does that name sound familiar? Do we know this woman?”

Not exactly, he’d never introduced Becca to any of his mates back when he’d been on the teams.

“Rebecca Blaine…Rebecca.” Tag frowned harder. “Becca…” suddenly he snapped his fingers, an a-ha look on his face. The expression quickly shifted to one of concern. “Wasn’t that the name of the gal who had you all twisted up during your first rotation with us.”

Fuck Tag and his memory. Rio scowled.

“Hell, Rio.” Tag dragged a hand through his hair, only to drop it so he could hide a yawn. “Do you know what you’re doing? Hate to see you get all tangled up in her again.”

He intended to say, she’s just a case, instead it emerged as, “She’s changed.”

Tag and Tram exchanged troubled glances and Rio could almost hear the groan travel between them.

“Riiiiiight,” Tag drawled, the word brimming with doubt.

“If you say so,” Tram added, his face deadpan, yet broadcasting skepticism.

Rio backtracked. “She’s just a case. I haven’t seen her in sixteen years. I’m not nursing any lingering feelings for her. I’m doing my job. Now are you two bozos going to help me or not?”

“Well fuck.” Tag rolled his shoulders and eyes in unison. “Since you asked so nicely…”

“Sure, why not.” Tram landed a playful blow to Rio’s shoulder.

Rio knew for a fact that Tram had pulled the punch, but it still felt like the hit had drilled through bone and flesh and buried itself in his scapula. He barely caught himself before massaging the burning spot. Christ, wouldn’t that rain all kinds of wussy nicknames down on his sorry ass.

“So, she’s just a case?” Tram asked, turning toward the curtained off cubicle.

“That’s right.” Rio forced absolute certainty into the claim. Too bad he couldn’t rustle up the same degree of certainty down deep…where it counted.