CHAPTER TWO

Experience was screaming at her to make a break for it.

Reality had different ideas.

Her back stung from the knife wound, and Remy was pretty sure the fall she'd taken from the second-story window of the Henryk mansion had sprained her wrist. Somewhere on the back of her left thigh she felt the tickle of blood seeping from another injury, while her clothing hid other scrapes and bruises, all courtesy of trying to get the fuck out of Dodge before Kirsten and her brute squad managed to make a blow stick. If this Nathan had any sandbag serum, at least she'd be able to stop the bleeding long enough to start healing. She wouldn't get far if she was leaving a trail of blood-crumbs behind her.

Which led to the absolutely cracked idea that she could, in any way, be in Los Angeles. How the hell was it possible to get all the way across the country in seconds? The answer was easy.

It wasn't.

She stole a glance at the man walking at her side. Though hidden by the dark shadow of stubble, his jaw was tense, lips thin from how tightly he held his mouth. A raw power emanated with every movement, from the controlled swing of his arm to the sure stride of his step, and while his anger inside the warehouse had been real, the grim silence surrounding him now was worse. She knew how to deal with dogfights; dealing was how she'd lived her whole life, after all. Strong and silent left her floundering.

There would be no more fighting for her right now, though. She had felt the taut, lean muscles of his arms when he'd pinned her to the wall. This Nathan might like his guns, but he had helped her down the stairs as if she weighed nothing. If she was forced into hand-to-hand, Remy had no doubt she would end up the loser.

Her gaze flickered over him again, this time lingering on his long legs and slim hips. The jeans he wore looked heavy, the denim thick and unwieldy compared to what she was familiar with, but the old-fashioned detailing made it work anyway. Sweat and dust from his scuffles at the warehouse molded them to his body, leaving very little to her very active imagination. She licked her lips. Maybe she wasn't up to a fight, but anything else was fair game.

He walked with purpose, leading her down a block and around a corner before stepping off the curb and popping the trunk of a parked car. Remy came to an abrupt halt, eyes going wide at the sight of the classic Mustang. She had never seen one on the streets before. This one even had an exhaust pipe, which meant he'd stuck with the original gas engine. No government tags on the retro plate, though. She bit back a smile. Someone obviously didn't care about ridiculous bureaucracy. One more reason to follow her gut and trust this guy.

"This is yours?"

Nathan didn't look up as he put his gun in the trunk and reached for a ratty old blanket. "I've got the title to prove it." He thrust the blanket into her arms. "Sit on that. I don't want blood all over my car."

Her eyes were still fixed to the Mustang's sleek lines as she walked to the passenger door. Maybe he'd inherited it or something. A car like this had to cost a fortune, and she had this guy pegged as some kind of PI or cop or something. No way could he pony up for it on his own.

It took staring at the old-fashioned handle for a few seconds to figure out how to open it. By the time she did, Nathan was already behind the wheel, fingers tapping impatiently as he waited for her to get in.

"Not bad, Nate." The grin she'd tried to contain on the sidewalk escaped when she saw the vintage radio. Unable to resist, Remy reached to fiddle with the dials, watching the indicator slide back and forth behind the tiny numbers in amused fascination. "Not bad at all."

He worked the old-fashioned stick, shifting the car into first gear. "Nathan. My name is Nathan."

Remy smiled. His English accent, which was already dead sexy, thickened when he was annoyed.

She saw him look at the radio as she pushed through static and fuzzy stations playing what sounded like mariachi bands, but he didn't say anything about it. And you can see Rilo Kiley on August 18th as KROQ's special guest. Just call 1-800 ... The DJ's voice blasted in the car.

"Turn that down," Nathan muttered, reaching for the dial.

Remy let him adjust the volume on the radio, turning it until the DJ's voice was barely audible. There was no point in arguing; she'd never been a fan of oldies anyway.

It gave her the perfect opportunity to satisfy her need to know. "So what kind of work do you do that lets you have a car like this?"

Pulling onto the deserted street, he glanced at her with what appeared to be confusion mingled with curiosity. "What do you a mean, a car like this?"

His question made her pause. Nathan had struck her as intelligent, but if he didn't know what his car was worth, maybe she needed to re-evaluate her initial assessment. "It's a classic. And it looks like aces. You'd never see anything like this on the streets back in DC."

"I'd hardly call this a classic, Remy. I picked her up for a few grand and slapped a new coat of paint on her. She doesn't look too bad though, does she?" The question was asked with just a hint of a smile.

Her fingers stroked the smooth surface of the dash. "She looks amazing." No reason to wonder about his street smarts. If he negotiated a car like this for just a few thousand, there was nothing wrong with his brain.

"So where's your place?"

Nathan didn't answer until he eased onto the abandoned freeway. "Glendale. It's only a few more miles. This time of night, it won't be more than ten minutes." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "How is your back? Are you still bleeding?"

Gingerly, Remy peeled off her gloves before leaning forward to slip a hand beneath her shirt. Her fingers came away sticky, but the blood felt too cool to be fresh. "Looks like it's slowing down."

