Page 46 of Art of the Hunt
Hunter pushed away the patchwork quilt to reveal blue-and- black plaid pajama bottoms. He did not own a pair of blue-and-black plaid pajama bottoms.
He gingerly stood, then paused to give himself time to adjust since he had no idea how long he’d been lying in bed.
But everything seemed to be fine. No vertigo, no headrush, no wobbly knees. And still no pain in his chest, although the itching was annoying.
He was in a bedroom, he assumed, based on, well, the bed and the dresser and tables. There were three doors, one closed and two open. The closed door probably led to a closet. One of the open ones looked to lead out to a hallway, while the other was—bingo!—a bathroom.
After taking care of business, which included brushing his teeth with a toothbrush lying on the sink, wrapped in plastic, he ventured out into the hall.
He was on the second level of someone’s home. To his right was another door, partially opened. Looked like another bedroom. To his left was a staircase, the railing carved from knotty wood. The hall opened onto the level below and offered up a gorgeous view of a mountain through two-story, floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded what he assumed was the front door.
Where the hell was he?
He heard a sound, like an engine rumbling. It grew closer and closer and then abruptly stopped. A minute or so later, he heard a door open and then close.
Footsteps, heels thudding on hardwood or maybe tile flooring. Someone was walking through the house, heading his way.
Artemis appeared in the entry below. Her silvery hair was twisted into a thick braid, and her golden eyes were darker than usual. She wore a skintight catsuit and leather boots similar to what she wore the night they met, except this outfit was a muted red. And no less sexy.
Memories exploded in his head. Artemis kneeling next to him. He realizing he was about to die. Wishing he’d met her sooner. Regretting that she’d only slept with him because he reminded her of someone else, but not regretting the sex itself. It had been good enough to be justified as the last thing he did before dying.
He’d joked about the ambrosia fields. And she’d snapped that necklace she always wore and had wanted him to drink whatever the hell was in that vial.
For a single, precious moment in time, he’d wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe she was a goddess and could save his life.
Which she apparently had, although he wasn’t fool enough to buy into the idea that ambrosia had done it.
“You’re awake,” she said, pausing in the middle of the room to stare up at him.
“Yep.” He was out of his element, and that made him surly. He needed to understand what was going on, how much time had passed, had anyone else been hurt, where the hell he was. Then he’d relax.
Maybe.
“Are you hungry?”
He was. And thirsty. But first things first. “Where are we?”
“My cabin,” she said and waved at the windows behind her. “On Mount Olympus.”
“The real Mount Olympus?”
Her lips quirked into a small smile. “If you mean the Mount Olympus in Washington State, yes, that one.”
He grasped the railing. “How did I get here? How come I don’t remember?”
“You passed out.”
“How much time has passed?”
“Since you were shot?”
“Yes.”
“Four days.”
Four days? Did his family even know he’d survived the attack? Why had she taken him to Washington instead of taking him to a hospital closer to the station? There was one only a block away, for Christ’s sake.
And how the hell had he recovered so quickly?
