"You must be Aunt Margaret," Conor said. He shifted his gaze to the blond man. "Does that make you Blaine Delancey?"

"Yes." Blaine tugged at a cuff. "And you are?"

Conor punched him dead center in the face. Blood spurted across the pale gray linoleum. Blaine fell backward, landing on his ass on the floor. With a stunned blink, he covered his bleeding nose with a hand.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He climbed to his feet.

"Oh my goodness." Margaret rushed to Blaine's side and pushed tissues into his hand. "Someone call security."

Conor jabbed a finger in the air. "I know what you did."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Blaine pressed the tissues against his nose.

"I know what you did to Louisa." Conor enunciated the words individually. "In the boathouse."

Blaine paled, then shook off his shock. "Everyone in here saw you assault me."

The detectives stood in the doorway.

"I didn't see anything." Detective Jackson shrugged. He back-knuckle tapped his partner on the arm. "Did you see anything?"

"Nope." Ianelli crossed his arms over his chest. "I was checking my e-mail. Sorry."

"Margaret." Blaine put a hand on her shoulder. "I hope you'll excuse me. Obviously, I'm not wanted here. I'm going back to the hotel."

"Wait, Blaine. I'm Louisa's next of kin. I have the right to make her medical decisions." Margaret cast a steely eye over Conor. A woman accustomed to getting her way. "I don't know who you are, but no one else gets in to see her except me. You don't need to leave, Blaine. They do."

"Aunt Margaret." Louisa's voice was weak but clear. "I'm fit to make my own decisions. You may come in. Blaine can go to hell."

Margaret hesitated before walking into the room with unsure steps.

"I think you'd better sit down," Conor heard Louisa say.

Blaine took the cue. Grabbing a fresh pile of tissues at the nurses' station, he walked toward the exit with hurried steps.

Jackson pushed away from the doorframe. "We'd better go."

"What are you going to do about him?" Conor jerked a thumb toward the elevator doors, which had just closed with Blaine inside the car.

"We found a traffic camera with a decent view of Broad Street in front of the Ritz." Ianelli's mouth twitched. "Old Blaine was right behind Dr. Hancock when she took her spill into traffic. Now let's go." Jackson headed for the elevator. "I want to keep him in sight. Soon as he crosses back into Philly, he's ours."

After the cops left, Conor turned an ear to Louisa's door. She and her aunt were talking in hushed tones. He leaned on the wall and waited. Fifteen minutes later, Margaret exited. She blew past Conor without stopping, her chin high, her mouth tight, angry tears shining in her eyes.

He went back into Louisa's room, expecting her to look worn. Instead, her expression was lighter. "Are you all right?"

"I am." Her voice and eyes were blurry. "She stands by Blaine. I decided I don't care. I told her never to call me again."

"Good for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out her pearls. "Oh, I forgot. The nurse gave me these when you first came in."

"Would you hold on to them for me? They were my mother's. I don't want them to get lost."

"I will." He squeezed her hand lightly.

Her body relaxed, and her voice faded.

Conor picked up his book from the bedside table and sat in the chair next to the bed, prepared to keep watch. The threat to Louisa's life was over, but she'd need time to recover.

35.

One week later Louisa opened her eyes. For the first few minutes she was surprised she was in her apartment. Sunlight streamed into the bedroom onto the dog lying next to her. A three-inch row of stitches tracked Kirra's pink belly. Louisa put her hand inside the plastic cone and scratched her head. The dog sighed.

"Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

She turned her head. Conor sat in an oversize chair he'd brought in from the living room. A book lay open on his lap. He hadn't left her side since he brought her home the day before.

"I'm fine." She shifted. Pain surrounded her rib cage, shortening her breaths, but she was content. Home, with her man and dog, was enough for today.

"Maybe you should have stayed in the hospital a few more days." He moved to the side of the bed and helped her adjust her pillows.

"No." She'd had quite enough of needles and tubes and IVs. "It felt so good to sleep in my own bed last night."

"I'll bet." Conor eased his weight onto the edge of the mattress. He patted the dog's flank. Her tail stub wagged.

"Are you sure you can stay here all the time? Don't you have to work?" Louisa reached for the glass of water on the nightstand.

Conor picked it up and handed it to her. "No. Jayne's fiance is back. He'll fill in for me. I'm here until you're both back on your feet. We're hiring a new bartender, so I'll be cutting some of my hours back on a permanent basis."

Sipping through the straw, she settled back on the pillow. "How's your apartment?"

"The remodel is going to take at least a month." His hand rested on her thigh. "I was hoping I could stay here until it's done."

"You can stay here as long as you like." Forever would work for her. She squeezed his hand. "I love you."

"I love you too." He leaned forward and kissed her, then brushed a stray hair off her cheek. "Do you want me to close the curtains so you can sleep?"

"No. I don't want to sleep."

"You look exhausted."

She glanced at the clock. "How can I be this tired? My biggest feat for the day was walking to the bathroom a couple of times."

"Don't push yourself," he said. "The nurse is coming at three. If she gives you the all-clear, you can take a shower."

"Oh my God. I want to wash my hair more than anything right now."

"Then you should rest up." Conor stood. "How about some lunch?"

Louisa sniffed. Her stomach rumbled with the first twinges of hunger since she'd been shot. "What's that smell?"

