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Armani with slim satin lapels that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the golden hue of his tan. His dark blond hair was close-cropped, but with fashionable spikes that defied conservative expectations—which made sense, since the man defied just about everything, including Marisela’s instinctual need to hate his guts.
    Under the dim dome light, he gave her a quick once-over. “You, on the other hand, have looked better.”
    She gave him the finger. The first time they’d met, she’d been bruised and bloodied. They were starting to establish a pattern. “No thanks to you. Makes me wonder if you don’t get your rocks off when I’m in pain.”
    He held out his hand gallantly. “Sadism really isn’t my preferred fetish, truth be told.”
    His accent was a mix of urbane British and pure American snark. She cast a glance at Frankie, who plunged out of the car, forcing Ian to move out of the way. The coast cleared, Marisela climbed out after him. She might be stiff and sore, but she didn’t need her boss’s help to get out of the car. Especially when that help involved touching him. Last time she’d done that, they’d almost ended up in bed together.
    “In case you’re wondering,” she said, “I don’t ever want to know your preferred fetish .”
    Ian’s pale blue eyes twinkled as his generous mouth struggled to contain a smile. “You say that now, but things change.”
    Frankie grabbed Marisela’s elbow possessively. “Some things never change, Blake.”
    “Like your predictable personality, perhaps?” Blake replied.
    Marisela yanked her elbow free, rolled her eyes at both of them, and marched into the building. Nothing propelled her out of a situation faster than excess testosterone. Only after she’d walked a good ten paces down the hallway did she realize she was in a hospital. She spun around to retreat when Blake blocked her path, Frankie close behind.
    “I don’t need a hospital,” she said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I hate hospitals.”
    Images flashed in her brain. She’d wanted out of the gang so bad, she’d opted to beat out. A roll of the dice had determined the number of homegirls she’d had to take on. She had to fight them and live in order to be allowed to leave las Reinas . She couldn’t remember now how many she’d rolled. Five? Six? Seven? All she knew was that she’d won.
    She’d suffered cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a torn scalp, destroyed spleen, and permanent scars. But as the saying went, “you should have seen the other guy.”
    Ian slid his hands coolly into his pockets. “Few people like hospitals, but our client is here, so you’ll have to make do. I won’t make you see a doctor. However, if you pass out, you’re on your own.”
    She narrowed her gaze. She was sore and cut up, but hadn’t experienced anywhere near the damage it would take to force her to seek medical help. “We just left our client back at the museum.”
    “The party at Houghton House is over and so is that assignment,” Ian informed them. “We have a new objective now. You and Frankie are now charged with finding out who tried to kill Congressman Craig Bennett.”
    “You mean they didn’t succeed?” Marisela asked. She’d seen the man lying on the ballroom floor, though admittedly, she’d been high above him at the time and hadn’t stuck around long enough to see if he was moving.
    “Thankfully, your intervention drew the bullet astray,” Ian confirmed, glancing back and forth between Marisela and Frankie. “But that’s not exactly common knowledge and it could be in our best interests to keep it that way for as long as possible.”
    “You think she’ll try again?” Marisela asked.
    Ian stared at her intently. “You spoke with the assassin. What do you think?”
    Marisela turned and proceeded down the hall. This wasn’t over. Not for the congressman. And obviously, not for her.
    * * *
    After a short debriefing in an unoccupied hospital room,