She looked around for some kind of wipe-ee or tissue to use to clean her fingers off. Nothing was obvious, but just as she was about to swipe them across her already-ruined pants, Nathan spoke up.

"There are some napkins in the glove box. A few of them probably aren't covered in ketchup."

Glove box. It took her a moment to realize what he was referring to, and she leaned forward to examine the round knob. Taking a risk, she twisted it and was pleased when it popped open, revealing a dark compartment crammed full of papers and junk. Something small and rectangular tumbled to the floor, but she was too absorbed by the other contents to pay much attention to it. There were napkins right on top, while underneath was what looked like the original owner's manual for the Mustang and a small square piece of stiff paper with facts about Nathan and the car typed across it. But he didn't actually have any gloves in it.

Thoughtfully, she grabbed a napkin and closed the compartment. Maybe Nathan was a historian of some sort, or one of those people who did re-enactments for a price. It would explain the obsessive detail.

"Who got you?"

Wiping the blood off her fingers, she settled back into her seat, looking out her window to watch the lights of the city streak past in candy-colored stripes. His obvious concern knocked her for a loop. The last time anybody had asked about her health and meant it was before Kirsten's strike at the safe house. Remy didn't want--or need--to be reminded she was all on her own. Not right now. There were too many other problems to consider first.

Like how in hell she was going to tell a guy she didn't know from jack that the woman who had sliced her back open was a cop.

The silence stretched before she finally said, "There was a fight. I tried to run, and this bitch who's been after me didn't like that idea."

Nathan didn't reply for several seconds. She risked a glance at him, but he was staring straight ahead. The car slowed and drifted to the right, the next exit looming. They rolled down the ramp, and he pulled into the parking area of a brightly lit shop. Its illuminated sign showed a red numeral "7" with the word "eleven," in green, superimposed across it.

"And then you fell through a hole in the time-space continuum and ended up on the other side of the country?" he asked dryly, pulling the keys from the ignition. "I'm going to get some food. Are you hungry?"

The shift in attitude left her gawping at him. Where the hell was the sarcasm coming from? But his face was unreadable, eyes dark pools shadowed from the brilliance of the nearby storefront.

Nathan repeated the question, enunciating clearly as if he was speaking to a child.

Something inside her snapped. "I'm not bleeding out my ears. I heard you the first time."

Nathan sighed, looking at her before saying, "Fine, I'll just grab you some chips or something." He opened the door and made it two steps away before pausing and circling back. Opening the passenger door, he announced, "You're coming in, too. I don't know you well enough to trust you with my car."

Finally, a response she understood. Climbing out, Remy followed him into the store, her stomach rumbling at the scent of the warming hot dogs.

When he glanced at her with a raised brow, his mouth curving into an amused smile, she flushed in embarrassment. "Maybe I am a little hungry."

Nathan went to a drink dispenser and filled a huge plastic cup with "Big Gulp" emblazoned on it with liquid. He didn't seem interested in what she was doing, but she knew he was listening to every step she took, keeping track of her as she moved through the small store. Once he had his drink, he grabbed some packaged sandwiches from the nearby cooler, as well as a few flat boxes marked with an Italian name and "pizza" and two cylindrical containers that said "Ben and Jerry's."

"Grab something if you want it," he threw over his shoulder as he headed for the counter. When she didn't react, he paused and added, "What are you gawking at?"

Remy barely heard his question. Her attention had been riveted by a newspaper stand next to the cooler. Ignoring headlines about strife in the Middle East and sports scores she focused on the way air from the overhead vents made the edges of the newspapers flutter in their minute breeze.

Who in the world still printed the news?

As if hypnotized, she skimmed a fingertip across the bold type, glancing down afterward to see a faint black smudge on her skin where she'd touched it. Nobody used paper any more; it had been outdated for decades. So why was there rack after rack of them? Supposedly, California was one of the most eco-conscious states in the country.

That was when she noticed the tiny date emblazoned under the masthead.

That can't be right.

Followed almost instantly by...

What the fuck did I fall into this time?

Nathan dumped his food on the counter and turned back to her. "What? What are you looking at?" he asked, annoyed.

When she didn't look up, he walked over to her and took her elbow. The door chimed as a new customer arrived, and Nathan pulled on her arm, but she didn't move. He tried again, but she smacked his hand away, her attention never shifting from the newspapers.

Nathan grabbed her, his grip tighter this time, and pulled her against him. "Look," he said under his breath, "you're going to start attracting attention. Your back is covered in blood and you look like you're on something. I don't want to deal with the police and I'm sure you don't. So get your ass in gear."

Her heart was already hammering inside her chest, but the hot stream of his words along her neck made her skin stipple in goose bumps. Letting him drag her back to the front of the store, Remy noticed for the first time the costs of the items he had picked up, how he pulled cash from his worn leather wallet to pay for everything instead of offering a debit card. A small box of rolled horoscopes near the register proclaimed the same year that had been on the papers, and the stereo perched on a shelf behind the aging cashier had a cassette deck in the middle of its display. A cassette deck. She had only ever seen one of those in the movies.

