Sarah tucked herself deeper into the warmth of Mick’s jacket, which smelled of leather and rain. A delicious, beautiful, impossible pleasure, to have the fabric warmed from his skin, the spicy, clean male scent of him encasing her. It was as if, through his jacket, he was caressing her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, back, and chest, her belly and hips. She was tall for a woman, but being in his presence made her feel petite, delicate. The sleeves of his jacket covered all but the very tips of her fingers.

Sarah knew she was going to have to explain her situation. That was the deal, and even though she was dreading it, she knew it had to be done. Underneath the dread was a weary relief as well. She was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of living a lie. Once the waitress had left, silence descended, and the laughing lightness had vanished from Mick’s face. He seemed to be struggling with something. Was he angry with her? Sarah didn’t blame him if he was. The man had wanted a simple life, an assistant to type up some notes, an organized house, a few homey comforts, and what did he get? Sarah shook her head. A lunatic. A liar. He had been nothing but kind, and how had she repaid him?

Sarah exhaled shakily, snuck a glance at him through her lowered lashes. His head was averted. Probably the sight of her lying face made him ill. His jaw was clenched. Holding back a slew of angry words, no doubt. She had gone crazy punching, kicking, and clawing at him, and for what? Why? He’d done nothing to harm her. Had only shown her a gruff sort of kindness. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as embarrassment and regret roared through her. Something inside had snapped when he’d run her down. It was as if a fuse had blown in her brain and he wasn’t Mick anymore. He had somehow morphed into a weird mutant combination of Kevin and that madman Guillory and she was hurled into the past, but this time she was fighting. Fighting for her life.