Biting her lip, she held in a cry of panic. There was every chance that the zealot would kill Tyler no matter what, but maybe she could buy Tyler enough time to get the two of them out of here. Right now, it was her best hope. She couldn’t sneak out, even if the squeaky door let her, and leave Tyler to die.

Slowly, she pushed the door open. Predictably, the creaking alerted Primpton to her presence. He whipped his gaze around. The gun followed.

The councilman stood near the back door. Tyler was lodged just in the open doorway, flat on his back, his entire body boneless and lax. Was he passed out? Had Primpton hit him on the head? Drugged him?

Not two feet away, Hunter lay on the floor, blood pooling under a bullet wound in his shoulder. The red puddle seeped across the floor, spreading across the blue T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest.

Fear gripped her throat, choked her. Dear God, she’d always known Primpton was whacked, but a murderer? He’d truly come here to kill, and she was at the top of his hit list.

“There you are, looking as fetching as always. You’re the devil’s own, put on this earth to tempt men to sin. But I must stop you. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve taken my own flesh in hand with thoughts of fornicating with you. For that alone I would punish you. But now . . .”

Blech. The mental image of Primpton masturbating while fantasizing about her nearly made her ill. Wait! Had he been the one to break into her house and ejaculate all over her lingerie?

Likely, but not important now. How many steps to her office? Could she make it and lock the door before he got down the hall? What would he do to Tyler if she tried? What would he do to her if she didn’t?

“Now,” he went on. “You must be stopped before you ruin more good Christian men and destroy their marriages.”

Alyssa eased a step closer to her office, and popped out a hip. Predictably, Primpton’s gaze followed the motion. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms across her chest, plumping up her cleavage. “Meaning?”

“My God-fearing assistant, Randall, has spent so much time here and lusted after you so impurely that his wife has filed for divorce. You led him astray.”

Randall. The one who paid top dollar for the nastiest lap dances every Saturday night, then attended church every Sunday to repent for his sins?

Leaning yet closer to her office, she gave a pouty shake of her head, a moue of disagreement. “God gave these men free choice.”

“You’re the temptation no man can resist. I cannot allow you to keep luring them into sin.” He raised the gun a bit higher.

“You’re just going to shoot me? Here? Now?” She ran a hand up her thigh, lifting her skirt a fraction to show off her red garters.

Primpton choked. “I won’t fornicate with you, whore!”

His erection made it clear that his urges had other ideas, and somehow she had to use that against him.

She dropped one shoulder, and the strap of her tank fell down her arm, revealing her black lacy bra strap and additional cleavage. An instant later, his gaze was fused to it. “I would never ask you to go against your principles. And I’m a married woman now.”

“A sham! I’d stake my life you fornicated with that bouncer of yours and probably this one, too.” He pointed at Hunter.

Primpton was fucking delusional, and she had to get to her damn phone fast. Hunter was losing blood every second.

Alyssa edged closer to her office door under the guise of shifting her legs, sticking one out for his visual feast. It creeped her out to have the psycho leer at her, but she’d done worse in the name of survival.

“You’re flaunting yourself!” he accused.

“I’m standing here while you hold a gun on me and I plead for my life.”

Immediately, he shook his head. “This club needs to end. You must die. These are the missions God has given me. I am his Christian soldier.”

He was going to strike—at any second. Alyssa would have liked the chance to move a bit closer. As it was now, she had to hope he had no ability to sprint and couldn’t hit a moving target.

Behind him, the wind howled and the back door flapped open, crashing against the wall. Primpton whirled to the sound. Using the distraction, Alyssa dashed to her office, running much faster than she ever had on stilettos.

Just before she shut the door and threw the dead bolt home with shaking hands, she heard Primpton yell. “God will damn you, whore, for tricking me. He’ll damn you to hell, and I am the sword by which you will be consigned to burn for eternity.”

With that pronouncement, he shot the doorknob. The handle jiggled, wiggled—something clinked on the other side of the door. Had he dismantled the handle on the other side? Carefully, she approached the door and examined the handle. It hung loose and she could see a crack of light through the hole it left in the door.

Then he shot the dead bolt. She leapt away from the door, her heart thumping erratically. A scratching sound reached her ears next. A scrape, followed by his maniacal laugh. What the hell was the psycho up to?

Before she could begin to figure it out, she heard Primpton’s rapid footsteps as he prowled up and down the hall, heard a faint splashing sound. Liquid?

What the . . . ?

Frowning, oddly terrified with the door separating them, she panted. More of the splashing she’d heard earlier sounded again, this time closer.

Then the smell of gasoline hit—strong—a wave of petrol that burned her nose, her lungs.

“You’ll burn, whore. Right now!” Primpton shouted.

In the next moment, she heard an ominous whoosh, the sound of starting fire. The bastard meant to fry her alive.

Heart kicking into overdrive, she tried to open the dead bolt and escape the room before the licking flames she heard got any higher. It wouldn’t budge. It was jammed. Disabled. Something. How the hell was she going to get out?

Alyssa grabbed the dangling door handle, but the metal was already turning hot, and she yanked her hands away.

She tried not to panic. 911. She’d call them. Her cell phone was on her desk. Hopefully they’d get here in time.

But when she turned to her desk, her phone was no longer there.

ALYSSA woke by degrees, too afraid to open her eyes to the pounding headache crashing between her temples. She was someplace that smelled like rubbing alcohol. Whatever she was wearing twisted around her. The bed—clearly not hers—had scratchy sheets. Every muscle in her body screamed.