She still hadn't said a word by the time they stepped back out into the cool night air, but when Nathan tried to lead her to the car, Remy yanked herself away from his grasp to go fumbling into her back pocket.

The tiny piece of plastic she extracted was wet with blood that had seeped from her wound. Wiping away a smudge in the corner, she felt the air rush from her lungs as she stared at the date, achingly familiar, decades away from what the papers and rags inside had declared. It was the year she had been born.

2058.

If she believed the headlines, she wouldn't even exist for another fifty years.

How was that possible?

The sound of the slamming door startled Remy into lifting her head. Nathan stuck his hand out the window and waved. "I'm leaving now."

As if to emphasize his words, the Mustang's powerful engine flared to life. She took a stumbling step forward, but that wasn't fast enough for Nathan. The car rolled beside her, and he leaned over the passenger seat to push the door open. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Get in the car."

As soon as she was seated, Remy thrust her ID into his face. "Tell me what that says." A note of panic crept into her voice, but she couldn't hold it back any longer. "Tell me I'm not losing my fucking mind."

Nathan plucked the ID from her fingers and held it up to the light. "Remy Capra. Classification: C. Date of birth..." He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "What is this? A fake ID?" He snorted. "You should get your money back."

She snatched it back. Her fingers were trembling. "It's not fake. It's..."

But she didn't know what it was. The situation, that is. It wasn't possible for her to be sitting in front of an Eleven-7 store with a guy fifty years before she had even been born.

On the other side of the country.

Fuck. What the hell did I grab?

Her hand plunged back into her pockets, pulling out the coins she had stolen from the Henryk collection. Under the orange lights of the convenience store, they gleamed back at her, silver and gold reminders of the life she'd ran away from. She had no idea what any of them were; Remy only knew they were valuable and Kirsten Henryk protected them as fiercely as she fought. Kirsten's paranoia had been the only reason Remy needed to take them. Even now, though, they offered no clue as to their purpose, not even a date to prove she wasn't crazy.

But they were real. As real as the newspapers inside. And somehow, some way, they had helped her escape.

She glanced over at Nathan. He was still regarding her with the same intense gaze he'd leveled at her earlier, waiting for some kind of explanation. What was she supposed to say? He was going to think she was crazy, no matter how she painted it.

Then it dawned on her. She was free. This was her chance to get away from her old existence and start over. There would be no cops coming after her, no psycho bitches who saw everything in only black or white. There wouldn't be family, but hell, Kirsten had slaughtered that possibility when she attacked the safe house. For Remy, this was the break of a lifetime.

She smoothed her composure, shedding the crippling anxiety for the swagger she was more accustomed to wearing. "Are we just going to sit here all night?" She sounded normal again. Thank god.

"No, my ice cream is melting," he said under his breath as he eased off the brake and rolled out of the parking lot.

At the next red light, he spared a glance at her. "Fake ID. Precious coins. Maybe I was right about your desire to avoid the cops, huh?"

Remy refused to back down. "I seem to remember hearing somebody tell me to get my ass in gear because he didn't want to deal with the cops, either." As she slipped the coins back into her pocket, it occurred to her she couldn't afford to lose the lone ally she had just yet. Nathan could still tow her off to the funny farm if he wanted. "So ... are we good?"

"I didn't want to deal with the cops because I am armed and you are injured, and they'd draw certain conclusions." The streets darkened as they made their way further from the freeway and deeper into the city, winding down side streets and rolling through empty intersections without stopping. "Yeah, we're good. Your ID is almost cartoonish, which makes me think you're no criminal mastermind. And what do I care about a handful of coins?"

He turned into a gated driveway, except the gate was broken and all the lights were dark.

He led her up a sidewalk path to a narrow set of concrete stairs. Walking honed her attention back on her injuries, but while it took every ounce of her strength, Remy made it to the second floor without stumbling. She even refrained from leaning against the wall when he paused to unlock a door. It wouldn't last long, though. Her back was starting to spasm and her wrist to ache. Remy hoped he wouldn't waste any time in getting her fixed up.

Nathan turned on the small apartment's single overhead lamp and gestured towards the vintage couch--the only piece of furniture in the room. There was a small clunky monitor on a stand in the corner, but she didn't see a keyboard near it; maybe it was rolled up out of sight. A bookshelf dominated the wall, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Antique books, the sort she used to read in the detention center's library, lined the top three shelves. Glossy-covered magazines were stacked haphazardly on the next shelf, and her fingers itched to touch them, to see if they were as smooth as they looked. Beneath that were rows of thin, multi-colored boxes. They were too small to be more books. She supposed they could have been computer software of some sort, but they were larger than most computers, even the cheap ones. The other walls were bare, the floor uncluttered, and the kitchen counter empty of everything except what could have been a microwave, except it was enormous. A short hallway led to what must be the bathroom and bedroom, and he disappeared into the dark corridor after telling her to make herself comfortable.

