The man who’d thrown down for her looked around, and she tried to ignore what he was seeing: the kicked-off, scratched-up stilettos, the torn miniskirt hanging from the bench, the towels strewn here and there, the pair of thigh-highs draped on the edge of the lighted mirror, the bags on the floor.

Given how amazing his black pin-striped suit was, this kind of cheap chaos was clearly not what he was used to.

“Please sit,” she said.

The man’s gray eyes came to rest on her. He was about eight inches taller than she was, and the width of his shoulders was easily two of her. But she wasn’t uncomfortable around him. And she wasn’t scared.

Man, his cologne was delicious.

“Are you okay,” he said again.

Not a question, but a quiet demand. As if he wasn’t going to let her do anything about the shape his face was in until he was certain she wasn’t hurt.

Marie-Terese blinked. “I’m…fine.”

“What about your arm? He locked on pretty damn hard.”

Marie-Terese tugged up the sleeve of the fleece she’d put on. “See…?”

He leaned in and his palm was warm as it wrapped around her wrist. Warm and gentle. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Not…owning.

Kind.

Abruptly, she heard that college kid’s voice in her head: You are not a woman.

The nasty crack had been said to be cruel and to wound, and it had…but mostly because it had become what she felt about herself. Not a woman. Not…anything. Just empty.

Marie-Terese pulled her arm away from the man’s touch and tugged the sleeve back in place. She couldn’t handle his compassion. In some weird way, it was harder to bear than the insult.

“You’re going to have a bruise,” he said softly.

What was she doing? Oh…right. Washcloth. Clean him up. “Sit down here. I’ll be right back.”

Going into the shower room, she took a white towel from a stack by the sinks, grabbed a small bowl, and got some hot water running. As she waited for the stream to warm up, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide and a little crazy, but not because of the pair who’d been so grossly inappropriate and disrespectful. It was the ass kicker with the gentle hands sitting on the stool outside…the one who looked like an attorney, but fought like Oscar De La Hoya.

When she came back to the makeup counter, she was a little calmer. At least until she met his eyes. He was staring at her as if absorbing what she looked like into his body, and what made her uncomfortable was not how he regarded her, but how she felt as he did.

Not quite so empty.

“Have you seen yourself?” she asked, just to say something.