In my Arms Tonight (NYC Singles Book 2) (6 page)

The ambulance ride to the hospital was supposed to be short, but it had been ten minutes and they were still not there.

“How much longer?” Kat asked the driver, projecting her voice over the wailing siren.

“Not much,” the driver assured.

Kat’s nose twitched. ‘Not much’ was an imprecise quantity. It could mean anything from one minute to twenty minutes. What she wanted was a number, so she could count it in her head while trying to forget that she was sitting in an ambulance with Alex Summer after having been almost raped on the subway.

Shuddering at the thought, she curled her toes. Forgetting about it would be best.

Alex was quiet, trying to keep his gaze away from her, which was hard to do, when they were sitting in such a small space.

What he’d done for her had been really brave. He deserved a medal for it, in her opinion.

When she was feeling less irritable, she’d thank him. But right now, the only thing she wanted to do was cuss. Loudly.

Her head, shoulder, legs hurt like they were being plucked away from her body, piece by piece, with forceps. The gun had scratched her head, and the cut was bleeding.

But the worst was her shoulder. Definitely broken. Ugh. Yep, definitely.

Kat pushed her legs forward so her hip could get closer to the back of the seat, but her heel ended up tapping Alex’s foot.

“You okay?” Alex turned to her.

“Surviving.” Kat groaned.

His gaze dangled on her, casually, but she felt a powerful pull from their midnight depths. “What’s your name again?”

She’d seen Alex so many times before, in photos, videos, even live, but never up close.

None of the approximations lived up to him.

From a distance, he was charismatic, handsome, even magnetic, but up close he was impossible to take her eyes off.

He had an interesting face, not photogenic, but very rough and macho, which was an unusual facial structure for a politician. There were a few lines on his forehead, an indication of his age, and a gritty stubble lined his jaw.

His head was smooth and clean shaven, which served to highlight his chiseled cheekbones and chin.

But his most striking feature was his unadulterated masculinity. The usual lineup of conservative suits, shirts and trousers he opted for tried hard to disguise it, but his maleness was so powerful, so potent, nothing could cage it. When he looked into her, there was no mistaking who he was. What he was.

“Kat Cullen.” She spouted a delayed answer, not letting her befuddlement show.

“I’m Alex.” He held out his hand for a handshake. Some calmness he had, to be able to retain his social graces at a time like this.

“I know who you are. I’m a staff writer at the
New York Times
. Politics.”

The transposition of his expression from genial to cold was quick. Reporters and politicians didn’t share the coziest of relationships.

“Oh, a reporter.” That ‘oh’ was derisive. His gaze tilted down, roaming over the gray vinyl seat, away from her.

“Don’t sound so worried, Mr. Summer. I’m off work right now.”

“It’s Alex, not Mr. Summer.” No warmth. “I’m sorry for what happened on the subway. What I did was reckless, stupid, dangerous. Frankly, I don’t know why I did it. Look, I’m not telling you how to do your job, but I would appreciate it if you’d keep what happened out of the papers. The primaries are round the corner and… I don’t usually take risks like these.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re a politician. Risk is a word that doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.” She hadn’t intended to be snarky, but she was so accustomed to being tough with politicians, she couldn’t hold herself back.

He was amused by that comment. “Politicians take a lot of risks, Ms. Cullen.”

“Oh, yeah? Like promising to build twenty thousand units of affordable housing without having a plausible way of funding it?” she scoffed, referring to one of the ideas from the policy book that Alex’s campaign had complied and distributed, where he’d discussed his proposed policies regarding crime, housing, jobs, etc.

“It’ll be funded by increasing property taxes on high-value property,” he said.

That was the wooliest answer she’d ever heard.

“You’re going to build affordable housing by making housing more unaffordable? New York already has ridiculously high property tax rates. Increasing property tax any further will make you unpopular. And how are you going to get the State Capitol to agree to this when governor Cuomo just announced that he is planning to cut taxes?” she asked.

“Can we argue about this later?” Tired, he averted his face.

Letting him wriggle his way out of answering this one was not an option. She was too fired up.

“Why not now? It’s not like we’re doing anything except sitting around.” She crossed one leg over the other.

His charcoal eyes focused on her, annoyance flaring in them. “Please don’t be pushy, Kat. I’m exhausted.”

Please
. There was something undeniably sexy about a man who used ‘please’ even when he was visibly vexed.

“Journalists are pushy people, Mr. Summer,” she retorted.

“So are politicians.” He curved his lips. “If I have to get Albany on board for the tax reform, I will, no matter how aggressive I have to be. You should know that during my time as a congressman, I’ve helped push more than a few unpopular bills through the House of Representatives.”

Kat couldn’t argue on that point. It was true. But it infuriated her so much to let him have the last word that she flung a barb at him just to be even.

“Glib and evasive. Spoken like a true politician.” Scorn dripped from her words.

“You don’t like our lot, I assume.” Alex wasn’t offended.

“I’m in a bad mood at the moment. So I don’t like anyone.”

“Are you any less combative when you’re in a good mood?” He tapped two fingers under his chin. “Just curious.”

Kat folded the arm that was not hurt over her chest. “No, but I never let somebody else have the last word.”

“Then I’m glad that you’re in a bad mood today.”

He eased back into a less alert posture, and the expression on his face said that he wanted to avoid any further conversation.

That plan worked, until the driver braked suddenly.

“Ouch!” Her shoulder reeled forward, but Alex stabilized her, wrapping her back with one arm and her front with the other.