When he returned, he carried a small plastic box, white with a red cross on the top, a large white T-shirt, and a bottle labeled "hydrogen peroxide." Noticing she still stood in the middle of the room, Nathan nodded towards the couch again. "Lay down and take off your shirt."

Remy gave him her best smirk. "Kind of hard to get the shirt off once I'm already down." Grabbing the hem, she whipped it over her head, ignoring the painful twinges in her back. It left her in cargoes, boots, and a tiny black bra barely covering her nipples. By the time she tossed the shirt aside, Nathan's eyes were no longer on her face.

She took her time crossing to the couch, enjoying the heavy weight of his gaze on her body. This was better. A known situation. Remy had had to spend too much of her life using her looks as a weapon not to know when a man found her attractive.

She sat down and bent down to take off her boots, making sure to display her breasts to their very full advantage. As she stretched out on her stomach, Nathan detoured into the kitchen for a bowl of hot water. Kneeling beside the couch when he returned, he set to work, gently wiping the blood from her skin. His fingers were light and skilled, as though he regularly cleaned and bandaged injured damsels in distress. But occasionally, his hands strayed, brushing against skin she knew couldn't be injured or stained with blood.

He paused long enough to drench a cotton ball with the hydrogen peroxide. "This might sting a little." He touched the edge of the injury lightly, then rubbed it across the length of the cut without further warning.

"A little" was an understatement. With a sharp hiss of breath, Remy buried her face in the pillow she'd grabbed, steeling herself against the deliberate swabs across the wound. To his credit, Nathan worked quickly. By the time she was starting to relax again, he was done.

She lifted her head and met his concerned gaze. The brilliance of his blue eyes made her mouth go dry, and for a second, she forgot what she was going to say. All that seemed to compute was, God, he's gorgeous.

Nathan nodded before leaning over to blow across her burning skin. Goose bumps erupted across her back, and the base of her spine tingled. If Nathan noticed her reaction, he didn't give any indication as he placed folded pieces of gauze over the cut.

"I think you're going to survive. But it was touch and go there for awhile."

Again, he worked efficiently to bandage her, but she felt his fingers drifting, his skin rough against her smooth back.

"Do you have any clotters to stop the bleeding?"

"No. I've got some painkillers."

His careful tone and the slight draw of his brows told Remy what might be street common in her time wasn't quite as universal now. She made a mental note. No blood clotters. That meant being a little more cautious than she would normally.

"Painkillers are great."

"Where else are you hurt?"

"My leg's been bleeding since the warehouse. But since that means taking off my pants..."

She stopped, rolling onto her side to face him. Truth be told, she was ready to strip out of the rest of her clothes right then. His fingertips had scalded everywhere they'd touched, and her pussy was slick and ready, clenching every few seconds in anticipation of being fucked. But Remy Capra had never had to ask a man for sex and she sure as hell wasn't going to start now, even when that man looked like Nathan. If he ignored her innuendo, she'd have her answer. Maybe it was even better if he did. But if he didn't...

She swallowed, wetting her dry throat, and waited for his response.

Hesitating for only a moment, Nathan looked at her with unwavering dark eyes before nodding. His gaze was drawn to her hands as she unzipped her cargoes to reveal the black outline of her briefs on her smooth, white thighs. He hooked his fingers around the waistband, pulling the stiff cloth down to her knees, his knuckles skimming over her skin. His impassive mask had slipped a bit, and now unmistakable hunger marked his face.

"Turn on your stomach." Once she was facing the ugly green of the couch again, he began washing the blood away from the scrape. "It's not that bad," he added, his words even. "You're missing a bit of skin, but it'll be fine."

His fingertips danced across her thigh, first one side, then the other. Every fiery contact went straight to her pussy, but not once did he stray from attending her wounds. Remy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from clenching muscles he would be able to see. If he could play it cool, so could she.

"So..." She glanced back over her shoulder to look at him, her hair slipping away to expose bare skin. "...You never told me what it is you do."

"I'm a bounty hunter."

In spite of the heat pouring off his fingers, everything inside Remy froze. A bounty hunter. Someone who didn't give a shit one way or another about anybody but himself. Someone who took money to go after people like her.

Someone Kirsten could buy without blinking an eye.

She almost fell off the couch as she scrambled for her clothes, her pants slipping through her suddenly clumsy fingers as she tried to put as much distance between her and Nathan as possible. "I can't believe I fucking fell for it," she muttered, trying to find the bottom of her shirt in order to get it back on.

Nathan grabbed her wrist before she could get far, but he didn't pull himself to his feet. His firm grip didn't give her a lot of options, but she still struggled to pull away. "Fell for what? Is this about those coins? I already told you I don't really care."

It was on the tip of her tongue to make a retort about how she was sure a wad of cash might change his mind about that, but Remy stopped herself in time. The less he knew about her, the safer she was from getting turned in. And the truth of the matter was, he already knew she was on the run. If he wanted to use that to his advantage, he'd had plenty of chances long before bringing her to his apartment.