"I put chicken and vegetables in the slow cooker this morning."

"I have a slow cooker?"

"No. I borrowed it from Jayne." Conor laughed. "What do you want for lunch?"

"Could I have a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Coming right up." He handed her the remote control. The phone in the kitchen rang as he walked out. "I'll get it."

She flipped channels and stroked the dog's head. Her gaze drifted to the flower arrangements on the dresser and tables. The yellow-and-white daisy display on the nightstand was from April. Dr. Cusack had sent a pastel spray of roses and carnations. There were several more from her museum coworkers, plus flowers from Conor's family and Damian. She had lived in Philadelphia for just a few months, but she'd already made a home here.

"Do you like this apartment?" she called to Conor.

Conor came through the doorway with a plate in his hand. He gave the bank of windows overlooking Rittenhouse Square a pointed look. "What's not to like?"

"I'm thinking about buying it."

"Just don't tell me what it costs." He set her lunch on the nightstand, took her arms, and eased her more upright. "My head might explode."

"Deal." After a week of liquids and hospital food, the grilled cheese was the best thing she'd ever eaten.

At the sound of the doorbell, Conor ducked out of the room again. More flowers?

Conor poked his head in. "Louisa, do you feel up to some company?"

She swept an automatic hand over her limp hair. Dry shampoo was no substitute for the real thing.

"You look beautiful." Conor stepped aside.

Louisa gasped at the figure in the doorway. Her father wore the usual: beat-up work boots, a ragged sweater, and jeans, his face prematurely lined from depression and alcohol. Under a sloppy, unkempt mop of gray hair, green eyes stared at her. They were the same shade as her own, the one physical trait he'd passed on to her. No one would accuse Ward Hancock of being a slave to fashion. She let out her breath with a rush of pain and put a hand over the thick wad of bandages under her sweatshirt.

Conor looked over her dad's shoulder. "You all right?"

She nodded.

He walked to the bed and carefully lifted Kirra in his arms. "I'll take the dog for a limp around the park." He planted a kiss on her lips before leaving the room. After the door closed behind Conor and Kirra, her father walked to the side of the bed. He pulled Conor's chair closer and sat down hard. His gaze raked over her. Angry lines tightened around his mouth.

"I missed you," she said.

His mouth opened and closed. A line furrowed between his brows as if he were searching for words. "I can't believe my daughter was shot and didn't call me." His voice was steady with no trace of a slur. Was he sober?

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Guilt swamped Louisa.

"No. It's not your fault." Leaning forward, he took her hands between his and stared down at them. "The fault is all mine. I'm sorry. For everything."

"You haven't-"

"Louisa, when your mother died, I didn't handle it well. I didn't handle it at all. I used my work and scotch to put the whole situation out of my head. I didn't want to think about it. About her. About living without her for the next fifty years. The rest of my life felt so . . . long." He sighed. "Every time I looked at you, I saw her. You made me remember, and I was too much of a coward to face it."

A tear rolled down Louisa's cheek. Her throat clogged with the salt of sorrow. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about." He glanced up at her, his eyes moist.

She should have called him. "How did you find out?"

"Conor called me right after you got out of surgery last week. I almost flew here that day, but I wanted to clear up a few things first."

Yes, work. Always his number-one priority. Disappointment pressed on Louisa's chest, as painful as her stitches. At least her gunshot wound was healing. "I'm sorry to drag you back to the States. I know you love Stockholm."

His head snapped up. "Oh no, I didn't mean that. I took a leave of absence."

"I don't understand."

"I'm staying." His smile was sad. "I've been a terrible father for a long time. I can't make it up to you. That's impossible. But I can do better. I sure as hell can't do worse." He looked away. "I'm not being entirely honest. I bottomed out last spring. Seeing you so sad . . ." He looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. "Anyway, instead of staying here and helping you, I rushed back to Sweden. I drank for a week straight. I showed up to a lecture drunk. The dean pulled me aside and suggested a leave of absence. I haven't worked in three months."

"What have you been doing?"

"At first, nothing except wallowing." He exhaled hard through his nose. "Then the dean paid me a visit. He dragged me to an AA meeting every day for a month. I've been sober for nine weeks."

"Is that what you were going to tell me on Thanksgiving?"

He nodded. "I need to start over. I don't want to go back to Maine or Stockholm. There are too many bad associations with both those places."

"I know all about needing a fresh start." Louisa took a deep breath. Despite the pain in her ribs, her lungs felt looser. Her father was going to be all right. "Where are you staying?"

"I don't know. I haven't had a chance to look for an apartment. Or a hotel. I came here right from the airport." He rubbed the back of her hand.

"You can stay in my guest room while you look." She smiled. "Kirra and I are pretty high-maintenance right now. Conor could use a hand. He can't be here all the time."

"Just until you're healthy. These last couple of months have been the hardest of my life. But I need to do this myself if the changes are going to be permanent." Her father handed her a tissue. "Conor seems like a good man."

"He is." Louisa sniffed.

"I talked to Margaret." Her father squeezed her hand.

Louisa stiffened. She wanted to crawl under the covers and hide.

"I wish you'd have felt comfortable enough to tell me."

Louisa picked at the edge of the sheet.