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“Sir?”
Blinking, I look up.
I forgot we’re in the middle of a busy airline terminal, fainting girl or not.
People are staring at us like the slack-jawed paralyzed slugs they are.
Everyone except my driver and personal assistant, Merrick “Rick” Adams.
He looks at the girl. Looks at me. Looks back at the girl and steeples his fingers together.
Then he moves closer, wisely choosing not to comment, waiting for me to speak first.
“I’ve got her, Merrick.”
He offers me his usual gracious smile.
He’s a thin, lanky man who often reminds me of an overly friendly cat.
“So then,” Merrick says, “your luggage already arrived a day ahead, as planned, and it’s been transported to your residence. Will we be making any additional stops on the way to the office, considering the—the situation, sir?”
“Yes. Change of plans,” I say dryly, shifting the negligible weight in my arms so I can balance Miss Lark and the laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I nod at her carry-on, which is currently resting on the floor with its strap crumpled on top of it. “Would you?”
“Of course.”
He bends and scoops up the bag, then turns to lead me through the terminal, threading a path that avoids the thickest clusters of staring, muttering idiots.
Not an EMT in sight, of course.
Knowing how slow things move around here, it’s one of many reasons I decide to deal with Elle Lark myself.
That doesn’t stop people from looking, but I don’t have any time or fucks to care about gawkers.
Since I’m not an authorized care provider or emergency contact, I’ll have to deliver her into the hands of someone who knows her and her medical needs before being on my merry way.
Which is why I avoid the nosy TSA agents as well, brushing them off.
Her breathing is fine, at least.
She isn’t bruised or suffering a concussion, and I know it’s not diabetic shock, a heart attack, a stroke, a seizure, or anything requiring instant intervention.
For her, it’s still a medical emergency.
For me, it’s trouble.
More trouble finds me as Rick takes us to the cold parking lot and the dark-blue Genesis G80 waiting to ferry us from the airport.
It’s not the way the girl shivers and curls up closer, tucking herself against me for warmth, that bothers me.
The real irritant is that I’ve got no clue where this girl lives.
That will be a problem.
While Rick deposits her bag on the pavement and holds the car door open, I settle her in the back seat, sitting upright. A quick, nonintrusive search inside her bag reveals nothing. The bulge of a wallet makes a faint outline against the back pocket of her close-fitting jeans.
Fuck.
She’s going to make me touch her, isn’t she?
