If she let him, he might even take care of her, too. Maybe it would even turn into a love for the ages and they’d have a wonderful future together.
It still would have started with her making all the sacrifices and him making none.
She didn’t hold that against him, but he couldn’t put himself in her shoes, and she couldn’t imagine a life like his, either. Not really.
Samara climbed off him, doing her best to ignore the way her body cried out at the new distance between them. “I’m sorry, Beckett.”
“Are you?”
She picked up her dress. “I am.”
The phone rang, saving them from what would be an undoubtedly awkward postcoital conversation. She shimmied into her dress, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He stood naked next to his desk, not the least bit self-conscious. Why would he be? He’s built like a freaking gladiator. All lean muscle and barely contained power.
Beckett frowned. “What do you mean, the door’s locked?” He turned to look at Samara as alarms screeched through the building. A pulsing, screaming sound, followed by a monotone, “Fire. Fire. Fire.” And then it started all over again.
“Call nine-one-one!” Beckett barked into the phone. He snatched up his pants and yanked them on. She’d barely got her dress straps over her shoulders when he grabbed her arm. “Run!”
Chapter Eight
Thirty fucking floors.
Beckett kept hold of Samara’s hand, ensuring that she didn’t trip as they raced down staircase after staircase, their bare feet slapping the floor. Too slow. In the distance, he heard sirens. With each floor they passed, the temptation to get to a window, to look out and figure out what the fuck was going on, rose.
“Beckett, I can’t.” Samara stumbled, her free hand pressed against her stomach. “We have to slow down.”
The door at the next landing marked the tenth floor. Closer to the ground—to safety—but not close enough. Beckett bit back his frustration. “Keep up or I’ll carry you.”
Her jaw dropped. “You can’t carry me.”
“This isn’t up for negotiation. You have five seconds. Decide.”
She set her jaw and her eyes went steely. “I’ll keep up.”
“Good.”
They ran.
Ninth floor.
Seventh.
Fourth.
The scent of smoke curled through the third-floor landing, though he didn’t see it. His breath sawed through his lungs, a burning brand in his chest. Samara looked as bad as he felt, her skin shining with sweat, her hair a tangled mass. Beckett slowed, just a little. “Don’t touch the doors.”
“I know how fires work,” she snapped. Real fear lurked in her eyes and she clutched his hand tighter. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
If they even could. Without knowing where the fire started or how fast it had spread, they were operating blind. They had two floors between them and the relative safety of the ground floor, but that didn’t mean they could reach the emergency exit. Leaving the stairwell was a risk—a big one. Staying was even worse.
He squeezed her hand. “We’re almost there.”
She choked out an exhale and nodded. “I can make it.”
In another life, he might fall head over heels for this woman with her strength and determination, no matter if she was facing down a corporate rival or a fucking fire. “I’m going to get you out, Samara. I promise.” He started moving before she could respond, half dragging her down the stairs toward the second floor, and then the first.
The smoke was thicker there, creating a thin haze that left everything looking surreal. It coated the back of his tongue, stung his eyes, burned his lungs. He staggered to a stop. They were in the northwest corner of the building, closest to the park that butted up against the building, rather than the street. The nearest emergency exit was roughly a hundred feet away. He touched the doorknob. Cold. “You ever see that movie Backdraft?”
“Beckett, that is not funny.”
He pulled her close and positioned them behind the heavy door. “Just making conversation.” And keeping you distracted so you’re not thinking too hard about how horrible it would be to die in a fire.
“You’re crazy.” She tucked herself under his arm, her body shaking despite her even tone. She was faking it just as much as he was.
“You bet your ass.” He didn’t think there was a wall of flames waiting for them on the other side, but he couldn’t afford to risk it. Beckett grabbed the door handle. “Fire’s bad, we run up to the second floor and take a different stairwell down.”
Her shaking got worse. “Beckett…”
“Don’t you dare.” He gripped her chin and kissed her. “We’re getting out of here, Samara. If it means I have to lower you by hand out of a fucking window, we’re getting out of here. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He twisted the handle and yanked the door, keeping their bodies behind it. Smoke poured into the room in a thick cloud, but no flames burst through. Beckett coughed and pulled Samara down so they were crouching. They weren’t fully below the smoke, but the air was slightly more breathable there. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
“You don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” He shifted around the door and squinted into the lobby. The haze of smoke was too thick to see much of anything, but he couldn’t see any flames, either. He could see the front doors from where they were, and there seemed to be a clear path. “Stay as low as possible.” Right now, the smoke was more dangerous than any flames.
“Okay.” Samara started coughing.
I have to get her out of here. Now.
He shifted his grip to hold her wrist and rushed out into the lobby. No flames. Just smoke. It should have comforted him, but it meant there was a fire somewhere else in Morningstar. Doesn’t matter. It’s just a building. Samara is a person.
They hit the doors at a full-out sprint and Beckett registered a thick pipe jammed through the door handles.
