the opening to the alley. Leaning against the corner of the building, hand still pressed over her arm, she cried out again.
Mercifully, the flash of red-and-blue drew closer and an unmarked car with a dash light drew to a hard stop less than fifty feet from her.
Two men leapt from the car, drawing their weapons. “Police. Get your hands in the air.”
They weren’t in uniform and she quashed the impulse to run. Could she trust they were who they claimed? How could she be sure they weren’t dirty and corrupt?
Making a quick decision to believe them, at least for now, she held up her hands obediently, wincing as her arm and ribs cried out in protest. “Don’t shoot. There’s a man in the alley. He needs an ambulance.” She pointed behind her with her left index finger, keeping her hands in the air.
One of men raced into the alley and the second holstered his gun, rushing to her. She let her hands drop, the pain in her left arm unbearable.
He towered over her, close enough to touch her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes raked over her and she could scarcely draw a full breath under his scrutiny, her rib cage aching with every inhale, her heart skittering frantically. Fear clashed with her desire for comfort and the sudden urge to lean into him. She was losing it. She must be losing it if she was thinking about turning to this stranger for help of any kind.
He had the slightly dangerous look of man who was a little bit reckless and lived life on his own terms. His hair was dark, worn longer than most men, and a shadow of a beard covered his jawline. With broad shoulders and slim hips, he captured her interest and that was troubling. She didn’t have the time or energy to be interested in anyone.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes singeing her with concern.
Carey shook her head, the lie a necessary one. The fierce cold bit into her hands, her chin stung and her arm throbbed. She turned to keep him from seeing her injury. Panic swept over her. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. She’d clean and bandage her arm herself later. The convenience store sold bandages, didn’t they? “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his gaze on her as if he didn’t believe her. “What happened?”
“I wasn’t involved. I just screamed for help.”
“I need you to come with me to the station.”
Her terror grew stronger. She needed a plan of escape. She couldn’t go with him to the police station. He couldn’t force her, could he? “I just want to go home.” Black spots dotted her vision. She needed to lie down. Soon.
He shook his head and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I need to take your information and a statement about what happened here.”
Her gaze drifted to that lock of hair, then to his eyes. Surprised by the smoldering heat she found in them, she felt the look as if he’d touched her. A warm shiver moved down her spine and her stomach tightened. This guy had charisma and raw, sexual magnetism in spades. A man with whom she wouldn’t—couldn’t—lower her boundaries even a fraction of an inch for fear he’d get inside.
Another siren drew closer and an ambulance turned onto the street. Carey said a mental thank-you for the quick response time and hoped the man in the alley would be okay. She needed to beat feet.
“I didn’t see anything.” The lie made her ears burn. She could see in his face he didn’t believe her.
“You saw enough to call for help.”
Why had she stopped and interfered? Why hadn’t she kept her head down and kept walking? “I don’t remember.” What a terrible excuse. Dizziness swept over her and she struggled to remain standing. Home was three blocks away. She could make it.
“Do you have ID?” he asked.
“Do you?”
He lifted a brow, never taking his eyes off her, then reached into his back pocket and drew out his badge.
“May I?” she asked, extending her right hand.
Shooting her a wary look, he handed over his badge for inspection. She opened the wallet, his ID tucked inside. He wasn’t a plainclothes police officer—he was a detective. He didn’t look older than thirty-five. Impressive that he’d made the ranks that young. Assuming he wasn’t dirty, her respect for him ratcheted up a notch. “Detective Reilly Truman. I’m sorry, Detective, but I’ve got to go.” Carey threw the badge behind her for all she was worth and took off in the other direction. She made it two steps and then collapsed, a black hole closing off her thoughts.
Reilly watched his badge sail over her shoulder. He swore under his breath, but his irritation was doused when the witness crumpled to the ground. A moment later he was at her side, rolling her onto her back and checking for a pulse.
She’d passed out beneath a streetlight, giving him a better look at her. Reilly brushed the hair off her face, looking for injuries. Except for the unnatural red color of her hair, her beauty was enthralling, her features small and delicate, and her clothes much too big for her petite frame, as if she were trying to hide her figure. Women this beautiful didn’t normally go out of their way to conceal their good looks.
He continued his assessment: a scrape on her chin, a cut on her forehead near her hairline, and her left sleeve was covered in blood. Uneasiness flooded through him. The victim’s? Or hers?
The emergency response team converged on the scene, three men treating the victim in the alley, one EMT waiting by the ambulance.
“I need some help,” Reilly called over his shoulder.
Pulling away the fabric of her sweatshirt, he saw a cut ran in a narrow slice across her upper arm. It was a recent injury and still bleeding. The urge to help her, the need to make her better, torpedoed through him, as strong as it was unexpected. He never behaved this way on a scene. Reilly was known for keeping his cool, yet his fleeing witness was making him lose it.
The EMT jogged over, kneeling down on the other side of her, spreading open his orange bag. The name “Lou” was stitched on his jacket. “What happened?”
“She passed out. Her arm is bleeding.”
Lou pulled on a pair of gloves and Reilly tore away the sleeve of her ratty sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was speckled with pieces of asphalt and the sleeve brushed with red. Her arm was thin, free of track marks or bruises. She didn’t have the look or smell of a homeless person. What was she doing on the street at this hour?
Lou examined the wound. “Nasty scratch. Maybe a knife?”
“Could be,” Reilly said. Why had she lied when he’d asked if she was hurt? Her serene face was such a contrast to the grit and attitude he’d seen a few minutes before. Reilly took another long look. Yeah, she was pretty all right. Good-looking in a way that would drive a man crazy to kiss her, touch her. In other words, Reilly needed to keep his distance times ten and remember the bad things that could happen when a detective overstepped his bounds. His former partner had taught him that.
Tearing open a packet of alcohol swabs, Lou cleaned her wound and then applied pressure to her sternum with his knuckles to elicit a response. Her cobalt eyes fluttered open then clouded with confusion.
“Hey there, stay with us this time,” Reilly said, trying to orient her. He set his hand on her right arm.
She spoke not a word and a moment later, she was kicking and fighting like a wildcat. Reilly held her shoulder and hip to the ground, pinning her body before she kicked him or Lou somewhere sensitive.
“Hey! Calm down. We’re helping you,” Reilly said.
“No, let go!” She bucked her hips in the air and tried to twist her arms free.
Did he need to call someone in for a psych evaluation? Why were the most attractive ones the most trouble? His breath clouded in the cold night air. “You need medical attention.”