Hunting April Read online

  Noble Romance Publishing, LLC

  Hunting April – Book Two, The Men of Sanctuary

  ISBN 978-1-60592-476-2

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright 2011 Danica St. Como

  Cover Art by Fiona Jayde

  Edited by Mary Harris

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

  Blurb

  Wounded while escaping from fiancé Angelo Martone, a disguised April Hall panics and crashes into surveillance expert Glennon Garrett at a coffee shop. Bleeding and drawing a crowd, April begs Glennon not to call police or ambulance--then collapses in his arms. Former Marine Force Recon Garrett takes charge and carries her to his penthouse apartment. Her secret? Her whirlwind romance seriously went to hell when she discovered the man she planned to wed was a sadistic, blackmailing psychopath with Mob connections. After vigorously defending herself during his attack, she fears that she may be wanted for manslaughter!

  When April regains her senses, life becomes complicated as she admits to her rescuer the reasons for her flight. Does Glennon feel sorry for her, or is the growing sexual attraction between them real?

  Humiliated when Glennon rebuffs her, April doesn't wait to hear a reason. She makes a break for freedom in the middle of the night. Before she reaches the street, she's grabbed by former Army Ranger Daniel Wyndsor. The problem? As her ex-fiancé's bodyguard, he kept his desire for her under wraps until he broke his contract to take up the search.

  With April in jeopardy and time getting short, the men whisk April away to the fortified lodge at Sanctuary. She finds one sexy alpha male with an overbearing attitude bad enough--two men are too much for April to handle. All she wants is to break free of Angelo's thugs and disappear, to go home. But who else is hunting April?

  Prologue

  "Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter."

  Ernest Hemingway, "On The Blue Water: A Gulf Stream Letter"

  Esquire magazine, April, 1936

  Monday evening

  "Oh, boy, this is just nasty." April Hall checked the bandage after she lifted her shirt. The surgical tape still held the thick gauze pads in place, but the edges of the wound seemed inflamed, the flesh overly warm to her touch. Crap, this could be trouble.

  The blunt blade of the engraved letter opener had left a long ragged gash along the bottom of her ribcage. At least the bleeding is under control. For the moment. She hoped the dark shirt color would provide temporary camouflage, if necessary. Let's leave the shirt untucked, so it won't wick up any blood. Just in case.

  She pushed her hair under a dark blue and white headscarf, knotted the ends artistically below her left ear. She assessed her reflection in the old silver-flecked wall mirror. Brown eyes—courtesy of colored contact lenses—stared back from a pale face she hoped no one would notice. She thrust a few stray hairs under edge of the headscarf, hiding the rest of her hair, shorter now, and dyed Elvira black. I guess this will do for the moment.

  April shrugged into a navy blue summer jacket two sizes too large and tried not to pull the bandage loose. She took a long, last look around the cheap no-tell motel room with its pond scum green décor. No evidence she had ever been in the room, nothing left behind to give her away.

  Wiping the key card with a sanitizer-soaked paper towel—as she had done with everything else she touched—April left the plastic card on the nightstand. She gathered up the new brown canvas duffle bag, her shoulder bag, laptop bag, and the tightly tied plastic bag of trash. She quietly closed the door behind her, wiped the doorknob, then slipped into the darkness.

  Time to go.

  Chapter One

  Thursday, early morning

  The hot coffee smelled fresh and tasted rich, just the ticket. April intended to enjoy every sip while she took advantage of the free Wi-Fi. Hey, I'm a paying customer, not a freeloader.

  Tucked into the back corner of the coffee and pastry shop, she scanned all the metro news she could find by way of her laptop. Still nothing. I wonder if no news is a good thing, or a bad thing. She powered down the computer and collected her trash.

  Looping both straps around her neck, she adjusted the shoulder bag and laptop bag to hang just so. Laptop on right hip, shoulder bag on left. Then she patted both bags, caught herself. Definitely OCD. I should work on that. She carefully pushed the trash deep into the bin. Preoccupied with worry about her compulsive habits, she turned to leave—and crashed into a solid body whose earthy, exotic scent immediately identified it as male.