Plus, Kirsten wasn't here. If Remy really had traveled back in time like she thought, there was nobody alive who cared one way or another about her.

Her gaze flickered to the strong fingers gripping her wrist. Maybe Nathan didn't care, but he wasn't indifferent to her either. He was tending to her injuries. He'd insisted on taking care of them.

And he was still holding her.

"If you don't care, then why are you helping me?"

Nathan tilted his head, regarding her with clear eyes for a long beat before he finally answered. "Because you needed my help."

His direct response took her by surprise, and her mouth twitched in amusement. "Your Mustang's not exactly white."

Nathan shrugged. "Neither's my hat. But I couldn't have left you alone in that district. Tian might not have been interested, but Cesar would have started circling like any predator smelling blood. Speaking of blood." He looked pointedly at her thigh. "Are you going to let me finish?"

Remy glanced down at the cut only half-cleaned off and tossed her clothes aside. Stretching back onto the couch, she propped her upper body up on her elbows as soon as Nathan let her go in order to watch him work. "You've got good hands."

He glanced at her briefly, something like a smile in his eyes, before diverting his attention back to her leg. "Thanks. I've had years of practice."

The antiseptic stung just as much on her leg as it had on her back, but Remy refused to look away this time, too absorbed in the strong sculpture of his face and the almost caressing dance of his fingers to break the spell. "Guess that means I'm holding aces then. I don't suppose you take personal requests?"

The corner of his mouth lifted as he tossed the cotton ball aside. "It depends." He dug through the white box for more bandages and a small, yellow tube. "There is a basic standard of service I aspire to, but I do aim to please."

"Maybe you should tell me what to expect then," Remy dared. "'Cause the rate you're going, a girl could think she could spend the night if she wanted."

"Do you want to spend the night?"

She decided to be honest. "I don't have anyplace else to go."

Nathan spread a clear gel over the cut and reached for a bandage. "You know, that's actually not the worst excuse a girl has used to stay at my place."

"Should've known a guy like you would have 'em lined up around the block. Which means I'm even luckier for falling into your lap like this." It was impossible to resist a quick glance at his crotch, and her mouth went dry at the clear outline of his cock. "A very nice lap."

Nathan snorted. "I wouldn't say lining up around the block. In fact..." He stopped, offered her a quick smile, and refocused on his task. "But you are welcome to stay tonight. Maybe after some sleep, we'll be able to figure out what the hell is going on."

"Thanks." It was a relief to have one less thing to worry about. And maybe the light of day would reveal everything to be either a figment of her imagination or give her new perspective on this whole time travel business. She waited until he'd reverted his attention back to the last of the bandages before adding, "Something tells me I'm either not going to sleep much, or I'm going to have the dreams of the century. One of the two."

"For what it's worth, I doubt I'll be getting much sleep myself," Nathan muttered.

He pressed the last piece of tape down along the edge of the bandage, his fingers straying to the bordering skin. Remy suppressed the shiver his touch elicited, but hiding her soft gasp was unavoidable.

"Is it tender?" He asked, not pulling his fingers away.

She swallowed. "That's one word for it."

Nathan lingered for another moment before breaking the contact. "They weren't too deep. You should feel better in the morning." The words sounded forced, like it was taking some great effort for him to speak.

Without the excuse of first aid, she felt more than a little exposed lying on the couch in front of him. Normally, she had no problem with her sexuality, but he'd done nothing more than remain friendly with her, maybe flirt a little back when she'd deliberately baited him. He was being a gentleman, and no matter how attracted she was to Nathan, she wasn't entirely sure what she was supposed to do with that.

"What about you?" Swinging her legs over, she sat up on the edge of the couch, reaching out at the same time to swipe her thumb across a cut on his temple. "You're not the only one with a bedside manner, you know."

Nathan touched his forehead and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm fine, thank you." After a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward and cupped her cheek. He brushed his thumb across her mouth before dropping his head and touching her lips with his.

Her face had been flamed ever since Nathan's first touch, but now, the mere contact of his fingers left her scorched, all the air sucked from her lungs as he surprised her with the kiss. It wasn't hungry, and it wasn't aggressive, and he didn't even part his lips to pursue deepening the caress. But it still charged through her like a jolt of electricity, his hot breath washing over her cheek as his mouth worked along hers. It still left rampant images of how his sweaty body would feel against hers, how long and hard he would be and how pliantly she could mold around him. It still brought a whimper to the back of her throat.

The moment she reached to satisfy even one of her racing wants, though, Nathan pulled away. His breathing was ragged, his pupils blown with desire, and Remy was transfixed by the sight of his tongue finally darting out to lick across his lower lip, as if chasing the taste of her.

"You win. Your bedside manner is definitely better than mine."

Nathan backed away from the couch and gestured towards the plastic bag. "You can help yourself, if you're hungry. Get some rest." Each word carried him further away, until he was nearly out of the room entirely.

