here a minute, I’ll tell Steve we’re leaving.”
“No, wait. I can get a cab.”
But he had already gone. Seconds later he was back. Looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she rose to her feet. His fingers slid through hers, the contact unexpected and faintly shocking as he pulled her through the crowd. When they stepped outside, he didn’t relinquish his hold. Instead of heading for the parking garage, he pulled her in the direction of the river. “Let’s walk for a few minutes. I need to clear my head.”
A cold breeze straight off the water sifted through her hair and sent a damp chill sliding over her skin. Mist swirled, curling up and over the bank to lie in drifts across the road, muting the syncopated flash of casino lights.
“Cold?” Seconds later, his leather jacket dropped around her shoulders.
A small shudder at the transition from cold to blazing warmth went through her. The old saying, Someone is walking over my grave, ran through her mind.
She pulled the lapels of the jacket together, both relieved and irrationally disappointed that Bayard was no longer holding her hand. That presupposed that she had wanted him to hold her hand, and there was no way she was going there. She wasn’t big on setting herself up for a fall.
She’d had boyfriends, although no one she had wanted to get too up-close-and-personal with. Her mother worried that she was emotionally cold. Sara had another theory. When it came to men and relationships, she was naturally reserved, but she wasn’t without feelings. She liked the men she dated; she just didn’t love them. The people she did love—the members of her family—she loved fiercely and without reserve. One day she would fall in love and that would be it; she would have chosen her mate. Until that moment happened, if she couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for her dates, she wasn’t going to worry about it.
Bayard slowed, then came to a halt on a small footbridge that led into a picnic area. When she stopped beside him, his long fingers curled into the lapels of the jacket. His dark eyes fastened on hers as he pulled her loosely against him. “If you don’t want this, just say so.”
As his head dipped, her stomach lurched. A kiss: she had not seen that coming.
She stared at his mouth and panic hit. If he kissed her they would cross a line, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go there. As frustrating as her crush on Bayard was, at least it was controllable, and safe. “Did Steve put you up to this?”
A high-pitched scream jerked his head around. He said something short and succinct. “Wait here.”
Two youths—one with long, greasy blond hair, an iron bar held in a two-handed grip, the other shorter, with dark hair, holding a knife—had backed two young women up against a park bench.
Bayard grabbed the one with the iron bar, knocked the bar out of his hand and flung him to the ground. The guy with the knife wheeled, spitting abuse. The two young women scrabbled for their purses, which had fallen to the ground, and ran toward a lighted parking lot.
Sara watched, heart in her mouth, as the knife wove through the air. Another figure darted out of the cover of a clump of trees. Adrenaline pumped, Bayard was easily strong enough to take on two attackers, but not three, and the knife tilted the odds against him.
Without thinking, she darted forward, letting the jacket slide from her shoulders, and grabbed the iron bar. Bayard spun, his gaze locked with hers for a split second. A blow from the blond guy, who had pushed to his feet, caught him on the jaw, rocking his head back. The knife arced and for a dizzying moment time seemed to stop. Emotion roared through her. The iron bar chopped down on the knife-wielding thug’s arm, the shock of the blow numbing her fingers. The bar spun away. Fingers closed in her hair, jerking her sideways. A split second later, her attacker was on the ground. Bayard had laid him out with one well-timed punch.
The short, dark guy had disappeared. The third youth, a carbon copy of the greasy blond, jerked his friend to his feet. Within seconds they had melted into the trees.
Bayard picked up the knife and tossed it into a nearby trash can, his dark eyes glittering. “You should have stayed out of it. You could have been hurt.”
“What I did worked out.” She massaged her scalp, which was stinging. Her head felt weird, throbbing and heavy.
“You are hurt.”
She glanced down, saw the dark stain on her side, and registered that she was bleeding.
Bayard dragged the flimsy silk top up. Reaction shivered through her as he probed the cut across her midriff. Now that she knew it was there, the stinging pain made her eyes water.
“It’s long, but it’s just a scratch. You won’t need stitches, but you’ll probably end up with a scar.” He shrugged out of his shirt, and folded it into a pad. “Is your tetanus shot up to date?”
“I had one last year when I cut my foot swimming in the river.”
The sweet scent of blood filled her nostrils. Bayard’s warmth swamped her as he tied the makeshift bandage around her waist. Her eyes squeezed shut as the pressure in her head tightened another notch.
Icy water flowing. Rank upon rank of dark pines.
Cavanaugh…bandaging the deepest cuts. Then they were moving, skirting tracts of open land that glowed, stark and bare beneath the moon. Cavanaugh babying her along, his arm around her waist—
Not Cavanaugh…Bayard.
Her eyes popped open again. She stared at Bayard, the moment of recognition shocking in its intensity.
Bayard frowned. “Who?”
It registered that she must have said the name, Cavanaugh, out loud. She blinked, shaking off the weird, shifting sense of déjà vu, the clinging tendrils of that dreamworld.
“Damn. Steve said you weren’t dating.”
His hands closed on her hips, his mouth brushed hers, clung, and the memories evaporated in a raw surge of heat.
Sound burst from her throat, smothered and urgent. Her fingers dug into the smooth pliant muscle of his shoulders. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. She could feel the firm shape of his arousal pressing into her belly. One hand gripped her nape, the other cupped her bottom, uncomplicatedly carnal. He hauled her hard against him, and the concept that she was emotionally cold and incapable of feeling passion dissolved in a white-hot flash.
Her arms closed convulsively around his neck. A split second later she was off the ground, her feet dangling, the short skirt pushed up around her hips. A short, sharp shock went through her as she felt Bayard, hot and heavy, between her legs. The constraints of his jeans and her panties aside, if he got any closer they would be making love.
His mouth lifted, sank again, taking her under. She gasped for air, breathing in his heat, his scent. She felt as if she was drowning, dying…
Cold, pure air, burned her lungs. Harsh light bounced off towering peaks. Numbing pain, like a vise crushing her chest.
A detonation, echoing…
Shock spasmed through her. She jerked free, stumbling
