Marie-Terese went back to work, wiping off his face, working her way down his cheek to his mouth. “Most people are okay. And management looks out for us. I’ve never been hurt.”

“Are you…a dancer?”

For a moment, she entertained a fantasy where she told him that all she did was hang out in one of those cages, showing off some moves, being nothing but eye candy. She could guess what he would do. He’d take a deep breath of relief and start relating to her as if she were just any other woman who’d caught his eye. No complications, no implications, nothing but some flirting between two people that might lead to bed.

Her silence made him take a breath, and it wasn’t the oh-good kind. As he exhaled, the muscles that ran up his neck tightened into stark cords, like he had to fight back a wince.

This was the thing: She was never again going to have a normal get-to-know-you with a man. She had a dark secret, the kind that you had to gauge how many dates could pass before you had to reveal it—otherwise you were a liar by omission.

“How bad are your hands?” she said to fill the void.

When he held them out, she inspected his knuckles. The right ones were bruised and bleeding, and as she put the washcloth to use on them, she asked, “Do you come to the rescue of women a lot?”

“No, I really don’t. You’re missing an earring, by the way.”

She touched her lobe. “Yeah, I know. I meant to put another pair on today. But…”

“I’m Vin, by the way.” He put his palm out and waited. “Nice to meet you.”

Under other circumstances, she would have smiled at him. Ten years and a lifetime ago, she would have had to smile as she put her palm in his and they shook. Now, she just felt sadness.

“Nice to meet you, too. Vin.”

“Your name?”

She took her hand from his and ducked her head to concentrate on his knuckles. “Marie-Terese. My name…is Marie-Terese.”

She had such lovely eyes.

Marie-Terese of the lovely French name had absolutely lovely eyes. And she was gentle with her hands, carefully cleaning him up with that warm washcloth as if his nicks and scratches were something important.

Shit, he wanted to get into another fight just so she could nurse him again.

“You should probably go to the doctor,” she said, patting the little towel across his cracked knuckles.

Absently, he noted that the terry cloth had started off white but now was pink from his blood, and he was glad that she’d put on the latex—not because he was HIV positive, but because he hoped the gesture generalized and meant she protected herself in what she did for a living.

He’d hoped all she did was dance. He really had.