Fast. So fast. Bang and it was done.

Paul Kane stood there gaping at us, and the astonished horror on his face would have been comical in other circumstances. “James,” he whispered.

“Jake!” I said. There was blood soaking his back. “Jake?”

He lunged forward, knocked the gun out of Paul’s motionless hand. It skittered across the deck and fell with a clatter down the stairway. Jake shoved Paul back into one of the deck chairs. Paul collapsed without a struggle. Jake bent over him, handcuffed him. Stood up. There was blood staining the front of his shirt, spilling sluggishly from a singed hole in the fabric over his right shoulder.

The deck tilted beneath my feet and I reached out for the gunwale. Jake reached for me.

“Take it easy,” he said. He sounded very calm.

“He shot you,” I said.

“It’s okay. He shot you too.”

I looked down and was amazed to see that there was blood welling out of a hole high in my shoulder, soaking the tweed of my sweater.

“Wow. He did.”

Jake looked behind me, and I tried to look too. “Hold still.” He felt gently over my back. “The bullet’s in your shoulder.”

“Really?” The whole thing seemed unbelievable. I stared at his face, trying to understand. He seemed very calm. Grim, but calm. And calm was probably good, although I wouldn’t have minded a little emotion from him about then.

He eased me down into one of the deck chairs, pulled his shirt off, wincing, and shoved it against my shoulder. Taking my right hand, he pressed it against the wadded cloth. “Keep the pressure on this.”

There was blood on his hand -- his own blood streaming from his wound. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his gory shoulder. “You’re losing a lot of blood. How badly are you hit?” I asked faintly.

“I’ll live.” His eyes met mine. They looked black in his white face. “I’m okay.”

I nodded.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.

“Please don’t let your final words to me be I told you so,” I said.

He said shortly, “You’re not dying.”

He left us then, going up to the bridge. He seemed to be gone a long time.

Paul said bitterly, “You did this. You brought this on.”

I closed my eyes. I could hear the gulls and the waves and the rumble of the ship’s engines. After a bit I thought we might be turning about.

I heard footsteps on the deck, but I was very tired.

Even without opening my eyes I felt the shadow fall across me. The scent of Le Male aftershave mingled with the smell of ocean and diesel. Warm fingers pressed against my throat.

“Listen to me. There’s still a chance for us,” Paul said urgently. “It’s not too late to salvage this. If we keep our heads. If we stick together.”

No response.

“Think about what you’re doing,” Paul tried again. “This is a gift from the gods. To both of us.”

“Shut up, Paul.” Fingers brushed my cheek. I opened my eyes.

“Let him die,” Paul said.

“He’s not dying.” Jake’s gaze held mine. “You’re not dying.”

I shook my head, although I was afraid that I was.

“Help is on the way. All you have to do is hold on.”

I said, “You wouldn’t happen to have a warm rock, would you?”

“What?”

“If you wrap a warm rock in a piece of cloth and then press it against the wound, it’s supposed to ease the pain.”

His pale mouth quirked. “The only rocks I brought are the ones in my head. I should never have agreed to this.”

“You didn’t.” I closed my eyes. My shoulder was starting to hurt. A lot. I tried to lessen the pain by analyzing it. Nausea, crushing pressure in my chest…maybe better to skip the analysis.

He crouched down beside me, gathering me against him. His hand covered mine, holding the bunched and wet shirt against my shoulder much harder than I was. I let him deal with it, rested my face in the curve of his neck. Breathed in the scent of sunwarmed bare skin tinged with the sweat and gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. His heart was pounding fast on an adrenaline rush.

I don’t have to be strong, I thought. I don’t have to put a brave face on it. I’m dying. I’m entitled to a little weakness. I hid my face in his chest, smothering the cry of pain that squeezed out of me.

It could be worse. I could be dying alone.

Or he could have hesitated. Even for a moment.

The pain eased up a little.

I could hear Paul continuing to speak urgently, pleading for his own life in that stagy ultraplummy voice.

“Why can’t you see what this means for both of us? This is a second chance -- our last chance. This is fate. Why are you fighting what is clearly meant to happen?”

Jake said over my head, “Paul, one more word and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Paul gave a strangled laugh. “My God, you are a fool.”

Jake shifted, and I hoped he wasn’t going to carry out his threat.

He tipped my head up.

“Okay?”

“Great.” I’d decided to live long enough to see Paul Kane put away.

His laugh sounded funny.

The pain was getting worse again.

He bent his head and said against my ear. “Hold on, baby.”

I nodded and closed my eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fuzzy…ceiling. There was something wrong with the light. Sort of eerie…

I unstuck my eyes. Blinked. I was in a hospital room and Lisa was sitting by my bedside.

She looked small and exhausted. She wore no makeup; her face was pinched and suddenly old.

My shoulder hurt. It seemed stiff, bulky with bandages. It hurt to move. My chest hurt. A lot. I became aware of tubes and wires and a soft mechanical swish and hiss. I was hooked up to a bank of machines with blinking lights -- and I didn’t seem to be breathing entirely on my own. Scary. Very.

I must have moved or made some sound because Lisa’s gaze jerked to my face. She looked more scared than I felt.

“Adrien…” Her voice -- little more than a whisper -- shook badly.

I winked at her.

Her eyes filled with tears.

That pretty much felt like a full day’s work. I closed my eyes.

* * * * *

The next time I opened my eyes there were cards and balloons. I recognized Emma’s artwork on a large folded sheet of colored construction paper. I believe I recognized that jubilant stick figure with the spiky black hair, although it had been a long time since I’d felt like jumping for joy.

Everything hurt but I was breathing on my own again. My mother sat beside my bed reading Vogue. She looked immaculately groomed as always, so all was apparently right with the universe once more.

I croaked, “I think Em should have her own horse.”

Lisa looked up from the magazine. For a moment she seemed to struggle for composure, then she said, “Oh, Adrien! She’ll just fall and break her neck.” She wiped hastily at her eyes.

* * * * *

Bizarre though it may be, it took awhile to remember that I’d been shot aboard Paul Kane’s ship. I was so doped up that for a day or two I thought I was in the hospital with pneumonia. My chest hurt like hell and breathing was painful in the extreme. Everything was an effort. Even thinking was exhausting. So I didn’t. I hid out in a cocoon of painkillers and refused to let myself worry about how ill I was and what the future might be.

There was going to be a future, and that was the good news, but I’d apparently had a couple of cardiac events. Everyone seemed a little vague about these “events.” I gathered they were not cause for celebration -- despite the cards and flowers and balloons that accumulated.