Her mouth slanted into a soft smile before she leaned over to retrieve the T-shirt he'd left for her to sleep in. "I think that might actually happen now. Thanks. Again." By the time she'd pulled the shirt over her head, he was gone.

CHAPTER THREE

Nathan awkwardly stripped off his clothes, desperate to get out of the tight, sweat-soaked pants. His mind was a mess of incoherent thoughts and vivid images of Remy's nearly naked, ready, willing, body, and he could still taste her soft lips, still smell her sweat, her hair.

Nathan stepped into the shower, welcoming the hot frenzy of water against his skin. He basked under the spray for a moment before reaching for the soap with shaking hands, working up a desperate lather before allowing the bar to slip from his fingers to the floor. Nathan ran his hands over his chest, the back of his neck, his arms, and his thighs before finally wrapping his slick fingers around his erection, with a sigh of mingled relief and regret.

What was he doing jacking off in the shower? What the fuck was he doing? She wanted him. She wanted him, and he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just kiss her. Nathan moaned. What was keeping him in the bathroom when every cell in his body was calling for hers?

From the first good look he had of her, Nathan had been attracted to Remy. No, before that. He wanted her as soon as he pushed her against the wall and pressed his body against hers. In his defense, he imagined a dead, blind, gay man would be physically attracted to her. Even when she had her episode in the gas station and insisted her fake identification was real. So, she was a little weird. Maybe a little insane. Nathan didn't know. All he knew was that the heat of her skin had made his head spin, and when he kissed her ... he just wanted to taste her again.

Fuck. When had a girl affected him like this? Ever? He had barely touched her; yet, the arousal was something bone deep and excruciating and sweet and very heady. The sort of agony that both needed to end and be pleasantly prolonged. Remy would be good. He knew it.

But she was probably crazy. Delusional. And her insanity was contagious because he was not the sort to pick up strange girls, bring them home, and kiss them like a nervous teen on his prom date. And he wasn't the type to leave the girl and jack off in the shower.

Nathan pushed those thoughts out of his mind. They were important thoughts he should consider very carefully. In the morning. Right now, the only thing he wanted to consider was the friction of her body moving against his, her soft, soft lips against his mouth, against his skin.

Why am I in here? Why aren't I out there? Why aren't I inside her right now?

Fair questions, all. The answer was not simple. So, she was crazy? So what. Weird? Not a problem. Violent tendencies? He'd ignore them. But she was confused, and for a moment, she had been frightened of him. If he left the shower right now and went to her still wet, still hard, she wouldn't turn him down. But he didn't know if she wanted him, or if she wanted to thank him, or if she wanted to placate him, or bribe him. Or rob and kill him, which he was obliged to accept as a possibility.

Still, Nathan knew how she'd fit around him, how she'd wrap her body around his. He sensed something primal about her, something a little feral. He imagined her shouting his name, imagined her tight muscles clenching around him, her pulse pounding against his lips as he pressed his mouth to her neck.

Nathan even felt her come against his body, pulsating heat around his shaft. The vivid image, so intense he couldn't help but wonder if it had already happened, that pushed him over the edge. The orgasm rushed through him, something bittersweet. It was enough to take the edge off, but she was still mostly naked on his couch, and he was still hard for her.

Sighing, he rested his head against the cool tile and let the water pound against his back. At least he could think now. Did she have any idea how much, possibly misplaced, self-control it took for him to walk away from her? Did she even care?

Even if she wasn't injured, she could still be crazy.

What the hell am I going to do?

He'd start by finishing his shower. Nathan soaped his body and hair, his mind far from his task. First, he would need to figure out just who this girl was. That should be easy enough if she wasn't giving him a fake name. Next, he would have to find out where she belonged and who was chasing her. Letting her crash on his couch indefinitely was not an option. Finally, he might have to drag her to the hospital against her wishes, because if he couldn't figure out who she was, where she belonged, or who she was running from, then she could be somebody else's responsibility.

Nathan rinsed the soap from his body, watching the suds as they fell from his skin and swirled down the drain.

Remy wasn't even his biggest problem.

Tian had escaped again, but not unscathed. The knife had done serious damage to his shoulder, and he would want a bit of revenge. An eye for an eye, that's how it always worked. And Tian wasn't some punk off the streets. He had fifty grand on his head, and with this most recent failure, the reward would almost certainly go up in an effort to attract every bounty hunter on the west coast.

Nathan resisted putting his fist into the wall as a new, sharp anger sparked. He almost didn't care about the money--though he needed it very much. He just wanted to bring that fucker in.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, feeling refreshed. The air was momentarily cool against his wet skin, and the grit had been washed from his eyes. Slinging a towel around his hips, he stepped out of the bathroom and listened in the darkness for Remy. Her breathing sounded deep and even.

Nathan knew he shouldn't see her right then, but if she was asleep, how much damage could it do? He crept over to the couch, not making even a whisper of sound. Light from the neighbor's back porch filtered through the blinds and fell across her sleeping face. She was stretched out in his T-shirt, a blanket draped over her breasts, and another pillowing her head.

