A Stranger She Can Trust. Regan Black

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СКАЧАТЬ Maybe in this new season he could make Grant’s order work and break the cycle of grief plaguing him.

      Glancing up, he searched out the brighter stars in the sky, trying to recall the constellations his dad had taught him. Maybe he should pull out the telescope and set it up. It would be one positive way to pass the dark, lonely hours. “Be in the present,” he said aloud, coaching himself. “Let go and start living.”

      The advice didn’t bring an immediate result, so he tried again. Repetition didn’t ease the pain or offer any surge of hope. He supposed it was wishful and absurd to think a deep breath and a few new words would offer instant relief.

      He turned around at the sound of an engine, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of headlights as a big car pulled to a stop at the side of the club. He saw a typical white city taxicab with a familiar logo on the back door. Then a slender woman pushed it open and got out, stumbling a little.

      “Hey!” The driver jumped out, as well. “You owe me money, lady.”

      “I...” The woman frowned at her empty hands. “I don’t have money.” She wobbled, looking around. “Where—”

      “Wait right there!” The cabbie rushed around the car to confront her, and the woman cried out as she tried to get away.

      Sensing trouble, Carson dashed forward as the woman tripped and started to fall. He caught her, willing his knee to hold up for both of them. “Back off,” he warned the cabbie.

      “She owes me the fare.”

      “I’ll cover it.” Carson eased the woman down to sit on a discarded pallet. Despite the shadows, he could tell she wasn’t well. Drunk or stoned, the visible fresh scrapes and bruises on her face and arms implied someone had taken a few swipes at her recently. “What happened to her?”

      “How the hell do I know? She got in the car that way.”

      Carson looked at the woman. “Is that true?” She only stared up at him, then shied away from the cabbie. “Bring me her purse,” he said to the driver.

      “No purse.” The driver gestured at the empty backseat. “Just her.”

      “Where did you pick her up?”

      “Near the Penn campus,” the cabbie answered, and then asked for the fare again.

      That wasn’t much help beyond the basic geography. There were a number of reasons for a woman who appeared to be in her midtwenties to be near the University of Pennsylvania campus. Carson reached for his wallet. He handed over enough cash to cover the fare and a tip and sent the cabbie away. When they were alone, he picked up the subtle hitch in her breathing above the muted noises from their surroundings and the occasional raised voices from patrons dawdling in the parking lot.

      “Can you stand?”

      She stared at him blankly. She had abrasions on her knees and hands, and her left eye was nearly swollen shut. “Escape?”

      “Yeah, you made it,” he replied. Pretty clear she was one of the people who sought out the secondary purpose of the club—asking Grant for help out of tight or sticky situations. “What’s your name?”

      “Alex-Alexander?” She managed to squeeze out the name through a raspy voice. Laboring, she raised her closed fist toward his hand. When he opened his palm, she dropped a crushed matchbook into it.

      Carson stared at the Escape Club logo for a moment, then flipped open the cover. Seeing the name Alexander scrawled on the inside, he pocketed the matchbook. Grant trained all of them to respond swiftly and without question if anyone showed up and asked for Alexander. Carson berated himself for making her wait this long. Her appearance was enough to prove she was in trouble, with or without the matchbook and code name. “Come on.” He reached out a hand to help her up, and she stared at him.

      “Escape,” she repeated.

      “Yes.” His throat felt raw just listening to her laboring over each word. “You’re safe now.” He needed better light and supplies to administer first aid, which he suspected was the least of her worries. “Come with me.” Grant would know what to do. Carson had to get her inside the building before the staff left for the night.

      He knelt down on his good knee, putting him at eye level with her. Her good eye was glassy, and without his penlight, he couldn’t be sure her pupil was properly responsive. She might be high right now, but he didn’t see any typical signs of habitual use on her arms. He resisted making more assumptions. Only the right tools would give him an accurate assessment. “Let’s go inside to see Alexander. You can trust me.”

      He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. He helped her stand, but she wobbled with her first step. Exasperated, he scooped her into his arms. Her arms came around his neck automatically, and her head dropped to his shoulder as he carried her the short distance to the back door.

      He could feel the toned muscles of her legs under the thin fabric of her skirt. He’d helped his share of addicts on the job, and the safe bet was she wasn’t one. Relieved no one caught him struggling with both her and the door, he called for help once they were inside.

      Grant appeared in the hallway first, followed by other members of the staff.

      “She asked for Alexander,” Carson said, though it was pretty obvious. “A cab just dropped her off.”

      “My office,” Grant said, taking in the details with that penetrating gaze. “Bring us the first aid kit, a blanket and bottled water,” he called out to others.

      Carson made it down the hall without dropping the woman. She wasn’t heavy. He situated her in one chair and pulled the second around to face her. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, taking a pulse while he waited for the first aid kit to arrive.

      She squinted against the brighter light in the office, but she didn’t fight him while he evaluated her. Every physical indication was she’d been in a fight with someone bigger and stronger than herself.

      Her sluggish responses to his questions bothered him. When the first aid kit arrived, he pulled on gloves and took a closer look at her noticeable injuries. The swollen eye was nasty and the color was going to be vivid, but he didn’t think there was a fracture. He used a penlight to test her pupils, being cautious as he manipulated the swollen eye. Both pupils responded but were almost as listless as her speech. With her dark hair and eyes, excellent bone structure and warm golden skin, she’d be lovely under healthy circumstances. There was additional swelling along her jaw, there were bruises on her neck and her wide mouth would be lopsided for at least a day or two. He struggled against a sudden, familiar rush of anger at whoever had used her for a punching bag. Despite answering numerous domestic violence calls, he’d never become immune to the results.

      “Who hit you?” he asked.

      She tried to shake her head, but he had her face trapped in his hands as he gently prodded again at the black eye.

      “Easy. Just take your time,” he said.

      “I don’t know.”

      He’d expected that answer. Victims rarely outed an abuser at the first opportunity. He reached for antiseptic to clean the split skin above her eyebrow. “Where were you before you got into the cab?”

      Her СКАЧАТЬ