The Italian Duke's Virgin Mistress. Penny Jordan

him that he’d never experienced. Feelings he couldn’t even identify except for the fact that they brought out every protective instinct in his body.

      “What are your injuries?” Lucky heard someone shout. He looked up and saw a pair of medics racing toward him. They weren’t alone. More were running toward some of the other passengers.

      “We’re not hurt. But she is,” Lucky said pulling back his hand from Marin’s injured head.

      The younger of the two, a dark-haired woman, didn’t take Lucky’s word about not being injured. She began to examine Noah and him. Noah whined and tried to bat herhands away when she checked his pupils. The other medic, a fortysomething Hispanic man, went to work on Marin.

      “She’s Code Yellow,” the medic barked to his partner. “Head trauma.”

      That started a flurry of activity, and the woman yelled for a stretcher.

      Code Yellow. Marin’s condition was urgent, but she was likely to survive.

      “I need your name,” the female medic insisted, forcing his attention back to her. “And the child’s.”

      Lucky’s stomach clenched.

      It was a simple request. And it was standard operating procedure for triage processing. But Lucky knew it was only the beginning of lots of questions. If he answered some of those questions, especially the part about Noah being a near stranger, they’d take the little boy right out of his arms, and the authorities would hold on to him until they could contact the next of kin.

      The very thing that Marin didn’t want to happen.

      Because her parents and her brother, Dexter, were Noah’s next of kin.

      Some choice.

      As if he understood what was going on, Noah looked up at him with those big blue-green eyes. There were no questions. No doubts. Not even a whimper.

      But there was trust. Complete, unconditional trust.

      Noah’s eyelids fluttered down, his thumb went back in his mouth, and he rested his cheek against Lucky’s heart.

      Oh, man.

      It seemed like some symbolic gesture, but it probably had more to do with the kid’s sheer exhaustion than anything else. Still, Lucky couldn’t push it aside. Nor could he push aside what Marin had asked of him when they’d been trying to stay alive.

       If I don’t make it, get Noah out of here. Protect him.

      And in that crazy life-or-death moment, Lucky had promised her that he would do just that.

      It was a promise he’d keep.

      “Sir,” the medic prompted. “I need you to tell me the child’s name.”

      It took Lucky a moment to say anything. “I’m Randall Davidson. This is my son, Noah,” he lied. He tipped his head toward Marin. “And she’s my fiancé, Marin Sheppard.”

      In order to protect the frightened little boy in his arms, Lucky figured he’d have to continue that particular lie for an hour or two until Marin regained consciousness or until he could call her friend in Fort Worth. Not long at all, considering his promise.

      He owed Noah and Marin that much.

      And he might owe them a hell of a lot more.

       Chapter Three

      Marin heard someone say her name.

      It was a stranger’s voice.

      She wondered if it was real or all part of the relentless nightmare she’d been having. A nightmare of explosions and trains. At least, she thought it might be a train. The only clear image that kept going through her mind was of a pair of snakeskin boots. Everything else was a chaotic blur of sounds and smells and pain. Mostly pain. There were times when it was unbearable.

      “Marin?” she heard the strange voice say again.

      It was a woman. She sounded real, and Marin thought she might have felt someone gently touch her cheek.

      She tried to open her eyes and failed the first time, but then tried again. She was instantly sorry that she’d succeeded. The bright overhead lights stabbed right into her eyes and made her wince.

      Marin groaned.

      Just like that, with a soft click, the lights went away. “Better?” the woman asked.

      Marin managed a nod that hurt, as well.

      The dimmed lighting helped, but her head was still throbbing, and it seemed as if she had way too many nerves in that particular part of her body. The pain was also affecting her vision. Everything was out of focus.

      “Where am I?” Marin asked.

      Since her words had no sound, she repeated them. It took her four tries to come up with a simple audible three-word question. Quite an accomplishment though, considering her throat was as dry as west Texas dust.

      “St. Mary’s,” the woman provided.

      Marin stared at her, her gaze moving from the woman’s pinned-up auburn hair to her perky cotton-candy-pink uniform. Her name tag said she was Betty Garcia, RN. That realization caused Marin to glance around the room.

      “I’m in a hospital?” Marin licked her lips. They were dry and chapped.

      “Yes. You don’t remember being brought here?”

      Marin opened her mouth to answer, only to realize that she didn’t have an answer. Until a few seconds ago, she’d thought she was having a nightmare. She definitely didn’t remember being admitted to a hospital.

      “Are you real?” Marin asked, just to make sure she wasn’t trapped in the dream.

      The woman smiled. “I’m going to assume that’s not some sort of philosophical question. Yes, I’m real. And so are you.” She checked the machine next to the bed. “How do you feel?”

      Marin made a quick assessment. “I feel like someone bashed me in the head.”

      The woman made a sound of agreement. “Not someone. Something. But you’re better now. You don’t remember the train accident?”

      “The accident,” Marin repeated, trying to sort through the images in her head.

      “It’s still under investigation,” the nurse continued. She touched Marin’s arm. “But the authorities think there was some kind of electrical malfunction that caused the explosion.”

      An explosion. She remembered that.

      Didn’t she?

      “Thankfully, no one was killed,” the woman went on. She picked up Marin’s wrist and took her pulse. “But over a dozen people were hurt, including you.”

      It was the word hurt that made the memories all come flooding back. The call from her grandmother, telling Marin that she was sick and begging her to come home. The train trip from Fort Worth to San Antonio.

      The explosion.

      God, the explosion.

      “Noah!” Marin shouted. “Where’s my son?”

      Marin jackknifed to a sitting position, and she would have launched herself out of the bed if Nurse Garcia and the blinding pain hadn’t stopped her.

      “Easy now,” the nurse murmured. She released her grip on Marin’s wrist and caught on to her shoulders instead, easing her down onto the mattress.

      Marin cooperated, but only because she had no choice. “My son—”

      “Is fine. He wasn’t hurt. He didn’t even get a scratch.”

      The relief was as overwhelming as the pain. Noah was all right. The explosion that had catapulted them through the air