LITMIR.BIZ

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bar. Gage told him he’d take care of it and Christian carried the woman up to his loft.

      He managed to open his front door and then close it with a nudge of his foot. The loft was a convenient pad and he’d turned the run-down space into something he didn’t mind people seeing but he doubted the woman in his arms cared much about the blond hardwood floors he’d installed himself or the four-poster California King bed with its goose down comforter that he was laying her gently on. After spending eleven years of his childhood in sleazy motels, sleeping on threadbare, worn and often dirty linens, Christian had a taste—no requirement—for fine bedding. He winced at the thought of blood staining the white duvet but he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t like she could manage to wash up on her own right now. He averted his eyes as the ruined dress hung on her slender frame, ripped down the center so that she had little covering her lithe body. Even as he looked away, he’d caught an unfortunate glimpse of creamy, well-toned thighs and near perfect rose-tipped breasts.

      He swallowed and then cursed softly. He needed to assess her injuries. He went to his bathroom and pulled out hydrogen peroxide, a clean washcloth, cotton balls and antiseptic cream. He sighed, hating that he even had the knowledge required. After that first episode with his mother, he’d taken over bandaging and administering first aid when johns got a little rough.

      He dropped the supplies on his bed beside her and after rummaging through his dresser drawers, he found an old T-shirt he didn’t mind parting with and some old sweats she could wear. Her eyes slid open and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she understood his intention.

      “Thank you,” she said in a low voice choked with pain.

      “Save the thank-yous for later. This is likely going to hurt like a son of a bitch,” he muttered in warning. He wasn’t her prince charming coming to rescue her from her life but human decency demanded that he do what he could to help. “Can you sit up?” he asked. She struggled, blanching with the pain as she tried. He gently stopped her. “You might have a broken rib. You really should see a doctor,” he admonished but he knew it fell on deaf ears. “I’ll do what I can but you’re pretty messed up.” She gave a subtle nod to indicate she understood but otherwise remained silent. He swabbed the crusting blood from her jaw-line and wiped the matted strands of her hair. “Did you know him?” he asked, telling himself he wasn’t interested in the answer, he was just filling the space between them with words, perhaps to distract her from the pain. His mother had never known a single man who’d paid for her services. The only man she’d bedded and known was his father and it wasn’t as though he’d been a catch. He’d died in prison, serving time for aggravated assault. His biological family tree wasn’t anything to write home about. “You ought to file charges,” he suggested, dabbing her lip with antibiotic cream. She winced and he gentled his touch, a familiar well of frustration lacing his tone as he added, “If you don’t, at least tell the authorities. He might do this to someone else. Maybe a friend of yours or something.”

      “I don’t have any friends,” she responded, in a voice so scratchy he barely made out the words.

      Then he saw the finger bruises along her throat. That man had nearly killed her, not figuratively, but literally. Another occupational hazard, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t understand her choice to lower herself in such a way. “You’re a beautiful woman. There are other choices out there. Hell, find yourself some sugar daddy and become his arm candy but at least get the ring on your finger so you have some kind of security if he ditches you for another.” He threw the soiled cotton swabs in the bedside trash and steeled himself for what came next. “Listen, I promise to do this quick,” he said, lifting the shirt in his hand. “But we gotta get you into some real clothes. Okay?” She nodded and he tried to gently pull off the remains of her dress without hurting her. “Here,” he said gruffly, sliding the T over her head as carefully as possible. He made quick work of tugging his faded sweats up her legs. They hung on her slight frame but at least they covered her. He released a short breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and rose, saying, “I’ll get you some Tylenol. I’m not big on meds so it’s the best I can do.”

      He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment or, frankly, for anything, he simply bolted for the bathroom. He needed a minute to collect himself. His mother had been a street prostitute. She hadn’t slept on five hundred thread count sheets or enjoyed caviar and champagne. Not like the woman on his bed. She had the look of someone who knew all about fine living. Everything about her seemed delicate and fragile, refined and expensive. Yet, just like his mother, she sold herself for cold, hard cash.

      In that they were the same. And for that reason, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow any kind of deep connection to take root.

      When he finally left the bathroom, a few Tylenol tablets in his hand and a glass of water, he’d managed to put his emotions back in order.

      He helped her with the painkillers and covered her with a blanket. “Is there someone I should call?” he asked, not quite able to bring himself to say the word pimp. Her bruised throat worked as she swallowed and he knew it must hurt like hell. That fat bastard had really done a number on her. She shook her head and he sighed. “Well—” he gestured to the bed “—you’re welcome to stay the night. I’ll take the couch.”

      “Thank you,” she said again, and he was no more ready to accept her gratitude now than he was the first go-round but Mama Jo, his foster mother, had drilled manners into his head since the day he’d shown up on her doorstep, courtesy of the Bridgeport, West Virginia foster system so many years ago.

      “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, taking his pillow and blanket to the couch. “Don’t mention it. Get some rest.”

      Something told him sleep would find her sooner than it would him.

      SKYE AWOKE TO A PARADE of pain. Her rib was most certainly broken on her left side. Early morning shafts of sunlight streamed into the loft, bathing everything in a soft creamy light that would’ve been beautiful if she hadn’t been sucking back tears at the agony in her body. Just breathing took effort.

      As she slowly took stock of her situation, she remembered the details from the night. That corpulent pig—Carlton Essex III—had done this to her. She’d been unable to get to her phone or her pepper spray. And Carlton had been unconcerned by the threat of displeasing Belleni. In that the man was an idiot. Belleni was vicious when crossed.

      Her gaze slid over to the sofa where soft snoring sounded. She rolled to her uninjured side, nearly crying out at the bite of pain, and slowly stood. She spied her clutch and the remains of her Anna Sui sheath. She grabbed the clutch but left the dress and made her way to the door. The man—she didn’t even known his name—didn’t stir even as she padded slowly to the door. She regretted leaving like this after he’d taken her in but Belleni was probably turning the city upside down looking for her and she’d rather not repay the man’s kindness by dragging him further into the mess that was her life. There was also her mangled pride in her reasoning, as well. How could she adequately express her gratitude to someone for saving her from someone she’d been paid to service? Shame twisted her guts in a knot and she slipped from the loft with only the hope that karma would find the man still sleeping and repay him appropriately for his kindness.

      God knew she couldn’t.

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHRISTIAN WOKE WITH A SNAP of his eyes, knowing without having to look that she was gone. Still, he rose and swore under his breath when he confirmed the suspicion. This was good, he told himself when irritation followed at the knowledge she’d snuck out while he slept. Now he didn’t have to deal with the inevitable awkwardness of the morning after, not the typical morning after mind you, but it would have been weird considering what had happened.

      He walked to his bed and saw that she’d taken her little purse but left her dress behind. He lifted the ruined mess from the floor and her scent wafted from the material. The dress was cool against his fingers as he replayed the scenario from last night in his head. Questions nagged at him but he resigned himself to letting them go. She was gone. It was probably better this way. Christian tossed the dress into

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