Nothing to Fear (7 page)

Leaving his own weapon securely tucked against his kidney, Ethan followed, a sudden surge of adrenaline fueling his legs to run. A young woman in her early thirties lay on the floor next to one of the metal benches. A thin stream of blood trickled from her temple down her cheek, clashing with the rich copper of her short hair.

An old woman wailed while a handful of shocked travelers pointed mutely at the nearest exit. The guard took off in that direction, calling the incident into the police.

“She’s dead, she’s dead,” the old woman sobbed. “He’s killed her and it’s all my fault.”

Ethan dropped to his knees beside the woman, took her wrist, and exhaled in relief when he felt the slow steady throb of her pulse. He’d just pulled his cell phone out to call for help when her eyes flew open. Wide and brown, they flickered with alarmed confusion when she saw him, then the confusion gave way to wary assessment as she searched his eyes, his face. Then, as if she accepted what she saw there, she seemed to simply . . . settle.

And incredibly . . . so did he. Everything inside him, all the turmoil and confusion and the fear . . . it all stilled, focused. It was as if she soothed it all away with a palpable touch, although through the entire exchange she’d never moved a muscle.

Neither had he. Nor had he breathed. He did now as she slowly straightened, one hand coming down to tug at her skirt, drawing his eyes down long, statuesque legs.

“Tell her I’m not dead.” Her voice was soft and husky, like she’d just woken from a deep sleep and the sound dragged his eyes back up her body, up those long dancer’s legs, past curvy hips, generous breasts, back to warm brown eyes that held him. It wasn’t until she started struggling to sit up that awareness of the situation returned like a hammer to his head. She was hurt and he was gaping like an idiot while the old woman continued to wail. “Tell her I’m not dead,” she said again, more insistently. “Please.”

Ethan looked up sharply, found the old woman had come closer and now stood a few feet away, wringing her hands. “She’s not dead. Calm down, ma’am, please.” He looked back down to where she’d struggled up on her elbows and placed one hand on her shoulder. “You need to keep still,” Ethan said quietly. “Where do you hurt?”

She blinked. “Just my head.” Gingerly she touched her temple, grimacing when she saw her fingertips covered in blood. “Damn.”

“I’d say that about sums it up.” Ethan held up two fingers. “How many?”

She blinked again. Her eyes were a little dilated, but not alarmingly so. Once again she met his gaze and steadily held it. And his heart skipped a thump.

“Two,” she said. “Who are you?”

He studied her for a moment. Her color was coming back, her eyes becoming brighter, sharper, more intelligent by the moment. She was attractive, but by no means classically beautiful. She was something . . . more, and he couldn’t seem to make himself look away. The air around her practically vibrated. He could actually feel the blood coursing through his veins. “I’m Ethan. I was a bystander. The guard chased whoever did this out of the building. He’s called the police.”

Something moved in her brown eyes, rapidly elusive. “Wrong place, wrong time,” she murmured, gently pushing his hand from her shoulder and herself to a sitting position. She then gingerly turned her head to where the old woman still stood wringing her hands. “Did he hurt you, ma’am?”

The old woman shook her head. “No. Did he hurt you?”

Unbelievably the woman sitting in front of him smiled. “Not too bad. Just knocked the wind out of me. Did he get your purse?”

“Yes.” The old woman’s lips quivered and Ethan felt a spurt of outrage on her behalf as he realized what had happened. The outrage was followed by disbelief that the redhead had stood in the way of a mugger.

With a frown he looked down at her. “You tried to stop a purse snatcher?”

Mildly she looked up at him. “He had his hands around her throat. I wasn’t terribly worried about her purse until he grabbed it. Do you have a last name, Ethan?”

Ethan sat back on his heels. “Buchanan. And you are?”

“Dana Dupinsky. Do you think you could help me stand up, Mr. Buchanan?”

He opened his mouth to suggest she stay put, then closed it. Already he could tell she was a woman who would do only what she wanted to do. “Give me your hand.”

For just a moment she faltered, her brown eyes flickering uncertainly. But then she squared her shoulders and extended her hand. Before he touched her he knew. Knew it would be more than he expected. Knew that she knew it, too. Then knew he’d been right when he took her hand and felt a jolt that skittered straight down to his toes. His heart skipped another thump.

