He took a sip of the ice water he was cradling. The professor was talking to two old guys who were almost busting out of their dress shirts. They seemed to be exchanging stories and laughing, one of them puffing on a cigar. He allowed himself a glance around the room.

And then everything went still.

Molly.

He closed his eyes momentarily. It was a hallucination. He was wise to them by now. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, which were the only clothes he’d ever seen her in. If she were real, she’d be in a beautiful cocktail dress. He shook his head and focused on his principal. He breathed in and out, in and out. Concentrated on the professor. Mentally he recited the things he knew about him.

His wife’s name is Cathy.

His office is on University Boulevard.

He went to Cornell.

He looked briefly for signs of Molly again but couldn’t see her. The focus technique had worked its magic.

He caught sight of Malone Garrett, his partner in crime on this job. A British son of a bitch who never took anything seriously and was perpetually ready with some smartass comment. He had his eyes on his own principal, an oil guy who’d been a target of some environmental activists, but he was drinking what looked like bourbon on the rocks. He’d heard rumors that Mal was ex-SAS—Special Air Service, the regiment that Delta Force was modeled on—which made him pretty damn hardcore, but David also knew he had his own rumors doing the circuit in his new company, and not all of those were true.

Mal grinned and raised his drink when he caught David’s gaze on him. David raised his water glass back and rolled his eyes. Even drinking, Mal was on top of his game. Lucky bastard, being able to function like that. And he looked annoyingly crisp in his tux. David felt hot and uncomfortable in his. He couldn’t wait to take it off. The Brit must have some James Bond gene. God, that pissed him off.

His principal moved out onto the terraces, where gas lamps offered a yellow glow to complement the brutal heat of the evening. He pushed nearer to the professor so that he could clearly see the hands and posture of the people around him.

He noticed a few bodyguards who were obviously packing weapons. With their bulging shoulders and virtually shaved heads, he tagged them as Russian. In the private security world, it paid to be able to identify other bodyguards. It was always good to know who you could go to for assistance if necessary. And it was good to know who you definitely couldn’t go to. The Russians were in the latter category.

Their principal seemed to be an older man who was ignoring them. David didn’t blame him. His bodyguards seemed to be scaring off anyone who might have wanted to talk to him. He just puffed his pipe and looked around hopefully. David saw his eyes light up. Good for him. He’d found someone to talk to.

David’s attention snapped back to the professor, and then back to the Russian. He blinked. Molly-in-jeans was kissing him. He blinked again. It really was her. He was sure of it. A warmth washed over him, tempered only by a tightening in his stomach. Even in jeans, and a T-shirt that had seen better days, she put the glamorously dressed women there in the shade.

But what was she doing? Both Molly and the Russian were looking down at their clasped hands. One of them was obviously being overfriendly. He smiled. David bet that the Russian was so happy to have someone talk to him, he didn’t want to let her go. But then he seemed to pull his hand free and something dropped to the ground. Molly swooped down to pick it up, and as she did, David saw a red flower bloom on the Russian’s chest.

Before even mentally registering what was happening, David stepped toward the professor and grabbed his arm. He saw Mal moving toward his principal too. Neither of the Russian bodyguards had even flinched.

But David hesitated, eyes on Molly as she started to pull herself upright.

Someone screamed, and the guests looked at the source. He had about two seconds until mass panic. But he couldn’t leave Molly. He spoke into his cuff mike to Mal. “Take the professor.” He knew that would piss Mal off, but he’d still do it. As David stepped to Molly, who was looking blankly at the Russian as he slumped to his knees, he saw Mal yanking the professor behind the bar in his peripheral vision. Another shot splattered one of the huge vases close to Molly. The cracking glass made more noise than the gunshot. He flung himself at her and brought her down to the ground, covering her with his body. The noise of the shattering glass brought the crowd from a polite murmur to shrieks of panic in about a second and a half.

Instead of lying prone, she tried to wriggle away from him, closer to the dead Russian. “Molly. Molly. Stop,” he said. But she acted like she didn’t hear him. She reached for something and stuffed it in her pocket.

“Come on. We have to get out of here.” He jumped up and dragged her behind the bar. There were no more shots, but people were running in panic. He looked to the entrance of the party and saw Mal with his oil exec and Professor Rankin speeding back through the metal detector. As Mal walked them through the doorway, he grabbed a bottle of Kristal champagne from a table. Typical. A couple of seconds later the entrance was a bottleneck of people pushing and shoving to get away from whatever was going down.

He grabbed Molly’s hand and pushed her toward the emergency exit door into the kitchen. It was deserted except for one cleaner, who was looking bemused. “Go!” David said, pointing at the exit door. The man dropped his mop and disappeared.

“David? David?” Molly said breathlessly, as they burst through the service entrance.

“Hang on,” he replied, not wanting to have that particular conversation here. He peered around the corner of the corridor and saw police running past a door at the end. He waited until the steady stream of white riot-helmets passed, and then he ran to the door and checked. No one.

“Molly!” he called.

No answer. He looked over his shoulder. Shit. Racing back to around the corner, he promised God everything if she was still alive. She was, but she was crouched down, arms wrapped around her knees. “Molly? We have to go.”

She didn’t look at him, and didn’t reply. Fuck this. They didn’t have time for hysteria. He picked her up in his arms, and only then noticed a patch of blood on the wall where she’d been sitting. Her face buried in his neck, he looked at his hand. It was red too.

Three minutes later she was in his room. He laid her on his bed and rolled her over on to her side. Her T-shirt was soaked in blood.

A coldness rushed through him. Had she been shot too? He was just about to lift her shirt, when a voice spoke in his ear, scaring the shit out of him.

“So who’s Molly?” Mal asked through his earpiece.

“A woman,” he said tightly.

“No shit, Sherlock. Anyway, I’ve got your principal. Nuts of steel that guy’s got. My oil exec, on the other hand, has fled for his private jet.”

“Thanks for that. How’s the Kristal?”

“Delicious. So who was the dead dude?”

David’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. I’m waiting to ask Molly, but she’s bleeding and maybe catatonic or something.

“Am not,” she mumbled.

“Bleeding from what?” Mal asked.

“Her skin.” His voice rose in exasperation. “Shut up. I’m looking.”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist. Wait. Is she conscious? Are you feeling up an unconscious woman?” He could hear that bastard’s grin.

“Shut the fuck up,” David said.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Molly said, a little more strength behind her words this time.

“A little testy, mate, aren’t you?”

Shit. David pulled his earpiece out and threw it in the trash.

“Molly, you’re bleeding from something, I’m just trying to see where from. Do you remember being shot?” he asked, feeling a bit stupid for asking.