LITMIR.BIZ

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slowed, pulled to the curb.

      “We’re here, sir,” the driver said.

      Caleb looked out the window. He stared at the street. At the buildings that lined it. Then he stared at Sage.

      “This is where you live?”

      Wrong tone to use. She stiffened, this time with indignation, but how else was a man to sound when he delivered a woman to her door and that door turned out to be in the middle of what could be called a slum only if you were feeling particularly generous?

      They were in front of a four-story house. A charitable soul, or maybe a Realtor, might have said it was part of a historic-looking group of brick buildings.

      Caleb wasn’t feeling charitable, and he sure as hell wasn’t a Realtor.

      The building was one in a string of identical structures, strung together like beads jammed on a chain. He saw boarded-up windows. Rusted iron bars. Sagging steps that led to sagging stoops.

      The street itself was long. Narrow. A couple of the streetlights were out.

      The place looked like an ad for urban blight.

      What he didn’t see were people.

      It was late, sure, but this was the city that boasted that it never slept.

      “Thank you,” Sage said.

      Caleb swung toward her. The driver was at the door, opening it. She was getting ready to step out of the car.

      “Wait a minute.”

      “This was very kind of you, Mister … Caleb.”

      He caught hold of her arm.

      “I said, wait a minute!”

      She hissed, jerked against his hand. Wrong move, dammit! He could almost see what she was thinking.

      Carefully, he let go of her.

      “I only meant … Are you sure this is the correct address?”

      Her expression changed, went from fearful to defiant.

      “Very sure. This is where I live.”

      Caleb thought of a polite way to tell her that her surroundings were dangerous, but surely she already knew that.

      It didn’t matter. She read his mind.

      “Not quite Park Slope,” she said with a thin smile.

      To hell with being polite.

      “No,” he said bluntly, “it sure as hell isn’t.”

      The faint smile vanished.

      “Am I supposed to apologize because you don’t approve?”

      “No. Of course not. I only meant …” He stopped, took a long breath, let it out and started again. “Where’s the subway?”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m trying to picture you making this trip each night, that’s why!”

      “I—I usually walk home from the subway with a friend.”

      “She works with you?”

      “No. But our work schedules are similar.”

      “Yeah, well, where would she have been tonight?”

      It was an excellent question, and a complicated one, starting with the fact that “she” was a “he” named David.

      Sage was definitely not in the mood to answer it.

      “Look,” she said, “I admit that this is—it’s not exactly a great neighborhood. And, thanks to you, I didn’t have to deal with the subway. So thank you again, here’s your jacket, and—”

      “Keep it,” he said gruffly.

      “At least give me your address so I can—”

      “You can give it back to me after I get you to your door.”

      “No. That isn’t nec—”

      Caleb got out of the limo and walked around it.

      “No arguments. I’m seeing you inside and that’s that.”

      “Do you always get your own way?”

      “I do when it matters.”

      He could almost see her weighing his words. Finally, she sighed. Some of the belligerence went out of her expression. Caleb held out his hand.

      Sage hesitated, then took it.

      His hand was warm, his grip powerful. She fought the desire to wind their fingers together.

      The truth was, she’d run out of bravado.

      His reminder that without him she’d have been walking home alone had done it, especially when she knew there’d been a recent string of assaults in the neighborhood on women who lived alone.

      Not that she lived alone.

      Not exactly.

      The bottom line was that there was nothing to gain by pretending she didn’t appreciate his help.

      “Thank you,” she said, as they climbed the steps to the stoop. “Again.”

      “There’s nothing to thank me for. I’m glad to be able to help.” When they reached the front door, he held out his hand. “Your keys.”

      She shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. “The lock’s broken.”

      He wanted to say something. She could see it. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, opened the door …

      And said something low and unpleasant.

      She couldn’t blame him.

      She felt the same way each time she stepped into the dark, dirty entryway, inhaled the stink of beer and pee and marijuana, saw the banged-up doors that lined the hall and the wooden stairs that rose into the gloom.

      Say something, she told herself, say anything.

      “Well,” she said brightly, “this is it.”

      He looked at her as if she were crazy.

      “My apartment is on the fourth floor.”

      Still nothing from him. Or—wait. There was … something. A tiny glint in his blue eyes.

      “What in hell are you doing in a place like this?”

      She thought of half a dozen answers. Any one of them would tell him things far more personal than he needed to know.

      “I live here,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and she started toward the stairs.

      She didn’t get very far before his hands closed on her shoulders and he swung her toward him.

      “Dammit,” he said gruffly, “cut the act! It’s a good routine, pretending you’re tough and street-smart, but I was there an hour ago when the price of that act got too high.” She gasped as he lifted her to her toes. “Anything could happen to you here.”

      “Nothing has.”

      “Really? Is that what you call what went on tonight?”

      “That had nothing to do with this.”

      “You work in a dangerous place. You live in a dangerous place.”

      “It’s called doing what I can to keep a roof over my head.”

      “Don’t you have anyone who can help you?”

      “I’m doing just fine on my own.”

      “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can see—”

      One of the apartment doors swung open. Two men stepped into

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