Surrounded by his body, Kat felt an odd sense of being protected. No, what was she thinking? She had come a long way from wanting to be protected by a man.

“Sorry, a pothole in the road.” The driver turned back to see if they were okay.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Kat yelled, scrunching her eyelids and balling her fists so she could bear the stinging storm tearing her muscles. Alex’s hand inadvertently hit the part of her shoulder that was the epicenter of pain when the tires bumped over a pothole again.

Her stomach clenched. Having his hand touching her sorest spot hurt like hell.

“I’m sorry.” Alex pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” The driver looked back to check on her.

“Would I be going to the hospital if I was all right?” she shot, her sharp tongue undamaged by the agony corroding the rest of her body.

Alex touched his handkerchief to her forehead, pressing slightly. “The wound on your head’s started bleeding again.”

Kat grimaced, one more spark of pain electrifying her shoulder. “Sonovabitch,” she cursed, wondering when she had become the kind of immature person who swore for pain relief.

Three minutes ago
, her inner voice supplied, precise as ever.

Alex sighed. He probably thought her words were intended for him.

“You’re welcome,” he said, not taking it too hard.

Despite everything going on around her and inside her, Kat found herself admiring his easy-going attitude. It took a lot to be so calm under these unreal circumstances. But he was holding up. Holding up and holding her up, like a leader would.

If he only scratched that tax reform from his agenda, she would vote for him.

“Are you always this nice to women who swear at you?” Kat made a serious effort to turn down her volume and asperity.

His lips turned up. “Not always, no. But I have a soft spot for reporters who call me sonovabitch.” The gaze pinned on her didn’t drift.

“That insult wasn’t intended for you, by the way. It was intended for my collarbone. You saved me, so I’ll stop at one insult.”

“That’s generous.” Alex cleared his throat, then like quicksilver, his expression metamorphosed into a serious one.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that cursing is really helping me stay on top of this…” Kat panted when the driver turned, and she spotted another painful bump coming her way. “Fuckwit whoremuffin asshat, you freakin’ son of a hamster!”

This time, her shoulder hit the back of the seat because Alex did nothing to protect her.

“That’s one I’ve never heard before,” he coughed out, when she paused to take a breath.

Kat pulled an embarrassed laugh. She had the tendency to say all the wrong things when she was in pain. It was her defense mechanism. Talking kept her mind off things.

Circling her toe on the ground she said, “You definitely didn’t sign up for this when you saved me, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” Alex shook his head, not looking happy at all.

“You know, today’s just not my day. Since morning, I’ve been hopping from one disaster to the other…” He was still listening. If it was her, she’d have told herself to shut up by now. “But meeting you has definitely been the best thing about my day. I mean it. You’ve been so wonderful.”

Alex frowned. “You talk a lot.”

“I do, but generally a lower proportion of my sentences consist of cursing,” she said. “But like I told you, today is not my day.”

“Not mine, either.” The lines around his lips deepened.

“Tell me about it. Misery loves company.”

He dropped a heavy sigh. “There was a problem at one of the campaign offices in the morning. Then, at the forum this evening, well...”

“That whole living wages thing, right?” Then, because he looked a bit confused, she explained, “I was there, too.”

He visibly cringed. “Great.”

“I think, in the scheme of things, it wasn’t so immature.”

He didn’t buy it. “I’ve been in politics long enough to recognize a sugarcoated lie, darling, so don’t pull that on me,” he said, then before she could say something, the ambulance stopped.

This time, he did shield her body so the impact of the car grinding to a halt didn’t do damage. Kat didn’t even like him, but having her cheek pressed against his chest made her tingle.

“Presbyterian Hospital,” the driver called over and the doors burst open.

Getting out first, Alex coiled his arm around her waist. Kat’s stomach fluttered.

“Thank you,” Kat mouthed, reasoning she’d react that way to any man. It had nothing to do with how solid his big palm was, or the way his scent enveloped her and put her at ease, or how she was a mere inch from having that sexy stubble scratch her forehead.

No, it was none of those things. He was a man; she was a woman. It was only that. Straightforward biology.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“My legs are fine.” She tottered with one arm on his shoulder and wanting to kill the other one. At least that way, the agony would go.

He didn’t reply. His hold around her waist tightened and heat shot between her thighs
. It’s the summer breeze
.

At the ER, she was told that neither she, not Alex, qualified as emergency patients because they didn’t have any life-threatening issue. She was in so much pain and her shoulder was red, bruised and really bad, but her case was not an emergency? What sorts of standards did hospitals have these days?

Irritated, Kat huffed and made her way to the reception to get herself some treatment.

“I hate the healthcare system,” she mumbled to Alex, standing in line.

“Who doesn’t?” he echoed.

In the early hours of the morning, she’d have expected there to be less people, but there were five patients ahead of her. The line moved fast though, and it was her turn soon.

“Ma’am, can I see your health insurance coverage proof?” the receptionist demanded, disinterest dragging her voice low.

As Kat confidently reached for her
Cigna
card, proud that she was foresighted enough to carry it around all the time, she realized she didn’t have her bag. Anger and disappointment crashed into her. All her self-pride drowned.

Hell. She’d been so out of her mind due to the rapist that she’d left her bag at the station. The implications of that caught up quickly. No bag meant no phone, no money, no story for tomorrow’s paper and, most importantly, no proof of health insurance.

She whipped around—at the cost of another traumatic slash of pain to her shoulder—but it was for nothing.