She took a deep breath—and immediately started to cough. Her lungs burned as if she’d smoked a whole carton of cigarettes in a day.

Her eyes flashed open in reflex.

“Easy,” Tyler whispered as he reached out to take her hand.

“What . . . ?”

God, was that croak her voice?

“You’re in the emergency room. You’ve been here a few hours.”

She frowned, trying to sort through scattered memories. It was a jumble of panic and haze.

“The baby?” She coughed. Damn, her lungs burned.

“Fine. Doc checked you out right away. You’re fine. Baby is still in there, growing and well.”

Oh, thank God. Relief doused her, and she melted into the bed. “What”—she coughed—“happened?”

“You’re being treated for smoke inhalation. Do you remember Primpton being at Sexy Sirens?”

Then it clicked into place. The club. The gun. Hunter lying in a pool of his blood. The councilman threatening to kill her. The fire.

“Hunter make it?”

“He’s fine. After Primpton knocked me out, Hunter found me passed out in the doorway. He knelt down to see if I was okay, and the bastard shot him from the alley. Superficial shoulder wound. He lost blood, but the paramedics got to him in time. His sister is down the hall fussing over him now.”

She relaxed against the bed, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding; then a new fear gripped her. “The club?”

Please God . . .

“Gone.” He shook his head, regret settling into his expression. “I’m sorry. The fire department tried . . .”

Anguish gushed through her blood, like sizzling acid destroying her veins. Her club, her refuge, the place that represented her broken past and its bridge to her stronger present, no more. All because of one crazy zealot’s delusions.

No, Sexy Sirens wasn’t gone forever. Not if she had anything to say about it.

“You okay?”

He held up both hands, stopping her concern. “Bump on the head. As I opened the door to leave, the asshole hit me on the head with the butt of his gun, knocked me out. After he started the fire, he darted out the back door. I came to and saw Primpton was gone, and Hunter had his eyes open, assessing the sitch. I grabbed my cell, dialed nine-one-one, and handed it to him while I got him on his feet. I went to get you, and the stupid SEAL followed me instead of getting out.”

“The place must have been an inferno by then!” And they’d both stayed to help her?

“Smoldering wood falling from the ceiling everywhere . . . He’d jammed rock into your dead bolt’s casing, but I got it out. I wasn’t leaving without you.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she held out a hand to him. “You’re a wonderful friend to me.”

Pain ripped across his features as he shot her a tight smile. “That’s me, a real pal.”

It had been the wrong thing to say, she realized. He loved her, and she hated in some ways that she couldn’t reciprocate. But she’d given her heart to Luc long ago, probably because she’d known from their first meeting that he was the sort of man who wouldn’t care about a woman because she looked hot. He would fall only once he knew her deep inside.

Was there any chance Luc had actually fallen in love with her? All his concern, his tenderness, constant phone calls, business help, fabulous home-cooked meals, and everything else had to be based on more than the fact she was pregnant, right?

“You’re going to make some girl wildly happy someday,” she murmured to Tyler.

“I wanted it to be you.” His jaw clenched, and he grimaced with pain.

“I’m not the one, but you’ll find her.”

The nurse broke in and checked her vitals, asked her if she needed more pain meds. Alyssa shook her head. All she wanted was out of here.

“Did someone call Luc?” She didn’t want him to worry unnecessarily, especially after the drama of her last “disappearance.”

“Kimber did. He’s on his way back. Should be here in a few hours.”

Of all people to call her husband but his former lover. She winced. And wouldn’t the producers of Luc’s show be thrilled? He’d been back for all of two days . . . “He should have stayed there.”

Tyler’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious? Though I wish he had. At least then I could make the argument that he didn’t give a shit about you.”

Still didn’t mean he’d come back for her. The baby had to be on his mind, too.

“Did the cops catch Primpton?” Alyssa changed the subject. Any more emotional conversation about Luc, and she was likely break down and cry—and reveal just how scared she was that her husband didn’t love her the way she loved him.

At that, Tyler smiled. “Cops nailed him about fifteen minutes after he fled. He was home with his wife, trying to pretend he’d been sleeping the night away. But they found his clothes and shoes with traces of gasoline, along with his gun.” Tyler’s smile died. “Baby, they also found a nook in the back of his closet. It was like . . . a shrine devoted to you. Sick bastard had fantasies of making you his sex slave. He had all kinds of pictures of you.”

Something crossed Tyler’s face that seized her heart. “Pictures?”

He shuddered. “Some he’d clearly Photoshopped so they looked like pictures of you bleeding under his whip, bowing at his feet with hands cuffed.”

Everything inside her recoiled.

“He had pictures of you the night you stripped for the anniversary bash.”

“Pig.”

“He’d written WHORE in red paint all over the walls.”

She shuddered at his delusion and thanked God that he’d been caught. “Guess we know who wrote all those notes and broke into my house. Fucking bastard.”

Tyler nodded. “That’s the police’s theory. Mine, too. They’re going to run forensics.”

A technicality, most likely. Alyssa realized how lucky she’d been. She’d never taken Primpton very seriously, failed to see him for the true whack job he was. Underestimating him could have cost her both her own life and the baby’s. Thank God for Tyler and Hunter.

And now that Primpton was behind bars, maybe she could rest easier, stop looking over one shoulder, lose the fear of being attacked again.

Tyler tapped his foot on the tile floor, and she recognized the gesture as a nervous one. “What?”

“You ought to know . . . He had pictures of you and Luc in your bedroom at the club. It looks like he took them through the alley window.”