Page 18 of Engulfing Emma

I narrow my eyes. “How did you know?”

“You said on the phone it had always just been you, Evelyn, and your mom.”

“I tried to look him up once the baby came, figuring he’d fall in love with her instantly, as I had. But he had a very common name, and there was just no way to find him.”

“Do you have a picture of your daughter?”

“I have about a thousand.” I gesture to the door. “But they’re all on my phone, and he broke it.”

“He broke your phone? Why’d he do that?”

I sigh. “I tried to text my friends, Becca and Kelly. I knew they were still in the building, and I wanted to warn them. But he saw me and knocked it out of my hand. Then he confiscated everyone’s phone.”

Brett takes my hand in his and examines it. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, concern evident in his expression.

I clear my throat. “I’m okay.” Heat from his hand warms mine. “Everyone says Evelyn looks like me. We’re often mistaken for sisters.”

“She must be beautiful if she takes after you,” he says, tracing the curves of my face with his green eyes.

I feel warmth spread across my face. “Thanks.” I bite my lip and look away wondering what the hell I’m doing blushing. How can I react to him like this when we’re being held hostage by a whacko with a gun?

“Your mom was a nurse?” I ask, changing the subject.

“She was,” he says, looking proud.

“And you said you have a little sister?”

“Bria. That’s short for Brianna. She’s twenty-two. She’s a singer.”

“She is? What kinds of songs does she sing?”

“Pop mainly. She’s never been on the radio, although she’s cut an album. But she can’t get picked up by a label, even though she’s fantastic—and that’s not just her big brother talking, she really is good. She mainly works as a backup singer while she’s trying to get her career off the ground.”

“So she was little when your mom died.”

“Bria was three. I was eleven.”

“That would make you … thirty?”

I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from his face. He’s really attractive. Rugged too, with his hair on the longish side of what would be acceptable for a firefighter. He’s clean shaven, but I can see the hint of a five o’clock shadow even though it’s not nearly five o’clock. And his tattoos. Oh, don’t get me started on those. He has a string of them that go up his left arm and disappear under the sleeve of his shirt. This guy is probably on the cover of FDNY’s firefighter calendar.

“Yup. I’m an old man,” he says, laughing.

He’s laughing. We’re locked in a storage room at gunpoint, and he’s laughing.

And I’m swooning. I roll my eyes at the whole ridiculous situation.

He takes Carter’s blood pressure again.

“How is it?”

“His BP is improving, but he’s not out of the woods. We’ll have to give him more blood when this bag is empty.”

“How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“Hopefully not too long. I have a plan for when Carter is stable.” He sets the BP cuff aside. “I’m going to put those folding tables between the two of you and the door to protect you from, well, whatever. Then I’ll lure the gunman over and rile him up so he doesn’t hear the police break through the front entrance.”

“Rilehim up?” I say in horror. “Brett, the man has a gun.”

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