Wrong place, wrong time, she’d said. Perhaps, perhaps not. But he sure as hell wanted to find out. Placing a steadying hand on her back, he pulled her to her feet, feeling her muscles tense under his hand as she found her balance, watching as her eyes changed yet again. Heated. Narrowed. She felt it, too, the electricity between them, and he could see she was not at all happy about it. And that intrigued him more than anything else.

Was she attached? Deliberately he lifted her left hand, dropped his eyes to her bare fingers. She was unmarried, at least. And if she did have a boyfriend, he had to be a real louse to let her come to the bus station alone. If she were mine, I wouldn’t. He looked up with arched brows and her brown eyes flashed, as if she’d read his mind.

Politely but firmly she disengaged her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Buchanan. I appreciate your help, but as you can see, I’m fine. I won’t take up any more of your time.” She turned to the old woman and put an arm around her thin shoulders. “You need to sit down,” she said and led her to an unoccupied row of seats. “How’s your heart? Are you on any medication? Are you waiting for someone?”

Ethan followed, concerned, but even more curious. He heard the old woman say her heart was as strong as Dana’s and that she was waiting for her grandson to come.

“Did you have anything valuable in your purse?” Dana asked her.

“I don’t carry anything valuable anymore. The world’s filled with too many crazies.” She patted Dana’s hand, so much calmer now. “I just hate that awful man knocked you down.”

“Well, I’m fine, so don’t you worry.” She stood up and Ethan watched her close her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them he could see the pain brewing. “The security guard will be back soon, ma’am. I hope he gets your purse back.”

“Thank you.” The old woman caught Ethan’s eye. “Your Good Samaritan is waiting.”

Dana’s eyes glanced his way, then back down to the old woman. “I really have to go.” She took one of the woman’s gnarled old hands in hers. “Take care.” Then she made a beeline for the exit and Ethan had to quicken his pace to keep up with her.

With a hand on her arm, he stopped her at the door. “Maybe you should stay put for just a few more minutes, Miss Dupinsky.”

Again her brown eyes flashed. “Are you a doctor, Mr. Buchanan?”

“No.”

“A lawyer?”

“God, no.”

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good. We’ve established that you have no medical or legal basis for your opinion. What I am is tired and now I have a headache. What I could use is a place to clean up and some coffee to wash down an aspirin or two.”

“I passed a coffeehouse on my way in here.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after six now, they should be open.”

“I know the place. They’re open twenty-four/seven, so I’ll be on my way and you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before you became a bystander.”

She was dismissing him, politely but firmly. Trouble was, he wasn’t in the mood to be dismissed. Somehow he’d pushed his fatigue back and his headache had ebbed enough for him to want to see where this chance encounter led if only for the next hour. Then he’d have to get some sleep so he could be back here looking at videos by noon. He was here to find Alec. But pragmatically speaking, he had to eat. And while he ate, he could decide what he wanted to do next about this woman who set his skin on fire with a simple touch. “I’d finished my business here for now. I was just leaving when I heard you scream.”

“That wasn’t me.” It seemed a point of pride. “It was her.” Then her eyes softened and his heart took a slow roll in his chest. “Thank you for helping me, Mr. Buchanan. Not many strangers would take the time to be a Good Samaritan these days.”

“You did. So did I.” He paused, let the simple statement sink in before adding, “My next stop was going to be to get breakfast at that very coffee shop.”

She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “I don’t mean to be rude, but while I really do appreciate your help, I’m not interested in any relationships. I don’t want to lead you on.”

Ethan felt some sympathy for the women who’d approached him over recent months. If he was a fraction as dismissive as Dana was, he’d probably hurt quite a few female egos. His might have been bruised as well if he hadn’t seen that she’d been as affected by that brief physical contact as he. “I didn’t ask you to marry me, Miss Dupinsky.” Her eyes widened at his bluntness and he shrugged. “At this moment all I want to do is to eat breakfast and make sure you don’t have a concussion. If I can do both at the same time, that’s a good use of my time.”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t have a concussion,” she said tightly.

