Zoe rounded the corner, her eyes fixed on the heavy double doors of the ICU at the end of the hall.
She never made it.
A hand shot out from the shadows of an open doorway. Long, elegant fingers wrapped securely around her upper arm, yanking her sideways with terrifying, effortless strength.
Zoe let out a startled squeak as she was pulled out of the brightly lit hallway and plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The heavy door clicked shut behind her, plunging the space into shadow. The sharp, sterile scent of industrial bleach hit her nose, instantly overpowered by the intoxicating, expensive aroma of Tom Ford cologne and leather.
She was in a janitor's supply closet.
And she was firmly pinned against the metal shelving.
A warm, solid body pressed against hers, trapping her between the shelves and the door. The oversized Saint Laurent jacket she was wearing slipped off one shoulder.
"I was literally just about to text you," a low, amused voice purred in the dark.
