A Stranger She Can Trust. Regan Black

much help beyond the basic geography. There were a number of reasons for a woman who appeared to be in her midtwenties to be near the University of Pennsylvania campus. Carson reached for his wallet. He handed over enough cash to cover the fare and a tip and sent the cabbie away. When they were alone, he picked up the subtle hitch in her breathing above the muted noises from their surroundings and the occasional raised voices from patrons dawdling in the parking lot.

      “Can you stand?”

      She stared at him blankly. She had abrasions on her knees and hands, and her left eye was nearly swollen shut. “Escape?”

      “Yeah, you made it,” he replied. Pretty clear she was one of the people who sought out the secondary purpose of the club—asking Grant for help out of tight or sticky situations. “What’s your name?”

      “Alex-Alexander?” She managed to squeeze out the name through a raspy voice. Laboring, she raised her closed fist toward his hand. When he opened his palm, she dropped a crushed matchbook into it.

      Carson stared at the Escape Club logo for a moment, then flipped open the cover. Seeing the name Alexander scrawled on the inside, he pocketed the matchbook. Grant trained all of them to respond swiftly and without question if anyone showed up and asked for Alexander. Carson berated himself for making her wait this long. Her appearance was enough to prove she was in trouble, with or without the matchbook and code name. “Come on.” He reached out a hand to help her up, and she stared at him.

      “Escape,” she repeated.

      “Yes.” His throat felt raw just listening to her laboring over each word. “You’re safe now.” He needed better light and supplies to administer first aid, which he suspected was the least of her worries. “Come with me.” Grant would know what to do. Carson had to get her inside the building before the staff left for the night.

      He knelt down on his good knee, putting him at eye level with her. Her good eye was glassy, and without his penlight, he couldn’t be sure her pupil was properly responsive. She might be high right now, but he didn’t see any typical signs of habitual use on her arms. He resisted making more assumptions. Only the right tools would give him an accurate assessment. “Let’s go inside to see Alexander. You can trust me.”

      He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. He helped her stand, but she wobbled with her first step. Exasperated, he scooped her into his arms. Her arms came around his neck automatically, and her head dropped to his shoulder as he carried her the short distance to the back door.

      He could feel the toned muscles of her legs under the thin fabric of her skirt. He’d helped his share of addicts on the job, and the safe bet was she wasn’t one. Relieved no one caught him struggling with both her and the door, he called for help once they were inside.

      Grant appeared in the hallway first, followed by other members of the staff.

      “She asked for Alexander,” Carson said, though it was pretty obvious. “A cab just dropped her off.”

      “My office,” Grant said, taking in the details with that penetrating gaze. “Bring us the first aid kit, a blanket and bottled water,” he called out to others.

      Carson made it down the hall without dropping the woman. She wasn’t heavy. He situated her in one chair and pulled the second around to face her. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, taking a pulse while he waited for the first aid kit to arrive.

      She squinted against the brighter light in the office, but she didn’t fight him while he evaluated her. Every physical indication was she’d been in a fight with someone bigger and stronger than herself.

      Her sluggish responses to his questions bothered him. When the first aid kit arrived, he pulled on gloves and took a closer look at her noticeable injuries. The swollen eye was nasty and the color was going to be vivid, but he didn’t think there was a fracture. He used a penlight to test her pupils, being cautious as he manipulated the swollen eye. Both pupils responded but were almost as listless as her speech. With her dark hair and eyes, excellent bone structure and warm golden skin, she’d be lovely under healthy circumstances. There was additional swelling along her jaw, there were bruises on her neck and her wide mouth would be lopsided for at least a day or two. He struggled against a sudden, familiar rush of anger at whoever had used her for a punching bag. Despite answering numerous domestic violence calls, he’d never become immune to the results.

      “Who hit you?” he asked.

      She tried to shake her head, but he had her face trapped in his hands as he gently prodded again at the black eye.

      “Easy. Just take your time,” he said.

      “I don’t know.”

      He’d expected that answer. Victims rarely outed an abuser at the first opportunity. He reached for antiseptic to clean the split skin above her eyebrow. “Where were you before you got into the cab?”

      Her good eye went wide, then closed, her features tightening with pain or shame. “I...I don’t know.”

      “No problem. Just relax.” Carson didn’t try to coax more answers out of her. He tended the scrapes on her knees and hands and left the question-and-answer part of the program to Grant. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

      She glanced over his shoulder to the doorway with her good eye. “Okay.”

      Once her wounds were clean, he really thought the cut above her eye needed stitches more than the glue and small bandages in the first aid kit. Grant came in and offered her a bottle of water and a bag of ice, then retreated. She passed the basic concussion protocol, but he thought she should be evaluated by a physician anyway.

      “What’s the word?” Grant asked, stepping into the office again.

      “Some good news. Nothing points to a serious concussion,” Carson replied as he peeled off the gloves. “Still, she should probably go to the hospital.”

      “No!” The bag of ice landed in her lap, her hands clutching it tightly. “No hospital.” She tried to scoot the chair back out of his reach, but in her weakened state, she didn’t get far.

      “Relax.” Grant, perched on the edge of his desk and arched an eyebrow at Carson before turning back to their guest. “Put the ice back on your cheek,” he said, motioning to the ice pack in her lap. “Now take a breath,” he added when she’d done as he instructed. “Why did you come here to the club?”

      “No hospital,” she repeated, wincing as she shook her head. “C-can’t go to a hospital.”

      Carson signaled Grant to back off. Her breathing had turned rapid and shallow, and her pulse had leapt into overdrive.

      “Okay, hospitals are not an option. I get it. Just relax. You’re safe here with us.” Grant’s tone was full of soothing calm. “How did you hear about Alexander?”

      Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her eyebrows dipped low over those wide brown eyes.

      “I—I don’t remember.” She swallowed.

      “That’s not unexpected based on your injuries,” Carson said quietly.

      “Carson would know,” Grant added. “He’s a paramedic and I’m a former cop. You don’t know us, but we are trustworthy. Can you tell me how you got hurt?”

      She ignored Grant, staring at Carson with her good eye, the other hidden by the ice pack. “You’re Carson?”

      “Yes. Carson Lane.” She didn’t look familiar to him, but something in the way she studied him, something about the way she said his name, made him uneasy. “Have we met?”

      “I don’t know.” Under the denim jacket and pale blue T-shirt, her shoulders shuddered as she sucked in another breath and tremors set in.

      Carson looked around. “I’ll go find a blanket or something.”

      “I’ll do it.” Grant moved faster than Carson,