My Front Page Scandal. Carrie Alexander

The cab had stopped at the curb. Its driver knelt beside the injured man, who was trying to sit up. “I’m fine,” he insisted. His arms flailed. “Let me be.”

      Brooke dropped to her knees. “You’re disoriented,” she soothed, reaching for his shoulder to cajole him into staying down. “Keep still. You’ve been injured.”

      He roughly pushed her hand away. His hair was dark, shaggy and disheveled, his face bloody.

      “Nine-one-one’s busy,” Gus called from inside the store. “I’m on hold.”

      The accident victim’s wild eyes settled on Brooke. “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.

      “Of course,” she said evenly. The poor guy was out of his mind. “An ambulance will be on its way very soon.”

      A couple of vehicles cruised by, the drivers gawking at the scene. Each time, the motorcycle driver flinched. He raised a shaking hand to shield his face from the curious stares. “Just help me stand up,” he begged.

      “That’s not a good—” His jarring weight snapped Brooke’s mouth shut. He’d leaned heavily on her shoulder as he got to his feet. She rose with him, wrapping her arms around his denim jacket and solid body as he staggered. “Please sit down. You’re not thinking clearly. You have to see a doctor.”

      “So we’ll go find a doctor.” He looked dazedly at the idling cab. “This’ll do.”

      “But—”

      A man with a camera jumped out of one of the passing cars and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered. The biker lurched toward the cab, taking Brooke with him as he collapsed into the back seat. She was in an ignominious position, sprawled halfway on top of him by virtue of their tangled arms. A shock of cool air between her legs reminded her that she wore absolutely nothing beneath the dress. Horrified, she unwound herself and managed to shimmy the leather down over her clamped thighs while also shoving the man’s legs into the cab.

      He hung his head off the edge of the seat, his face deathly pale beneath the streaks and spatters of blood. With a groan, he closed his eyes.

      The driver climbed behind the wheel, passing the motorcyclist’s helmet and keys over the seat. “Where to? Mass General?”

      Brooke hesitated in the open door of the cab with her arms wrapped around the helmet. She shouldn’t leave the store, not in the purloined dress. But the man needed help. Another blinding flash from the camera settled her decision, especially when the photographer began cursing and shoving to make his way toward the cab for a better angle.

      She slithered into the backseat and yanked the door shut. “Emergency room. Step on it.”

      COLOR AND LIGHT SWIRLED through the darkness inside David Carerra’s closed lids. He floated. The psychedelic pond catapulted him through time to the old swimming hole back home in Georgia. He’d learned to hold his breath until he could stay submerged in the green murk of a silent underwater world for minutes at a time, where there was nothing to hurt him except the snapping turtles that glided away at his approach. When he’d surface, the live oaks would waver against the shock of a blinding sky, distorted by the droplets spangling his lashes. He’d flip over onto his back and float for what seemed like hours, until Maribeth, his father’s common-law wife, would realize the boy was gone and start screeching his name.

      Jaden. Jay-aaay-den, you come home now.

      Bile rose in his throat. He pushed through the thick water, spitting out the poison as he reentered a harsh, cold world.

      “Christ,” said a distant voice. “I’ll never get the smell out.”

      “How does a twenty-dollar tip sound?” asked a second voice. Female, nearby.

      “Fifty’d be better.”

      “Fifty,” she agreed, without conviction.

      David moved his tongue in his mouth, checking for loosened teeth. The taste was as foul as biting into an old raw beet. “Ackkk.”

      The woman’s face appeared near his. “You’re conscious.”

      “Urgh.”

      “What’s your name?”

      Jaden. Jaden David Jackson.

      She gave him a pat. Had he spoken? “Never mind,” she said in a voice as gentle as a breeze whispering through the loblolly pines. “We’re almost at the hospital. They’ll take care of you.”

      “Hospital?”

      She leaned over him again. “Your motorcycle went out of control on Newbury Street. You’re in a cab, on the way to Mass General.”

      David struggled to line up the sequence of events in his muddled brain. “So who are you?”

      “Brooke Winfield. I work at Worthington. I saw your crash from the window.”

      He didn’t know what Worthington was, but he figured the name of a street corner sounded about right, given her style of dress. If she leaned over him one more time, a nipple would pop out.

      He gave an especially pained groan, but she didn’t lean any closer. Shucks.

      “I’m feeling better,” he lied.

      “Can you sit up?”

      “If you help me.” Her bare arms encircled him and he put his face in the nook of her shoulder and neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of female flesh. His mind cleared another few degrees.

      Maybe not a street corner. She was too…clean.

      She put the flat of her hand against his skull and pushed his lolling head upright. He caught a glimpse of black night and neon city lights before closing his eyes again. The rhythm of the cab’s wheels thrummed beneath him. Comforting, except for the acrid whiff of fuel. His stomach churned.

      “Better?” Brooke cooed.

      “Sure.” He squinted, focusing on her face instead of the pounding in his head. He’d been in an accident. He remembered it now: Leaving the hotel for the bar where he and Rick raised a few in lament of a broken marriage. Word of their presence buzzing, spreading. Paparazzi arriving, chasing him down. He’d opened the throttle of his bike, not caring about the danger, as long as he got away.

      Killing himself was one way to do it.

      He looked at Brooke’s long bare legs and swallowed the grit on his tongue. “Did they get pictures?”

      “One or two.” She tugged at the hem of her dress, which was hovering at indecent-exposure level. “Are you famous?”

      “Notorious.” He tried to grin at her, but the effort felt sickly rather than cocksure, so he let his face drop into the nook again. She was soft and silken against the abraded skin on his cheek.

      “We’re here,” the cabbie said, slowing to make the turn toward the emergency entrance. A siren blasted a two-second warning nearby.

      Brooke pushed his head back up and smiled with encouragement. “Can you walk, or should I ask for a wheelchair?”

      With fuzzy eyes, he studied his rescuer. She seemed beatific. A heart-shaped face held shining eyes and pink lips that stretched wide when she smiled and puckered when she frowned with concern. Strands of caramel-brown hair curved against her cheeks and the long, graceful neck that smelled like powder and sunny meadows.

      Above the neck, an angel of mercy. Below…

      Born to sin.

      “You don’t look good,” she said, putting a palm to her chest as she moved away. “I’ll get help.”

      “No, no, I can walk.” He followed her out the car door—hell, he’d have followed her anywhere—wobbling only a little as he stepped onto the pavement and got his feet under him. The lights were too bright and the sounds too loud. He winced and clutched at Brooke for support.