When she got back to him, the woman lay in a limp heap. “Ach, Christ! Is she…”

“No. I could have killed her, but I did not. I do not wish problems with the authorities here. Nor do I want to be troubled with lengthy explanations that would oblige us to remain in New York.”

Tamara rocked back on her heels and clamped a hand over her shoulder. In that moment, she realized Lars was naked and averted her gaze. “You are injured.” He jumped to his feet, strode to the bathroom, and dragged clothes and a towel into the living room. “Why did you not do as I instructed?” he growled as he dried himself and dressed quickly.

“I was going to, but it was a woman.” Tamara cringed. Her words sounded lame.

“Since when are women exempt from being assassins?” His tone dripped sarcasm. “How bad is your shoulder?”

“I have no idea.” She tried for a dignity she was far from feeling. “It isn’t like I get shot every day.” She lurched upright, still holding her shoulder that burned with a life of its own.

He ran his sharp gaze over her, stepped to her side, and pried her hands off the wound. “Mmph. Looks like the bullet went through. You got lucky, fraulein. Let me take care of our guest here, and then I will do what I can for you.”

“Won’t I need a hospital?”

“Absolutely not. Too many questions for gunshot wounds. If we must, there are private doctors here in New York who will come to us.”

“What are you going to do with her?” Tamara jerked her chin toward the comatose woman. Long brown hair spread around her where she lay on the floor.

“Better if you do not know.” He thumped her chest with a finger. “If that fucking door opens again, I do not care if a ten-year-old is there, shoot to kill. Do you understand me?”

“Stop yelling at me.”

He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I am angry at myself. I should have known better than to leave you alone.”

She caught hold of her temper. It had always flared hot. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t do what you said, but I promise I’ve learned my lesson.”

His hard, flat gaze softened fractionally. He hefted the woman over one shoulder and let himself out the door. Tamara didn’t need his instructions to lock it behind him.

She paced from one end of the suite to the other, gun gripped in her hand. It was the woman’s gun, but since it was a 9mm, and had more stopping power than Lars’ revolver, she clung to it. Adrenaline left an acrid taste in her mouth and she felt light-headed. She told herself she wasn’t badly wounded. Hadn’t Lars said so? Despite efforts to soothe her frazzled nerves, her shifter side was frantic to heal the damage. If she changed to her cat form, the injury would repair itself quickly.

Why didn’t I think of that the moment he left? Tamara glanced nervously at the door, and then at the microwave oven’s clock. She’d almost decided to shift and take care of herself when she caught her breath and slammed her palm against her forehead. How the hell would she explain her sudden recurrence of health? It wasn’t as if she could tell Lars she’d found a faith healer lurking in the hall.

She licked at dry lips and sank onto one of the sofas. She only stayed for a moment before she got to her feet again, worried she’d bleed on the light beige upholstery. Stumbling slightly, she made her way to the kitchen sink, ran cold water, and drank from her cupped hands after she’d rinsed blood from them.

Panic swamped her when she understood she’d laid the gun on the kitchen counter. She gripped it again, water dribbling down her chin, and turned to face the door. It opened. Her hand tensed. “It is me, fraulein,” Lars called before opening the door far enough for him to enter their suite.

Tamara dropped the gun back onto the ledge, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. She felt horrified by her lack of self-control, but couldn’t stop sobbing. The harder she tried for composure, the worse things got.

Lars closed his arms around her. “There, there, liebchen. It will be all right. The woman will not bother us further. She will not wish to be found out, so when she regains consciousness, she will merely report back to her superiors. It will take her a while, though, since I removed her communications devices from her bag, along with her money, keys, and identification.”

Tamara gulped air. “Who was she?”

“I have no idea. Her identification had to be falsified. No one in this business carries their true identity documents.”

“Oh my God, sure and I was such a fool to let Jaret know who I was.” Another sob pushed its way out, obliterating further speech.

Lars smoothed her hair back from her sweaty forehead. “Let me take a look at your shoulder.” He let go of her and pushed her loose-necked sweater down. She grunted in pain while he probed from both sides with knowing fingers. “It is clean. The bullet went through muscle tissue. No vessels are torn, or you would be bleeding much more than you are.”

She opened her mouth, and then shut it with a snap.

“What is it, liebchen? Do you wish a physician? He could disinfect and wrap it, plus antibiotics might be a good call. There is nothing magic about us leaving here at a set time.”

Should I tell him? She drew away and focused her gaze on the carpet. “I, er, um, that is, I can fix it myself, but I need privacy.” She risked a glance his way, expecting to see horror—or pity—that she’d lost her mind. He just looked at her, his cool, gray gaze appraising.

“Would the bedroom do?”

She nodded. “This will sound odd, but no matter what you hear, don’t come in.” She offered a weak smile, but it faltered. “I have a feeling the lock wouldn’t keep you out.”

He did something curious then. He smiled. Really smiled, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It lightened his normally severe expression and turned him into rock star gorgeous. Lars half-bowed in her direction. “Take whatever time you need. I will watch over you—and honor your request for privacy.”

“Don’t, I mean aren’t you going to ask me anything?” Tamara had prepared a half-baked tale about Irish witchcraft, but it didn’t appear she’d need it.

“No. I am going to turn on the television and see if I can find a sporting match to watch.”

It’s almost like he knows.

He couldn’t possibly. He’s just being kind.

She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but there wasn’t even one of them that wouldn’t totally blow her secret side. Tamara walked across the room, her back very straight. She went into the bedroom and shut the door, taking care to engage the lock.

•●•

Lars wanted to whoop and dance around the room, but he forced himself to turn on the television and flip through channels. Garen’s intel had been right on. Tamara must be a shifter. If she summoned her animal form, she’d heal quickly. He pumped his fist in the air, and then jammed it over his mouth to stifle a triumphant laugh. Her hearing would be acute in her animal form; he turned up the television’s volume.

This development would make the shifter conversation much easier, but there was no reason to have it just yet. Tamara must be on sensory overload after everything she’d been through in just a few short hours. No point in making things any worse, or more difficult, for her. He wondered what she was. Wolves, bears, and mountain cats were most common, but he’d known coyote, bird, and even deer and elk shifters.

Deep in his computer bag, his cell phone jangled. Lars dove for it, but by the time he located it, it had quit ringing. He brought up his call log, but it simply said private, just like the last call to his phone. He punched one of the speed dial numbers, the one that would connect him to Garen.

“I just tried to reach you,” Garen said.

“What? No hello, how are you, old friend?”

Garen snorted laughter. “My, you’re sounding chipper, particularly since I just heard there was an attempt on your life, or the girl’s anyway. It came in on my satellite feed.”