“Well, that’s too bad,” Gabrielle whispered. “But, you know what they say. You can’t always get what you want.”
“I want to know why you left me,” Wentworth said, his hand sliding along the inside her thigh.
“I want to know why you tried to kill me,” Gabrielle said, grabbing his hand, preventing his approach.
“That was a mistake,” he said, raising up, moving away from her.
She was too close, too intoxicating. She was starting to have a mesmerizing affect on him, making him wish and hope and long for all those old fantasies he’d given up, those dreams he’d had no businesses thinking he could ever have in the first place.
He didn’t have time to revisit their history, to rip apart those wounds that had already healed.
If he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to fuck her and start focusing on his assignment, then everything would be fucked up.
“A mistake,” Gabby laughed softly. “It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt more like a knife in my gut.”
“It was business,” Wentworth said, looking away from her, remembering the knife, remembering the way he’d thrust it into her.
“Business. . .?” Gabrielle scoffed.
“Weren’t you the one who told me not to take things so personally?” He asked, standing up, watching her inky silhouette in the dark kitchen, her outline illuminated by the lightning flashing chaotically, seconds before the fierce rumble of thunder.
In an instant, Wentworth sensed her coming at him.
Seconds later, she was slapping him, clawing at his face.
“Sonofabitch!” She hissed, her arms flying wildly. “You left me there to die!”
Wentworth grabbed her wrists, struggling as he tried to control her. “I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t set me up!”


For a moment, Gabrielle stopped fighting to free herself, bitter confusion enveloping her.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You told them I had the money,” Wentworth said, his hands firmly around her wrists.
“I never told them anything,” she said.
“You lying bitch,” he said, the harsh tone revealing a trace of sadness, regret.
“No,” Gabby said. “I promise you – ”
His slap across her face stunned her, causing her to stumble as he grabbed her arm, his fingers piercing her flesh, and slammed her up against a wall.
“I don’t want to hear about your fucking promises,” he told her. “You never keep them.”
“Are you going to hold that against me forever?” she asked him, trying to catch her breath as she moved away from him, keeping her back against the wall.
“I thought I could trust you.”
Lightning brighten the kitchen, and in the those scant seconds, Gabrielle saw, to her right, a set of eight French doors, beyond them outside a refuge of dense flowering shrubs and palm trees.
“I never gave you a reason not to trust me,” Gabrielle said, inching slowly against the wall, her eyes on the French doors.
“How about when you left me,” Wentworth said. “I think that was a good reason not to trust you.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” Gabrielle said, mentally calculating the distance to the doors, trying to determine the best time to flee.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You were getting too close to me,” Gabby told him. “You were starting to fall in love.”
“So were you. . .”
“Not really.”
“You told me you loved me.”
“Well, Wentworth,” Gabby said, poised to run. “I didn’t expect you to believe me.”



Suddenly, Gabrielle was running, her footsteps echoing on the floor as she headed towards the French doors.
And just as sudden, Wentworth was after her. . .
Telling himself that it wasn’t worth it, to just let her go.
Fuck the assignment they’d given him. How the hell could do what they wanted him to do anyway?
He was behind her, his deep breaths mixing with the sound of her frenzied panting.
Telling himself that he couldn’t let her go.
That was his damn problem.
He couldn’t let Gabrielle go. And no matter what he did, what he accomplished, whatever fleeting glimpse of contentment and happiness he managed to obtain, he was always reminded that he didn’t have her, that he couldn’t have her. . .
Unless her caught her. . .
And right now, he had a feeling his chances were good.
Because, she could never outrun him.
He was gaining on her, could feel strands of her hair flying back into his face. . .


Gabrielle grabbed the gold door handles, yanked them, pulled the door open, and –
Wentworth’s arms encircled her from behind.
“Get off me!” she yelled, trying to break his hold as he dragged her away from the doors.
But, she was so damn tired, her muscles aching, her limbs weak.
She was tired of struggling against him. . .and tired of struggling with her feelings for him. Admittedly, she wanted him and she knew how easy it would be to just give in, and give up, and let him make love to her but. . .
She wasn’t stupid.
She had to stay away from him.
“Stop running away from me,” he whispered, his lips against her neck as his hands circled around her waist.
“What are you doing?” She asked, alarmed, her fingers moving over his.
“I want you to stay with me,” he told her.
“No,” she told him, shaking her head. “We don’t belong together. We’re never going to be together again. You have to accept that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he told her, his mouth moving down the side of her neck.
Shuddering in his embrace, Gabrielle fought to keep herself from giving in.
A huge part of her wanted to just fall into his arms.
But, she couldn’t.
And it killed her, knowing that he could never know how much she wanted to be with him.
Nevertheless, she had to be pragmatic.
And she had to protect him.
If she stayed with Wentworth, they would kill him. They didn’t have to promise her that, she knew they would. And they would make her watch.
“And I don’t think you can, either,” Wentworth told her. “I know how you feel about me.”
“You don’t know a damn thing,” she said.
“I know that you still love me.”
“I never loved you,” she said, pulling away, turning to face him.
“Gabrielle. . .”
Deftly, remembering his many secrets, she dropped to her knees, grabbed his ankle, and yanked.
“What the fuck – ”
As he crashed to the floor, Gabrielle pushed his pant leg up, her hands moving over the gun in his leg holster.
Before she could point it at him, he was on top of her again, his hands closing around hers, trying to get the gun away from her.
“Are you going to shoot me with my own gun?” he asked, wrestling with her.
“If that’s the only way I can get away from you, I will,” she told him, her finger caressing the trigger as she fought to hold on to the gun.
“Stop fighting what you feel for me,” he told her.
“You have to get over me,” she told him.
“I already told you I can’t,” he said. “I love you. . .”
“That was your biggest mistake, you never should have - ”
The gunshot was loud, almost deafening. . .