Nathan swallowed hard. She looked so soft, so inviting, but he suspected she knew how to be hard, unbendable. Despite her confusion and injuries, she didn't seem vulnerable. She had the look of a hunted animal--but one clever enough to outwit its predator.

Who are you?

He watched her for another moment before bending to scoop up her discarded pants. Once again, he was struck by the oddness of the material, but he didn't linger on that. He rifled through the pockets, ignoring the coins in favor of her fake card. He thought the card might tell him more about the creator than the girl sleeping on his couch, but it could still be useful for Isaac. If anybody could figure out who this stranger was, it would be him. And it was Nathan's good luck that Isaac never slept. He padded back to the bathroom and fished his cell from his pocket. Isaac's number was at the top of his address book.

It picked up on the first ring. In the background, a slamming door cut off the low hum of the police station, and then there was only quiet until a baritone came over the line. "McGuire."

"Isaac, it's me. I've got bad news and a favor to ask. Which do you want first?"

A stream of low curses whispered under Isaac's breath. Nathan pictured him running his hand over his closely shorn hair. "The day I've been having, make it the bad first. Unless your favor means I have to do some ass kissing, in which case, the order doesn't fucking matter."

Nathan sighed inwardly. Of course, he'd caught Isaac at a bad time. But then, maybe the possible wild-goose chase would raise his spirits. "Bad it is. Tian got away. But," he added before Isaac interrupted him, "That's not the bad part. Apparently, he's armed with grenades now. And he's not shy about using them."

"Where the hell did he get grenades? I thought we cut Cesar off at the knees when we locked up the Vasquez brothers."

"How should I know? You're the detective, you tell me. But if you check out the warehouse on Center and 10th in Culver City, you'll see the evidence for yourself." Nathan slapped his palm against his knee. "I almost had him, Isaac. He was mine."

"Well, I'm sure you'll get him next time. You're not the best for nothing." Though the words were meant to be reassuring, the tone was not. The creaking leather of Isaac's chair came over the line as he got more comfortable. "What happened? Did you lose him because of the grenade?"

"No." How to explain the next part without sounding like the crazy one in the story? "There was a girl. She, well, she came out of nowhere. At first, I thought she was an accomplice, but I didn't recognize her name. In fact, that's the favor."

"You want me to tell you who she is?"

"And if she has a history of violence or psychotic behavior." He held the card up to the light, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "The name on her identification, which was probably fake, is Remy Capra. Date of birth is March 15." He paused, staring at the unexpected numbers. "I don't know the year."

He heard Isaac scribbling down the information. "Anything else you can give me? Age, stats, something actually helpful?"

Nathan searched his memory for any details he could recover from the strange night. "She claims she's from DC. Mid-twenties, perhaps. Brown hair, dark eyes, maybe five and a half feet. She's the sort of girl you'd remember seeing."

"Pretty, huh?" He was tapping away at his computer; Isaac was one of the few cops Nathan knew who didn't have to hunt and peck. "Just give me a sec. If she's with Tian, she'll come through here pretty quick."

"I don't think she is. I hope she's not." He trusted his gut on this one. Despite the initial suspicion, it seemed her arrival was just a remarkable coincidence, not a conspiracy. "I think somebody is after her, but she wouldn't give me any details, or let me take her to the hospital."

Silence filled the line. Nathan patiently waited for the question he knew was coming.

"So ... where is she now, Nathan?"

He hesitated a moment before answering. "On my couch."

"Are you out of your mind?" The sudden switch in his friend's tone had Nathan rubbing at his eyes, wishing he had avoided this entire line of questioning. "You're not even sure if she's not psychotic, and you're putting her up on your couch? Since when did you start thinking with your dick instead of your brain?"

"If I were thinking with my dick, she wouldn't be on my couch, now would she?" Nathan considered explaining his heroic and noble sacrifice, but decided that wouldn't make Isaac feel better about the situation. "What was I supposed to do? Leave her bleeding in the warehouse?"

"Well, no." He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just been a hell of a day. I know you wouldn't do anything so stupid if she was a real threat." Chuckling, he added, "I mean, it's not like you fucked her, right?"

"Right. Anything come up yet?"

"No, not yet. There are Capras in DC, but none matching your girl's description. Hang on. If she's running, there might be something in missing persons." More beeping from the computer. "Nope. That comes up clean, too. Huh. You sure on the name? If her ID's fake, the name might be, too."

"I can't be sure about the name. Do me a favor and keep an eye out for anything matching her description." Nathan paused for a moment before explaining, "Her ID looks all wrong, of course, but the year of birth was 2058. Shoddy work."

"Probably some new game cooked up by the college kids. See how bad they can make their ID's before someone notices and they get busted. You wouldn't believe some of the shit they've been trying to pull." Isaac's chair groaned under his weight again. "The only thing I can tell you for sure is she's not part of Tian's gang. Unless it's a dye job and she's not a brunette. He was banging this blonde named Josie a few months back. Think it could be her?"

