Touchpoint by Shay Lacy

Author:Shay Lacy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, suspense
Publisher: Crimson Romance, an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2013-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

Christian left the North Detroit General Hospital ER with a concussion, a bottle of pain pills, a bad case of nausea, and an even worse case of mortification. He hated looking pathetic in front of Gabrielle. This was a woman he wanted to take to bed and make scream with pleasure. He didn’t want her feeling pity or disgust while he was incapacitated.

The ER doctor had told Christian someone had to wake him every hour, so he’d begged Gabrielle to stay with him. Now she drove the rental car to his condo in Bloomfield Hills. He fought down nausea, hoping to avoid further humiliation. An interminable twenty minutes later they pulled into his driveway. None too soon, as far as he was concerned.

The car was immediately mobbed by reporters.

“Mr. Ziko, what do you feel your chances are for a dismissal?” one shouted.

“Who do you feel is guilty, if not you?” another asked.

“Mr. Ziko, what happened to your head?”

Had he known reporters would be here, he would have let Gabrielle take the samples to Kernfelter and nausea be damned.

She came around the side of the rental car, and to his dismay, helped him out. He hoped he wouldn’t have sexual daydreams about her in front of the press when she took hold of his arm. What he got, besides the sensual jolt of skin on skin, was a feeling of coming home. His skin buzzed with electricity where they touched.

Cameras flashed. The bright light of a camcorder caught his helplessness on film. Shit.

“Are you trying for the sympathy vote?” one caustic voice called.

“Clear a path,” Gabrielle said.

“Who’s she?” a reporter asked.

Damn. Any hope of keeping Gabrielle’s anonymity went out the window. At least she’d removed her name tag. But enterprising reporters would dig until they found out who she was.

“No comment,” he said.

Someone stuck a microphone in his face. “Mr. Ziko, how do you feel about the new subpoenas handed down today?”

“I said, no comment.”

“Murderer!” a male voice yelled from the back of the crowd.

Gabrielle stopped, making Christian grab her as he lurched. Half the reporters thrust microphones in his face, the other half rushed to provide an equal forum for a young man in his early twenties. His brown hair was buzz cut, his T-shirt displayed muscular arms and chest, and his face was red with anger … and hatred.

“Murderer,” the young man repeated with fervor. “You killed my sister Gina. You need to pay for what you did, Ziko.”

What could Christian say to this young man? He knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. But he wasn’t guilty.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

The young man stalked toward Christian in a threatening manner. No one tried to stop him. “She was my only family. You killed her, the same as if you’d shot her.”

“Christian,” Gabrielle said.

“What’s your name?” Christian asked.

The young man stopped and drew himself up straighter.

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