The man moved with terrifying speed. He covered the distance between them in a blur, despite a visible hitch in his step. Before Betsey could swing the vase, he had closed the gap.
He slammed into her, pinning her against the marble console table. The vase slipped from her fingers and thudded onto the carpet, rolling away harmlessly.
His hand clamped over her mouth, hot and strong. His body pressed her into the cold stone.
Betsey didn't scream. Screaming wasted oxygen. Instead, she went completely limp. It was a counter-intuitive move, one that usually confused attackers who expected resistance.
The man faltered for a fraction of a second, his grip loosening as she sagged. She used that moment to look up.
She met eyes the color of storm clouds. Gray, intense, and clouded with pain.
The man was dressed in a bespoke suit that had been ruined. The fabric was torn at the side, and a dark, wet stain was spreading across his white dress shirt. He was sweating, his blond hair plastered to his forehead.
"Please," he hissed, his voice rough, strained. "Don't scream. They're trying to kill me." He sounded less like a threat and more like a desperate plea.
Betsey analyzed him in a heartbeat. American accent. Educated. He was playing a part, but the pain and blood were real.
She spoke calmly against his palm, her voice muffled but steady. "You're bleeding on the Italian marble. That stains."
The man blinked. He looked down at her, then at the blood dripping onto the console. He looked back at her face, confusion warring with the adrenaline in his eyes. He slowly removed his hand.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
"Housekeeping," she replied, deadpan.
She noticed his hand-the one that had covered her mouth-was shaking. Micro-tremors. Blood loss was setting in.
"If you pass out, security will find you," she said. "If I bandage you, you might be able to walk out of here."
The man assessed her. His gaze shifted from panicked prey to calculator. He saw the uniform. He saw the lack of fear.
He sagged against the wall, gesturing weakly. "Do it. But if you call anyone, we both die."
Betsey moved out from under his arm. She walked to the bathroom, her steps measured. She grabbed the emergency first aid kit from under the sink.
When she returned, the man had slumped onto the sofa. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed. He looked like a fallen angel, beautiful and broken.
She knelt between his legs. The position was intimate, but she focused on the wound.
"I need to cut the shirt," she said.
He nodded once, not opening his eyes.
She took the scissors from the kit and sliced through the expensive fabric. She peeled the shirt back, exposing a broad, muscular chest defined by hard work, not just a gym.
There was a jagged gash along his ribs. A gunshot graze. It was ugly, but it hadn't hit anything vital.
She poured antiseptic onto a gauze pad. "This will burn."
She pressed the pad against the wound.
He hissed through his teeth, his body seizing up. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. His fingers were hot and callused.
As his skin touched hers, a jolt of unwelcome familiarity jumped between them. It was sharp, sudden. Betsey felt it travel up her arm and settle in her chest.
She pushed it down. It was just adrenaline.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He watched her hands as she worked, cleaning the wound with efficient, practiced movements.
"You have good hands," he murmured. "You're overqualified for a butler."
"And you're overqualified for a burglar," she retorted, taping the gauze in place.
He chuckled. It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in her chest.
She finished the bandage, securing it with a professional knot. She sat back on her heels.
He didn't let go of her wrist. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"You saved me," he said softly. "I owe you."
"You owe me a clean carpet," she said, pulling her wrist from his grip.
He stared at her, his eyes darkening. The threat was gone, replaced by something else. Curiosity. Interest.
Betsey stood up. Her heart was racing. Not from fear, but from the strange, magnetic pull of the man on the sofa.
