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crouch, ready to escape if possible, fight if necessary. But she didn’t need to do either. Her attacker’s attention had shifted to the old, stoop-shouldered maintenance man who’d come to her rescue.
    Only it wasn’t an old janitor.
    Navy ball cap missing, and a broken-off mop handle in his hands, Rathe faced the bear-size junkie, who swayed on his feet and shook his head as though to clear it. But the rheumy eyes were disconcertingly sharp as they focused with deadly intent.
    “You got money? I need a fix, man. Just gimme a fix and I’ll go away. I don’t want to hurt you, man.” The drug-crazed giant belied this by taking a swipe at Rathe, who darted out of reach.
    “McKay, look out!” Nia cried, then belatedly remembered their cover. She wasn’t supposed to know him.
    His eyes flicked to her, and the junkie charged with a roar, nearly catching the “janitor” by surprise.
    Rathe stepped back and spun the mop handle in a neat one-two-three tattoo that caught the man on the ribs, throat and just behind the ear. Seemingly undeterred, the attacker lurched forward, hamlike arms reaching. But his drug-induced invincibility propelled him straight into a whistling arc of wood as Rathe teed off on his attacker’s temple. And this time, he put some muscle into it. The mop handle met flesh with a thud and a crack as the beleaguered wood broke under pressure. The enormous man dropped like a rock.
    And stayed down.
    Nobody moved for a beat, then scattered applause broke out in the atrium. Voices murmured. Gentle, helping hands tugged at Nia, pulling her to her feet and checking her for injury. But the voices seemed muted, the touches faraway. Her whole attention was centeredon the man who stood above his fallen enemy, making the navy janitor’s garb look like a warrior’s armor.
    “Rathe,” she whispered, and though he was twenty feet away, his head snapped up. His eyes found hers, and the energy surged between them as it had once before, hot and wanting, sharp and ready. Then, like a suddenly stilled heart, the connection was broken as he looked away. His shoulders sagged. He seemed to shrink. His eyes dulled to those of a bored laborer whose mind was on other things. He bent and retrieved his ball cap, looking more washed out than he’d been seven years earlier, near dead with fever.
    He’d been holed up in an airport hotel, having landed near collapse and been unable to make it further. Twenty-one-year-old Nadia, halfway through her accelerated M.D., had gotten the message before her father. This was it, she’d thought. This was her way of proving to her father that she was cut out for HFH. Her way of proving to Rathe that she was worthy of—
    “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am? The officers are here. Ma’am? Are you okay?” The gentle hands shook her out of the past and back to a present that included a mess of hospital security guards, an unconscious junkie and a switchblade lying, seemingly harmless, on the floor.
    Eyes fixed on the knife, Nia began to shake.
    Over the roaring in her ears, she heard someone say, “Hey, grab her, she’s going to faint!” just as another voice, farther away, asked, “Where’d that janitor go? He was here a minute ago.”
    Rathe. The name steadied her, reminded her she wasalive, thanks to him. Reminded her that she had a job to do. The reputation of her sex to uphold. She could imagine him scoffing at her. This is why women shouldn’t be in dangerous field situations. They fall apart.
    Well, damn it. Not her. Not today.
    “I’m fine.” She batted away the helping hands and turned toward the knot of security guards, who gave way to a pair of men in street clothes.
    The younger of the two, handsome in a neat brown suit and crisp white shirt, held out his hand. “Detective Peters, ma’am.” He indicated his partner with his other hand, and a wedding band glinted gold in the light. For some reason Nia found the symbol comforting. “And my partner, Detective Sturgeon. We