"Your friend's an asshole," Jackson said.

"He's not my friend."

"Yeah. I got that. You want to tell me about the argument?"

"No." Louisa's stomach turned at the thought of sharing her conflict with Blaine. "It's old news." But Blaine's visit wasn't. Why tonight? And what did he really want? Come to think of it, what did Aunt Margaret really want? The stunt with Blaine didn't make sense. It had to be about money, but Louisa couldn't see the angle.

Jackson stared, clearly not buying Louisa's story.

She sighed. "When you have a lot of money, there are always people trying to get some of it."

Her jaw ached from its impact with the pavement, and from the thoughts and suspicions turning in her mind. She wanted to go home, get into bed, and pull the covers over her head.

Jackson shoved the notebook and pen back in his pocket. "Do you have a ride home?"

The question surprised her. Was he offering assistance? "I called a friend."

"Sweetie, what have you done to yourself?" Damian's arrival ended the interview. He frowned at the cop. "How did you get here so fast?"

Jackson didn't blink. "I can double-park."

Louisa looked from Jackson to Damian. "Did I miss something?"

"Have you talked to Sullivan tonight?" Jackson asked.

"No. Why?" She swung her feet over the edge of the gurney. Ouch. "Is there something wrong?"

"He had some trouble tonight too." Jackson watched her face. She was likely more transparent than Blaine.

"What happened?" Louisa's gaze swung from Jackson, who wouldn't give anything away, to Damian.

Her friend shrugged. "You'll have to ask Conor."

With a nod, Detective Jackson moved toward the door. "Be careful, Doctor. No more playing detective. You had a close call tonight. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

20.

Conor paced the alley. The police were finishing up in his apartment. Damian had said Louisa was all right, but Conor wanted to see her with his own eyes.

Terry pulled up in his cruiser. Conor hadn't seen him since the break-in a few hours ago. The cop was still in uniform, and his face was all business.

Conor walked over to the police car. "What's going on?" He gave Terry's partner riding shotgun a hello nod.

Terry lowered the window and handed Conor a picture. "Is this the kid who broke into your apartment?"

Conor looked down at a mug shot. "Yeah. That's him."

"His name is Hector Torres." Terry tucked the photo back into the chest pocket of his uniform.

"Who is he?"

"A little piece of garbage, but a dangerous one." Terry tapped a finger on the wheel. "He's been in and out of juvenile detention a few times, mostly petty shit. But the word on the street is that Hector's running with the Big K. That's how we found him, from your description of the tattoo on his neck."

"Damn, that's not good." Conor rubbed his scalp. The Big K was a gang that claimed a hunk of North Kensington as its territory.

"No. It's definitely not good." Terry shifted his weight. "The Big K is bad news."

"All gangs are bad news. What's the kid doing down here? This isn't North Kensington."

Terry shook his head. "I don't know."

"This can't be over a dog."

"It doesn't make any sense. We're trying to find Hector, but you better be extra careful, Conor," Terry said. "You should be glad you have cops watching you."

"Thanks." He stepped back from the car. The idea of the bar-and Conor's family-making any gang's radar sent terror skittering across his skin.

The two cops came out of his apartment. "We're done," the one holding the camera said. "You're going to want to call a professional cleaner."

"Thanks." Conor went back inside the bar and scanned the room for his sister. The kitchen was closed this late. Behind the bar, Jayne was popping the top off a couple of bottles of beer.

"No word from Reed?"

She shook her head. "Not since dinnertime. Scott is still in ICU."

"I'm sorry, honey. I haven't been there for you this week, and now I have to leave again." He explained about Louisa. "I called Pat. He's on his way over. He'll help you close up."

She put her hands on her hips. "I don't need Pat to close the bar."

"I know," he said. It might tweak Jayne's pride, but there was no way he was letting pregnant Jayne and old Ernie handle any potential rowdies.

Jayne heaved an exasperated sigh. "You and Pat are overprotective, but I guess you're too old to change your ways. Now go see Louisa." Jayne turned Conor around and pushed him toward the door. "Call me or text me. Let me know what's going on."

"You let me know if you hear from Reed."

"'Kay. Love you," Jayne called after him.

Philadelphia nightlife ended early. The drive took ten minutes. Why did Louisa choose to call Damian over him?

He parked in the garage at the Rittenhouse and gave his name at the desk in the lobby.

"Go on up," the doorman said.

Two minutes later, Conor knocked softly on her door. It opened. Damian and Kirra greeted him in the foyer.

Damian waved Conor inside.

"I'm glad you're here." The lawyer grabbed his keys from the counter. "I was just on my way out, and I really didn't want to leave her alone."

"How is she?" Conor stooped to pet the dog. She wagged her tail and then bolted for the master bedroom. The door was ajar, and the dog slipped through the opening. Conor could hear the sound of water running.