  "Whoa, hold on there, what's the hurry?" The man held her arm to steady her.

  April regained her balance, then caught a glimpse of the leather portfolio in his other hand. Tucked under the strap was a glossy, eye-catching, green and gold, Angelo Martone Marketing brochure.

  Oh my God, he found me! Angelo found me! April panicked. "So sorry, my fault, so clumsy."

  Pulling free, she turned her face away from the man. Maybe it's coincidence, maybe he didn't recognize me. With fear foiling any cooperation from her feet, she stumbled again as she tried to slip by.

  "Hey, are you all right?"

  "Fine, just late, need to go." She couldn't seem to keep her equilibrium. Maybe I should have eaten something. Nothing worse than suffering from bone-chilling fear on an empty stomach.

  "Hang on a moment, are you sure you're okay?"

  "Really, I'm fine." April weaved through the people in line and bolted for the exit.

  Head down, face averted, she bounced off a solidly built customer who plowed through the doorway like a tugboat.

  "Hey, watch it!"

  Mumbling another apology, April spun, pinballed towards the opening, then shot out between heavy glass doors to the sidewalk. The toe of her running shoe caught a raised crack in the sidewalk, which sent her sailing headlong into a Jeep idling at the curb. Her forehead bounced off the front fender before her arms could break the fall.

  Palms and knees hit the concrete.

  "You really need to watch where you're going." Him again, the great-smelling man. He helped her to her feet.

  Martone's goons were lowbrow and tacky. This man oozed handsome and class.

  Yeah, well, believing in coincidence could get me killed. Frantic, she twisted and broke free of his hold. "I'm fine, I need to go."

  Rubberneckers gawked from inside and outside the shop's glass walls. The gathered onlookers prevented April from making a clean getaway. A disembodied voice barked out, "Maybe someone should call 9-1-1."

  Oh, hell no! "I'm fine, really, no need to call anyone. I'm okay."

  She struggled to stand steady, straightened her jacket, patted her shoulder bag and laptop bag. A warm, wet feeling spread over her skin, under her shirt. Cripes, I'm bleeding again. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta get away.

  A strong hand took her by the upper arm. "Your head needs treatment, and you're wobbling like a Weeble. Are you sure you don't want me to call for an ambulance?"

  Damn, him again, the attractive man who smelled so good. The man with the brochure. The glossy, colorful brochure she designed, that she finessed to fruition. Oh God, I even sound like an advertisement!

  "N-n-no, I'm okay. Please, no police or ambulance. I'm fine, really." April put her hand to her forehead, felt the sticky blood. Shit, that's a good reason for everyone to stare.

&nbs
p; She rummaged through her oversized shoulder bag for a handkerchief. "No need to call anyone. I'm okay, I'll be fine."

  With her hand still buried in the big leather bag, she folded like a sheet.

  * * * * *

  Glennon Garrett stared at the woman in his arms in disbelief, then scanned the crowd. Okay, someone needs to come forth to claim her. No such luck. Then he smelled it—

  the unmistakable, coppery odor of fresh blood. He dropped his gaze, glanced at the dark stain that oozed through her lightweight jacket onto his cream-colored shirt. Shit.

  Of all the days not to wear black. "No problem, folks, I'll get her to the ER."

  The crowd dispersed as quickly as it formed. He was sure the gawkers were relieved that someone had manned up and taken control of a socially uncomfortable and potentially inconvenient situation.

  Garrett rearranged the woman and the collection of gear tethered around her neck so he could carry her more easily, then headed across the street into a parking garage. Once inside, he slid his ID card into the elevator lock, elbowed the button for the penthouse.

  "What . . . where . . . ?" The young woman opened her eyes, wide. One eye was dark brown, the other a bright hazel-green. "Who are you?"

  "Your personal EMT."

  "But who . . . oh, my head . . . ."

