The crowd is thickening with last-minute arrivals, and I push my way through them, muttering “excuse me” left and right. As soon as I’m out in the hallway, I break into a run.
Emma is already crossing the street when I rush out of the hotel, with the conference organizer on my heels.
“Emma, wait!” I call out, but she doesn’t hear me, her small figure weaving in and out of traffic, oblivious to the slow-moving cars. She’s so upset she doesn’t realize the light has just turned red, I comprehend with a surge of dread, and ignoring the organizer’s attempt to grab my sleeve, I leap into the intersection after her.
It’s rush hour, with the usual insanity on Fifth Avenue—which means any lengthening in the usual two-foot distance between cars is greeted by drivers madly surging forward, desperate to cut in front of others. And I see such a lengthening happening in front of Emma as a white van accelerates much slower than the nimble sports car it’s following.
“Emma!” I shout at the top of my lungs, but with the noise of traffic, she can’t hear me. Her head is down as she steps in front of the van, her hands clutching the lapels of her ancient coat to protect her neck against the freezing wind. She doesn’t see the danger, doesn’t notice the yellow cab revving up its engine next to the van—and with the van blocking the cab driver’s view, I doubt he sees her.
My heart rate skyrocketing, I launch into a sprint, ignoring the panicked honking all around me. My lungs pump like I’m in the last stretches of a marathon, my vision narrowing until all I see is that small, red-haired figure and the cab about to swerve into her.
“Emma!”
I’m now close enough for my frantic bellow to reach her, and she turns, only to freeze in place, her eyes widening as she sees me—and the cab barreling at her. In a flash, I take in the driver’s terror-stricken face as he registers her presence, hear the squealing of the brakes, and I know he won’t stop in time.
It’s physically impossible.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, each millisecond startlingly vivid as the deafening roar of my pulse separates into distinct heartbeats.
Thump-thump. I put on a burst of speed.
Thump-thump. I launch myself into the air, my arms outstretched.
Thump-thump. Emma’s face, ghost white, her lips forming my name as my hands collide with her chest, the impact throwing her back five feet—and out of harm’s way.
Thump. A massive force slams into my side, and darkness engulfs me.
46
Emma
My back hits the asphalt so hard that for a few long seconds, I can’t breathe, my vision going in and out. Then, with a wheeze, my lungs drag in air, and I bounce up to my feet, driven by a terror so hideous I’m oblivious to any and all pain.
“Marcus!” Ignoring the dizziness trying to fell me, I rush toward the prone figure in a business suit sprawled on the asphalt a few feet away.
All the cars are now at full stop, the drivers jumping out and yelling. The yellow cab driver starts shouting curses at me, but I pay him zero attention. All my focus is on the man lying on his back in front of the cab, his face partially turned away and his arm at an odd angle.
Dropping to my knees in front of Marcus, I frantically search for the pulse in his neck, and a sob of relief bursts from my throat as I feel it, strong and steady. But then I notice blood pooling around his head, and the hideous fear returns with a vengeance.
“He needs an ambulance!” I look around, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. I can’t find it, and my panic spikes. “Someone call 911!”
“They’re already on their way,” a man in a gray suit says, sounding out of breath as he kneels next to me. “I can’t believe Carelli jumped in front of that—holy shit, you’re about to pass out.”
I don’t realize he’s talking about me until someone grabs my arms and makes me lie down next to Marcus, saying something about shock and possible injuries. In the distance, sirens wail, and my dizziness intensifies, bringing with it a surge of nausea.
Rolling onto my side, I retch, and by the time my stomach is empty, we’re surrounded by a swarm of paramedics.
47
Emma
“Emma? Kitten?”
The raspy sound of Marcus’s voice jolts me awake, and I jump to my feet, nearly knocking over the chair I’d fallen asleep in.
“You’re awake! Thank God, finally.” I seize his right hand in both of mine, so overcome with relief I barely register the pain in my back. “How are you feeling?”
He blinks up at me slowly, and I know that he’s still connecting the dots, wondering why my eyes are wet yet I’m smiling. But that confusion is normal, expected. The important thing is that after eighteen hours of not regaining consciousness, Marcus is awake and knows who I am.
“What…” He dampens his dry lips as I perch on the edge of his bed. “What happened?” His gaze sharpens. “Wait. The cab. Are you—”
“I’m fine. Here, drink this.” Releasing his hand, I hold a cup of water with a straw to his mouth and watch him take a big sip, the muscles in his powerful throat working as he swallows. My chest squeezes at the sight, my joy so intense it verges on agony. With a heavy stubble covering his lean cheeks, the right side of his jaw swollen, and a huge white bandage wrapped around his head, he looks as terrible as a man that magnetic can look, but he’s awake and functioning.
He’s going to be all right.
“What happened?” he repeats when he’s had his fill of water.
