She realized that she hadn’t responded to his earlier comment; she had just been staring at him. “No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Really, I’m fine,” she protested. “Please, I just—” She broke off, aware that a sea of faces seemed to be looking on.
In the distance, she even saw the face of the tarot reader. The woman was watching her gravely, as if she weren’t at all surprised by this turn of events.
For some reason the sight of the woman was disturbing. Jillian felt uneasy again, as if something was wrong but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if the tarot card reader knew something she didn’t.
Something that she should know.
The woman turned away, and Jillian’s uneasiness dissipated. She felt simply and completely like an idiot.
“What?” Marston asked quietly, seeming to sense her unease.
“I just need to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was soft. Raspy. “I could really go for some air.”
A second later, she regretted her words, as Marston lifted her into his arms, striding from the pub. “Excuse us, the lady needs air.”
She wasn’t white anymore. Her cheeks were flushed with mortification.
Outside, she found herself seated on the hood of a silver sports car. She heard Connie’s heels hitting the pavement as she and Joe hurried out to join them, followed by Tip, still in his Carmen Miranda getup.
“Is that better?” Those uncannily dark blue eyes were on hers.
And her hands were on his arms, she realized; she had gripped him to steady herself. She snatched her hands back and grasped for some dignity. “Look, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine now. I just—”
“Had too much to drink?” he suggested.
She straightened in indignation. “I never have too much to drink.”
“No?” A spark of humor touched his eyes.
“I don’t believe your job description includes anything about picking me up from barroom floors, though I do appreciate the concern. However, I really am fine.”
“She does seem to be okay,” Tip said.
Marston turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of the big cop in drag. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you two were together,” he said briefly.
“No, no, they’re not together,” Joe said quickly, explaining. “Tip is a friend of mine.”
Jillian could have knocked him silly. She offered him a scathing glance, but he didn’t notice.
“I think I should get off this car before the owner sues for damages,” she said, starting to move.
“Give yourself another second.”
His hands were on her shoulders. Long fingered, clean, neat, powerful. She glanced down at his touch and felt a strange, warm tremor. Barely remembered. Not welcomed now.
“I’m on someone’s Mercedes.”
“It’s mine,” he said.
Naturally. The Mercedes said everything there was to say about him. Smooth, cool. Sporty but mature. Handsome, powerful, sleek.
“Maybe you should take Jillian home, Mr. Marston,” Connie said, concerned. She looked from one to the other. “We haven’t actually met,” she said to him. “I’m Connie Murphy.”
“Joe’s wife. I know,” Marston said. He smiled and took her hand, and his eyes met Joe’s. “Your husband and I have already worked together.”
“Yes, of course.” Connie looked flushed. It had been one thing for her to tease Jillian about company gossip, but now that she was actually meeting Robert Marston, she seemed a little awed herself. He did make an impression.
Was that why Douglas had brought him in? Connie wondered. She answered her own silent question quickly and defensively. No. Daniel, full of confidence, ability, authority and composure made quite an impression himself. Theo was equally presentable. Eileen was pure elegance and assurance. And Griff…
Griff excelled at being Griff.
“Office meeting over,” Jillian murmured with false cheer. She tried to slide off the car, but Marston stopped her.
She looked at his hand, then met his eyes. “I told you I’m all right.”
“If you won’t go to the hospital, at least let me take you home.”
“I’m fine. Tip can see me home. He may look like Carmen Miranda, but in real life, he’s one of New York’s finest.”
“So you’re a cop. Nice to meet you.”
“Ditto,” Tip told him, as the two men shook hands.
“Did you drive, Tip?” Marston enquired, those dark eyes settling on the cop.
“No, ’fraid not,” Tip told Jillian apologetically.
“I don’t need a ride,” Jillian protested.
“Jillian, you passed out cold,” Connie said.
“Thanks, Connie,” she murmured.
“You might have hurt yourself.”
“But I didn’t!”
“You were leaving, anyway,” Marston reminded her. “So let me take you home.”
“You just got here, so I’m sure you don’t want to leave. Go on in and have a good time.”
“And what would I tell Douglas in the morning?” he asked, a half smile curving his lips.
“That his granddaughter is pigheaded?” Joe supplied.
“Joe…” his wife said warningly.
“I really don’t think that watching me is part of the job,” Jillian began.
“I wouldn’t want to bet on that,” Joe said.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go home with Marston,” she said, aggravated.
“You can call me Robert, Bob, Rob, or even Bobby. Most of the time, when people call me Marston, they put a ‘mister’ in front of it,” he said, his tone conversational but with a slight edge, his dark eyes on her.
She eased off the car, meeting that gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Marston.”
He smiled. An honest smile. She looked away, biting her lip.
“’Night, then,” Connie said.
“Good night.” Jillian hugged Connie, kissed Joe and then Tip on a cheek,
