Page 176 of Homeport

She shook her head. Tomorrow, she thought again, and reached in her bag for her lipstick.

The explosion of sound had her hand jerking. The slim gold tube clattered onto the counter. Her eyes, locked on their twins in the mirror, went wide with shock.

Gunshots? Impossible.

Even as the denial raced through her, she heard the high, horrified sound of a woman’s scream.

She rushed to the door, knocking her bag off the counter and scattering its contents behind her.

Outside people were shouting, some were running. She shoved through, using hands and elbows. She broke free and ran for the steps just as Ryan rounded the lower landing.

“It— From upstairs. It came from upstairs.”

“Stay here.”

He might have saved his breath. She hiked up her skirt and was pounding up behind him. He knocked aside the velvet rope that blocked the third-floor office level from the party area.

“You check that way,” she began. “I’ll look down—”

“The hell you will. If you won’t stay put, then you’ll come with me.” He took a firm hold of her hand, doing his best to block her body with his as he started down the hall.

More footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. Andrew leaped the last three. “That was a gun. Miranda, go downstairs. Annie, go down with her.”

“No.”

Since neither woman was going to listen, Ryan gestured to the left. “You check that way. We’ll go down here. Whoever fired the gun is probably long gone,” he said as he cautiously nudged open a door. “But you stay behind me.”

“What are you? Bulletproof?” She reached in under his arm and flicked on the light. He simply shoved her back and stepped into the room himself to do a quick sweep. Satisfied it was empty, he pulled her in.

“Use this office. Lock the door and call the police.”

“I’ll call them when I know what to tell them.” She elbowed him aside and strode down the hall to the next room.

He all but wrenched her arm out of its socket. “Try to be a little less of a target, Dr. Jones.”

They worked their way down until he spotted a faint light pooling under the door leading to her office. “You changed for the party here. Did you leave your light on?”

“No. And the door should be locked. It’s not quite closed.”

“Take off your shoes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take off your shoes,” he repeated. “I want you to be able to run if you have to, not break an ankle in those heels.”

Saying nothing, she leaned against him long enough to remove them. It should have been funny, she thought, the way he took one, holding it spike out like a weapon as they approached the door.

But her hand was going damp in his, and she couldn’t find the humor.

He eased to the side of the door, nudged it. It opened another two inches, then bumped into an obstruction. Once again, Miranda reached under his arm to turn on the overheads.

“Oh my God.”

She recognized the lower half of the filmy white gown, the soft glitter of silver shoes. Dropping to her knees, she pushed at the door with her shoulder until she could squeeze inside.

Elise lay crumpled, facedown. Blood trickled from a wound at the back of her head and slipped over her pale cheek. “She’s alive,” Miranda said quickly, when she pressed her fingers to Elise’s throat and found a fluttery pulse. “She’s alive. Call an ambulance. Hurry.”

“Here.” He shoved a handkerchief into her hand. “Press that against it. See if you can stop the bleeding.”

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