  Her eyes closed again, and she grew heavy in his arms.

  He sighed. "All because I'm too damn lazy to brew my own damn coffee."

  The penthouse apartment displayed a wide landscape of chrome, glass, and modern art, which he never really noticed anymore. He settled her gently on a soft, deeply cushioned black leather sofa, then tucked a red and silver sofa pillow under her head. At least if it gets smeared with blood, no one will notice.

  Glennon grabbed a pile of clean dishtowels and knelt next to the woman. With the jacket unzipped, he could see the dark shirt soaked with fresh blood, making it difficult to eyeball the source. "Oh yeah, this is gonna be ugly. I need a better place to work."

  He spread oversized bath sheets to protect his bed, then settled the woman on top of the towels. The stained jacket, rolled up and tossed, landed on the bathroom's tiled floor. When he folded back the hem of her shirt, the blood stench assaulted his nostrils. Damn, that's just nasty. He carefully lifted the blood-soaked bandage. The mass of soggy nonstick pads came up with the tape, revealing a gash about four inches long.

  The edges of the wound were ragged and definitely indicated an early stage of infection. Fuck.

  "Miss? Ma'am? Hello?" Nothing.

  Garrett grabbed a fully stocked medical field kit from the bathroom closet.

  Wielding razor-sharp scissors, he sliced through the bloody shirt to peel it off— hmm, naked shapely woman here—irrigated the area with saline solution, then took a closer look.

  This bugger really needs a surgeon to do it right. He considered calling in a favor. But s he really acted desperate to avoid police and emergency personnel. And to escape from me.

  "Well, then, let's see what we can do with you." After he dried the area, he taped the edges of the wound together with butterfly strips every half inch, which would allow the wound to ooze, if necessary. Then he covered the area loosely with sterile nonstick gauze, and secured the corners.

  The head wound was minor, a small surface split from hitting the fender, with a whopper of a lump under the skin. He flushed, dried, and closed it with a single butterfly strip. The fall abraded her palms, so he cleaned them up. Not much else to do there. Her jeans protected her knees; the knees looked all right, but the jeans hadn't fared as well. Nothing to do there, either.

  He untied the headscarf, wiped the dried blood from her forehead. A stripe of reddish blonde or auburn showed at the roots. Why would a woman cover up such beautiful hair? The pitch-black dye job didn't suit her; she certainly didn't appear to be Goth.

  Glennon washed up, then pulled on a fresh shirt. He took a better look at his patient. Petite, very attractive, maybe early- to mid-twenties. He wondered what, or who, frightened her so badly she would have dashed into the street to escape, if the parked Jeep hadn't intervened. Hmm, a shame to cover such perfect breasts. Oh, well. He grabbed a light comforter from the blanket chest at the foot of his bed and covered her up to her neck.

  With breakfast a washout, Glennon finally brewed his own coffee and toasted a stale corn muffin for lunch. Waiting for the coffee, he cancelled his appointments for the day. He'd just finished when his cell phone chimed. Front desk flashed on the caller ID.

  "Boss, it's Ivan. The little gal from the coffee shop, y'know, the cute blonde with the bodacious ta-tas, brought over a brown canvas bag. Said it belonged to your woman. Your woman? Have you been holdin' out on us?"

  "I wondered how long it would take before you realized I came in through the garage and rode up the elevator."

  "No way, boss! You're supposed to be out."

  "And you're supposed to be my first line of defense. I guess I'm royally screwed."

  "Oh, man, you musta snuck in when I went to the head. Fuck it, boss, I'm sorry."

  "We will discuss this further. Send someone up with the bag."

  " Yessir, boss. It won't happen again."

  "I know it won't. By you, or by your possible replacement." Garrett disconnected.

  * * * * *

  Thursday evening

  April opened her eyes. She struggled to sit, then looked down. Wow. Bare-breasted, but newly bandaged. The room came into focus. Soft gray walls provided a quiet backdrop to black lacquered furniture, set off by a luxurious ruby red bedspread with black and gray pinstripes. The bedspread remained pristine under the black bath towels on which she'd been sleeping. A really expensive hotel suite? How the hell did she get here?