Nathan snorted. "No, Josie is sucking cock for money in TJ." Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his damp hair. "I'll let you go. But I'll be sure to keep you posted on any new developments with my mystery girl."

"Thanks, but ... your mystery girl? Just how pretty are we talking here?"

"She's an eleven."

Isaac whistled. "She would have to be. I don't think I've seen you notice anybody with breasts since before we broke up Parker's gang."

Nathan winced. The mention, or thought, of Parker was enough to make bile rise in his throat. Shuffling over to the bathroom, he pulled the chalky antacid tablets from the medicine cabinet. "Yeah, it's been awhile. Hopefully this one doesn't plan to kill me."

"Crazy never strikes twice in the same place," Isaac assured. When he next spoke, his voice had grown contemplative. He was shifting out of cop mode and into his friend shoes. "You want me to come over and check her out? I'm going off-duty anyway, and if there's one person's judgment I trust more than yours, it's mine. I could even get her set up someplace else if you want. Get her off your couch."

He knew, based on the still present ache in his groin, he should accept Isaac's offer. But he also knew Remy would react poorly to the presence of a cop, even if he assured her Isaac wasn't a threat to her. Nathan didn't know why, but the thought of her panicking and fleeing was not an appealing one. "I appreciate it, but not tonight. Maybe if she's still around tomorrow."

"Well, offer's there. And if something comes up on my end, I'll let you know." He paused. "Just be careful. Brains, not dick, okay?"

"Right. Thanks." Nathan disconnected the phone, placing it on the charger. "Brains, not dick," he muttered, stretching out on the bed. "Easy as that. No problem." He stared at the ceiling, considering the wisdom of the simple statement. It was the best advice he had ever heard. He pushed the towel away, running his palm over his shaft before gripping it lightly. Brains, not dick. Right.

It felt like she'd been dragged tits first through an electric socket. Kirsten decided then and there the first thing she would do when she got back home was give her father a piece of her mind. Easy, my ass.

The coin had, however, worked as he had said it would. Pushing up from the rough concrete, Kirsten stretched the kinks out of her still-humming muscles, scanning her surroundings at the same time. The smell of rotting garbage coated the air, making her nose wrinkle in disgust. A green-and-red sign glowed against a night sky lightened with the orangey illumination of lamps on tall poles. Heavy dumpsters overflowed in wait of garbage day. It was some type of uninviting store. Kirsten wondered why in hell Remy would want to go to it.

Her hard-heeled boots clicked against the concrete as she rounded the corner of the building. The darkness sucked away the red taillights of a vintage Mustang as it pulled from the lot, but other than that, the place was deserted except for another old-fashioned car. Her head swiveled toward the brightly-lit store. Through the windows, she spotted an older woman behind the cash register and some customers milling around, but none of them looked like Remy Capra. That didn't matter. Kirsten knew the coin wouldn't have brought her here without a reason.

Inside the door, the bright lights made her hesitate, her eyes adjusting to the difference in illumination. The mirror over the counter showed a tall, willowy woman, eyes a pale blue, skin like porcelain. Kirsten grimaced, self-consciously lifting a hand to smooth down her short blond hair. She looked like hell. That was something else to complain about once she got home again.

When Kirsten didn't move from the entrance, the cashier offered a tight smile. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, her voice high and wavering with age.

"Actually, yeah." Adopting her friendliest smile, Kirsten walked up to the counter and leaned against it, bringing her down to the shorter woman's level. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. She said to meet her here, but..." She glanced back, making sure Remy wasn't lurking in a corner she hadn't seen from outside. "...I think I might have missed her."

"What does she look like?"

"My age. Ish. Long dark hair, brown eyes. About five-five and a hun--" She stopped. Friends didn't give weights out when looking for each other; that was a cop thing. "Curvy. But still in shape. She likes to wear clothes to show off her ... assets."

The cashier frowned. "Well, there was a girl in here like that a couple minutes ago. But I don't think it's your friend."

Kirsten tried to hold back her excitement. Maybe she could end this once and for all right now. "Why not?"

"She was with some British guy. They took off in an old Mustang." The cashier patted her hand, as if consoling her. "But, honey, if she's your friend, get her into a program and away from that boyfriend of hers. I'd bet my youngest grandkid she's strung out on something, and I'm pretty sure he's beating her up, too. She had blood all over her clothes."

Though she made noises of disappointment, inwardly, Kirsten was rejoicing. It was Remy, no doubt about it. Just before the bitch had crashed out the gallery's window, Kirsten had sliced her with her best blade. It had been the ultimate in satisfaction until Remy vanished right before her eyes.

Somehow, she'd found an ally already, though it was hardly surprising her new friend was male. Remy knew what her strengths were; she would exploit them to get what she wanted. Chumping a guy into helping was the sort of stunt she would pull.

Thanking the cashier, Kirsten left the store, then stood in the cool night air, debating what to do next. British guy in an old Mustang.

Even out of her element, she knew that one was easy.

Even better, it would lead her straight to Remy Capra.