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was Alex who’d lifted her into his arms. Her secretary was buff beyond a doubt, but not much bigger than she was, a fact that had come into play when, partway across the garden, she’d come around enough to realize Alex seemed taller than usual, and bigger, and that the body she was cradled against went beyond merely buff into the “ripped” or “cut” category.
    But oh, no, that hadn’t been a big enough clue for her. With the fireworks exploding and sparks raining down, with her head breaking and her heart pounding, she’d taken the coward’s way out and clung to the strongest, closest thing she could find.
    She was good at hiding from the truth, and the lion who’d pranced his way down the yellow brick road to Oz had nothing on her in the cowardly department. She’d tried being brave once, thirteen years ago to be exact, and her mother had systematically badgered and argued and screamed and all but beaten the inclination out of her.
    So there it was, the sad truth. Her one chance to build a little character had ended in failure.
    Too bad, because it sure looked like she could use a little character in her current situation. Her party-girl résumé was hardly likely to reassure Christian Hawkins that any sacrifices he’d made on her behalf had been well worth the effort.
    Christian Hawkins. Her gaze went to where he gripped the steering wheel. The back of his hand was broad, powerful looking, the veins prominent beneath his skin—but it was the tattoo that extended just beyond the snow-white cuff of his dress shirt that held her attention, the dark curve of ink, the merest hint of what snaked up his arm and lay beneath the rest of his shirt. No one who had ever seen him naked would ever forget. No one who had seen him naked would ever, ever mistake him for another.
    Christian Hawkins. Oh, God. It took every ounce of strength she had not to just bury her head in her hands and burst into tears.
    H AWKINS looked over at his passenger, and his mouth tightened. She looked like hell, her hair all wild and tangled, her face smudged with dirt and grass stains, and the slit in her little black dress split to halfway up her rib cage. He could see her underwear. One tiny black satin strap arching over the smooth curve of her hip. Unfuckingbelievable. He’d worked through his anger at her years ago. The only thing he felt for her now was complete and utter indifference.
    And yet she was making him sweat.
    Given how much she paid for her clothes, he would have thought they would hold up a little better. But that wasn’t the worst of it. He could handle underwear, even hers—and he resented like hell that he had to specifically notate hers. The worst of it was the look on her face. He knew women, and he knew Bad Luck was on the verge of crying, which was the last thing he needed.
    “I’m taking you to Doc,” he said, keeping his gaze firmly on the street ahead. “He’ll check you over, make sure you don’t have a concussion or anything.”
    Silence met his announcement, a long silence so deep he could almost hear her pulling herself together.
Come on,
he silently encouraged her.
You can do it. Don’t cry on me, Dekker. Not tonight.
    “I—I don’t have a concussion. I have a headache.”
    Good, he thought. She’d done it. Composed herself and saved them both from a messy, emotional scene.
    “I’m sure Doc will have something for it.” Doc had everything, including, at one time, too much gin thinning his blood and a shade too many narcotics fogging his brain, which was why his medical license had been revoked twenty years ago.
    He heard her swear softly, and looking over, saw her lower her head into her hands.
    “Déjà vu.” The words whispered from her mouth on a weary sigh.
    Well, hell. Some things didn’t change, he could have told her, and Doc was one of them. It was true: Thirteen years ago, Doc’s was the first place he’d taken her—though he’d offered the police station as an alternative. The