“Are you a doctor?” he asked, injecting mild humor into his voice.

She opened her eyes and regarded him levelly. “No. I’m not.”

“Then how do you know you don’t? Are you hungry?” he added before she could come back with another put-off.

She huffed a very tired, almost mirthless chuckle. “I could eat.”

“Then when the security guard gets back, we’ll go have some breakfast.”

Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 6:15 A.M.

Dana closed the coffee shop’s bathroom door and leaned back against the painted plywood. Her head hurt, a dull throbbing pain, but she was lucky.

She’d been standing in the shadows waiting for the woman who was supposed to have come Thursday night, about ready to go home. It had been risky to venture out alone when Mia had told her to be careful, but she wouldn’t have told the woman not to come even if she had known how to contact her, which she did not. She’d considered calling David, but in the end decided against it. The women she met distrusted men. Even a gentle man like David Hunter would send them running away.

So she’d gone herself and stood there, nervous at every noise, carefully watching every face, waiting. She’d turned to leave when she saw the young man approach the old woman, a crazed light in his eyes with which she was unfortunately too familiar. Her own ex had come home that way all too often, a junkie, desperate for his next fix. He’d put his hands on the old woman’s throat, and Dana had simply reacted. It hadn’t been intelligent or particularly well planned and the next thing she knew she was sailing through the air, crashing her head into the bench. Dammit, it hurt like a bitch, too.

She’d lain there, trying to get her bearings, listening to the old woman’s wails, when she felt the warmth of a big body kneeling beside her. And then she’d found herself looking up into a pair of steady green eyes. Not the brilliant green of jade or emerald, but the soft green of new leaves after a long winter. And everything inside her, all the turmoil of Evie and Lillian and even the old woman . . . all of it calmed. It didn’t disappear, but it was suddenly manageable. In that one moment, she wasn’t alone.

And then he’d held her hand and suddenly, unexpectedly, everything inside her turned upside down. Even now, it still was. Even now, her heart still thundered in her chest, her skin still almost painfully sensitized. She could try to tell herself it was the shock of being knocked down, but Dana Dupinsky didn’t lie. At least not to herself.

She made her way to the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Blood was crusted in her hair, on her face, smeared on her plain polo shirt. A bruise had formed on her cheek where she’d taken the brunt of the fall. The bruise would fade in a day or two. I’ve had worse, she thought. And she had. Still, she’d been lucky.

Hands shaking, she turned on the water, splashed her face. Grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at the blood on her face until she’d uncovered the cut. It was worse than she’d thought. She probably needed stitches. Buchanan had been right.

Buchanan. He was out there, with his steady green eyes and gentle hands. Waiting for her at one of the tables. She didn’t believe for a moment that he’d given up and left. And to her own consternation, she wasn’t certain she wanted him to. No, she couldn’t lie and pretend nothing happened when he’d taken her hand. She’d felt it. Hell, she would have had to have been dead not to. It was as if a current had passed through her body, strong and very real. It certainly wasn’t something that happened to her every day.

It certainly wasn’t something that had happened to her, ever.

So she’d agreed to breakfast. Then she’d walk away and he could return to whatever business had put him in the Chicago bus station before dawn. She couldn’t lie and pretend she wasn’t the smallest bit curious about that as well. Why had he been in the bus station at five-thirty in the morning? Why did his suit look like it had been slept in while his eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days? And why had he taken the time to be a Good Samaritan? There was only one way to find out.

The coffee shop was starting to fill up when she slipped back into the dining room, but it took only a second to locate him. He would be the golden giant of a man politely rising to his feet by the table against the wall. Watching patiently as she came to him.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d done so before. It was the same feeling she’d had looking up at him from the bus terminal floor. Like she’d known him forever.

He didn’t sit when she reached him, but instead gently grasped her chin and pulled her closer, tilting her head toward the light. Giving her a close-up view of the strong, tanned column of his throat. The loosened knot of his tie. The hint of golden hair at his open collar. She couldn’t control the shiver that raced down her back. His chest expanded suddenly as he drew a deep breath. “You need stitches,” he pronounced. Huskily.