Swept Away by the Tycoon. Barbara Wallace

that closely.

      The wind bit her cheeks, reminding her that, at the moment, she was the one braving the cold, not her slacker. She flipped up the collar on her coat. It wasn’t much protection against the wind, but at least she could bury her chin a little. With her eyes focused on the sidewalk, she dodged the sea of homebound commuters, wishing she could be one of them. Stupid slacker. It was his fault she was dodging anything. If she hadn’t wasted half her day wondering about his story, she’d be on her way home, too, instead of heading back to the agency.

      The attack came out of nowhere. One minute she was rushing down the sidewalk, the next her shoulder was being ripped backward. A pair of hands slammed into her back, hard, knocking the air from her lungs and her body off balance. Before she could so much as gasp she was pitching forward, face-first onto the sidewalk. Stars exploded behind her eyes as her hands and chin struck the cement.

      From behind her, she heard a shout, followed by the scrambling of feet and a second, deeper cry of pain. A second later, she felt an arm around her waist.

      “You all right, Curli? Damn, look at your chin.”

      “Wh-what?” Chloe was too dazed to answer. The arm around her waist felt warm and safe, so she leaned in closer.

      “Your chin,” her savior repeated, his voice soft and rough. “It’s bleeding.”

      She touched her face, flinching when she felt sticky wetness. The dampness trailed down her scarf to the front of her coat. She tried to look down, to see the damage, but everything was dark.

      “It’s mostly coffee,” he told her, but we should make sure your chin doesn’t need stitches. Do you have anything in your bag I can use to wipe the skin clean?”

      “I don’t think—my bag!” She sat up a little straighter. That had been the tug she’d felt on her arm. The jerk had stolen her pocketbook.

      “Right here.” The soothing arm disappeared from her waist. A second later, a brown leather bag appeared in her lap, minus the strap. Chloe fingered the jagged end where the mugger cut the strap free. The bag had been her twenty-fifth birthday present to herself. Now it was ruined. Because some thug had got close enough to...

      Her lower lip started to quiver. That made her teeth and chin hurt more.

      “Shh, don’t cry, Curlilocks. It’ll be all right.”

      No, it wouldn’t. “I—I was m-m-mugged.” The word hurt to say. She felt dirty and violated.

      “I know. I know.” His whisper reached through the cold, calming her. “If it’s any consolation, they’re hurt worse than you.”

      “They?” There were two? She started to feel nauseous. “I didn’t see them.”

      “That’s how it works. They find someone who’s not paying attention and grab the bag from behind.”

      Fingers brushed the hair from her face. Tender fingers, but they made her tremble nonetheless. “You stopped them,” she said.

      “Right place, right time.” The fingers found their way to her jaw. Tilted her face until she could see his pale blue eyes. Under the streetlight, his stubble looked more blond than red, the freckles across the bridge of his nose more prominent. “We really need to treat that cut,” he said. “Do you have anything in your bag?”

      Chloe shook her head. “Afraid not. I cleaned the thing out this morning.” Thank goodness, too. Any heaver and the force of it being ripped away might have dislocated her shoulder.

      “Lucky for you, I’m good at improvising.” Before she could ask what he meant, he’d shed his jacket and begun peeling the sweatshirt over his head.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Relax. The shirt’s fresh from the laundry.” He mopped at the cut with one of the sleeves.

      Chloe caught his wrist. “You’re ruining your sweatshirt.”

      “A sacrifice for a worthy cause,” he replied.

      By now, they’d attracted curiosity and several people had stopped to check on them.

      “We’ll be fine,” the slacker told them. “Doesn’t need stitches.”

      “How do you know?” She hated to admit it, but with the gentle way he was dabbing at her wound, she wouldn’t care one way or the other.

      “Let’s say I’ve seen my share of cuts and wounds. How are your hands?”

      She turned them over. Road burn marred her palm. “I’m betting your knees match,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the coffee shop and clean you up properly. We can call the police from there, too. Chances are there’s not much they can do at this point, but you should file a report, anyway—just in case.”

      Chloe could do little more than nod. The way her insides were shaking, she couldn’t think straight if she tried.

      Meanwhile, the slacker took charge, effortlessly. Letting someone else carry the load for a change felt good. When his arm returned to her waist, and he helped her to her feet, she couldn’t help curling into his body. He smelled of coffee and wood. Strong, masculine, solid scents that filled her insides with a sense of security.

      “I don’t even know your name,” she said, realizing that fact almost with surprise. “Slacker” definitely no longer applied.

      He paused a moment before answering. “Ian Black.”

      Ian Black. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. Didn’t matter; her rescuer finally had a name. “Thank you, Ian Black,” she said, offering a grateful smile.

      “You’re welcome, Chloe.” Hearing him use her proper name only made her smile wider.

      They held each other’s gazes, not saying a word. Finally, Ian stepped back, his arm slipping away from her waist. “What do you say we get you cleaned up?”

      Right, her chin. Unbelievably, Chloe had forgotten.

      “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t happened along when you did,” she told him as they walked slowly back.

      With the immediate drama over, adrenaline had kicked in, causing her legs to shake. She was afraid her knees would buckle beneath her if she moved too quickly. Ian kept pace a few inches from her elbow, not touching, but close enough to grab her should something happen. He held her bag tucked under his arm. The big leather satchel looked ridiculous, but he didn’t seem to mind.

      “I’m only sorry I didn’t arrive a minute earlier. I might have spared your chin,” he said.

      Which throbbed. To make walking easier, Chloe had taken over the job of pressing it tight. She was pretty sure the bleeding had stopped long ago, but Ian insisted she maintain pressure. “I don’t care about my chin.” She’d suffered worse playing college ball. “I’m more bummed out about my bag.”

      “Pocketbooks can be replaced.”

      “Not at that price,” she muttered.

      “Then on behalf of your bag, I’m sorry I didn’t move faster.”

      “You showed up. Better than nothing.”

      Why did he show up, though? He’d been sitting at his table when she’d left. She started to frown, only to have pain cut the expression short. “Were you following me?”

      “Yes, I was.”

      “Oh.” At least he scored points for honesty. She scooted an inch or two to the right. “Why?”

      “To apologize,” he told her. “I had no business being so rude to you earlier. You bought the coffee to be nice. I was wrong to bite your head off.”

      Had all that taken place tonight? The exchange seemed like eons ago. “Be pretty rude of me not to accept now, wouldn’t it?”