"Physically, just a little banged up, but it shook her." Damian snatched his suit jacket from the back of a stool. "She's changing her clothes. I don't think she had dinner. She could probably use something to eat."

"What the hell happened?"

"I'm sorry, Conor. I have a teenager in big trouble waiting for me." Folding his jacket over his arm, Damian headed for the door. "Louisa will have to fill you in on the details. I'll call you tomorrow."

Conor paced the kitchen. The rushing water sound ceased. He froze, the breath tightening in his lungs as the door opened.

"Damian, I can't get this zipper." Louisa stopped short. The dog sat next to her feet and looked up at her. "Conor."

She stood barefoot in the entry to the kitchen. His gaze snapped to the bruise on her chin and the stark white bandages on her hands and knees. Her hair tumbled down her back in a wild blond tangle. The slim black dress left her arms bare. Her face was pale, her eyes exhausted, and her dress torn.

He wanted to rush to her, to fold her in his arms, but he couldn't. She hadn't called for him, and that fact stung even as relief at seeing her whole and minimally injured swept through him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

He stuffed his hands in his front pockets. "I was with Damian when you called him. What happened?"

"While I was waiting for a cab, someone shoved or bumped me in front of a bus."

"Which one was it?"

"I don't know." Louisa didn't move forward either. "The sidewalk was crowded. Detective Jackson showed up at the hospital. He said he'd look into it."

"But you're all right?"

"Yes." Her throat moved as she swallowed. She winced and reflexively touched her swollen jaw.

"Let me get you some ice for that."

She exhaled as if she'd made a decision. Then she limped closer and turned around. "Would you unzip me?" She lifted her hair over her head with both hands.

Being careful to not pinch her skin, Conor drew the zipper down slowly from her neck to the small of her back. Inch by inch, the fabric parted, revealing the straps of her bra and a whole lot of soft skin. His hands itched with the need to strip the dress from her body and check every inch of her skin for injury. He lowered his head and kissed the back of her neck. The dimples at the base of her spine tempted him to press his lips there, but he resisted. "I wish you'd have called me."

She leaned against him and dropped her hair. Her body deflated with a slow exhalation of breath and tension.

"Me too," she whispered.

Enjoying the weight of her body, he rested his temple against the side of her head. His hands stroked up her arms. "Why did you call Damian instead of me?"

"Less risk."

"I don't understand."

"Damian is just a friend."

"So what am I?"

"More." She turned around. Her eyes misted. Behind the unshed tears, conflict lurked. "What I feel for you scares me. I'm not sure I can give you what you want. What you need. What you deserve. I just might not have it in me."

"Don't shut me out. Talk to me." Conor wiped the pad of his thumb under her eye, catching a tear before it rolled down her cheek. "Don't be afraid to tell me anything."

Doubt and fear flickered in her eyes.

"I mean it."

"I know you do." She stared at the center of his chest for a minute, her blond lashes concealing any change in her emotions. "I'll try, but it's not going to happen overnight. I'm used to being alone." Her voice was hoarse, as if her words were sandpaper in her throat.

Conor took the admission as progress-and accepted it as enough for one night.

"OK. Baby steps then." He grinned. "Do you need help getting the rest of your clothes off? Please say yes."

The corner of her mouth tilted upward. "I think I can manage."

"Too bad." He let out a long-suffering sigh. Her eyes didn't look so bleak. "What can I do for you?"

"I could use some ibuprofen and ice."

"Have you eaten?"

She hesitated, her eyelids dropping like shutters. "No."

"Do you want to tell me what happened to dinner?"

"Not right now."

"OK. Later then, but you're not getting out of talking to me." He kissed her forehead. "Why don't you change, and I'll see what I can rustle up in your kitchen."

She backed away. "There's not much in there."

"I like a challenge."

Kirra followed Louisa into the bedroom. Conor went into the kitchen, which was mostly empty. He sniffed a quart of skim milk. Sour. He emptied it in the sink and tossed the carton in the trash. Two containers of moldy Chinese takeout followed. He set cheese and bread on the counter and rooted through the cabinets until he found a frying pan. A few minutes later, butter sizzled around a grilled cheese sandwich, and the kitchen filled with the scent. In the pantry, he found a can of tomato soup.

He put the soup and sandwich out on the island. With the dog trailing behind, Louisa returned in a baggy sweatshirt, yoga pants, and thick socks. She eased onto a stool. Conor watched, pleased, as she ate half the sandwich. Chewing looked painful, and she moved on to the soup. She consumed most of it before she pushed the bowl aside.

He handed her two tablets and a glass of water. "You should get into bed."

"Good idea." She took the ice pack he offered next.