  A light knock sounded against the half-opened door. She grabbed the edge of the silver and gray comforter, yanked it up to her neck. "Yes?"

  Him again. The man from the coffee shop. The man whose scent evoked images of cool spring days, earthy woodlands. The man with the damned brochure.

  "Hey, glad you're awake. Feeling any better?"

  "A bit shaky, actually. Uh, where am I?"

  "GMG Security and Surveillance. It's the art deco building across from the coffee shop, if that helps. This is my apartment."

  "Oh."

  "Your stuff is in the living room."

  "My stuff? Omigod, my stuff!" She patted the bed, as if her belongings might be hiding under the bedcovers. "My duffle bag. I left it at the bakery."

  "No worry, I have that, too."

  "And my clothes?" She pulled the comforter tighter.

  "Ah, yes. The jacket? Questionable, but possibly salvageable. The shirt? Sorry, the shirt is history. Needed to cut it off to reach the wound. The blood glued it to your skin."

  "Oh." She wanted to hide her head under the comforter to get away from his scrutiny. He'd seen her half-naked. And had his hands on her, obviously.

  He reached into a dresser drawer, then pulled out a black polo shirt with the bold GMG logo embroidered in red, tossed it to her. "Here, put this on."

  She grabbed the shirt with one hand and held it tightly, not giving up her grip on the comforter. Even his shirt smells good. "Are you one of Angelo's men? Is he on his way? Ya gotta tell me. At least give me that much. Or even a head start.

  "Lady, I'm nobody's man, and I don't know who Angelo might be. We're in Jersey—lots of Angelos." He folded muscular arms across his equally muscular chest.

  "Glennon Garrett. My business, my building, my apartment. Who is Angelo, and why would you think I work for him? In the shape you're in, you're not going anywhere."

  She held the balled-up shirt tighter. "I think someone was following me."

  "Why the hell would I follow you? Why would anyone follow you?"

  "Never mind, it's not important." She closed her eyes and leaned back on the pillow, exhausted from the adrenaline surges, the spikes and plummets. She glanced at him again. "Are you?"

  "Am I what?

 
; "Working for Angelo."

  He heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Do you like pizza?"

  She blinked. "Sorry?"

  "Pizza. P-i-z-z-a. Pizza. I missed breakfast, lunch sucked, so an early dinner works for me. Care to share a pizza? It's the only junk food fit for mankind."

  "Oh. Sure. Okay." Would one of the goons offer me pizza? Or is this a trick to keep me occupied until Angelo arrives? "I could manage to eat something."

  "And what would you like on your pizza?"

  "No fungus. No fishy things."

  He laughed. "A girl after my own heart. No mushrooms or anchovies. Will extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, and meatball work for you?"

  She nodded.

  "Great. A fellow carnivore. I'll call in the order, then grab a quick shower in the guest room while you get dressed. Bathroom is to your right. Don't let the bandage get wet. Meet me in the kitchen when you're ready." He pulled the door closed behind him.

  April immediately pulled on the polo, identical to the shirt Mr. Garrett wore. On him, the shirt stretched snugly over his broad chest, flat abs, and thick biceps. On her small frame, it hung like a nightdress.

  Behind the locked bathroom door, she lifted the fabric and checked the bandage.

  "Nice job. Better than I did."

  She washed up, cautiously worked around cuts and abrasions. The eyes looking back from the mirror were mismatched.

  "There goes my brilliant disguise. Next, time, dummy, buy two pairs of contacts."

  She removed the surviving contact lens, then tossed it. She leaned closer to the mirror to check her roots. It had been her first attempt at using hair color. "Gonna need a touch-up sooner than I thought. So much for truth in advertising. This isn't going to last six weeks."

  Finger combing her shoulder-length hair into a simple pageboy, she made herself as presentable as possible.