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open his eyes.  I was glad Blane hadn't killed him, though I wondered briefly what would have happened if I hadn't stopped him.
    As I returned back to Blane, he looked questioningly at me. I shrugged.  “He took the necklace you gave me.”
    Blane didn't move.  “You fought him over the necklace?” he asked, his tone chilling. 
    Grimacing, I muttered, “You gave it to me.  I didn't want him to have it.”
    “Christ, Kat!” Blane exploded.  “I would have bought you another one!  It wasn't worth your life!  He could have killed you!”
    I bit my lip, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it.  I had acted irrationally, but hadn't been able to stop myself.  I'd just been overcome with anger that he would dare to take something precious to me.  It wasn't even that it was an expensive necklace, it was just that Blane had given it to me.  I said none of this, just looked up at Blane and hoped he would drop it.  Huffing with exasperation, he pulled me to him, wrapping me tightly in his arms and resting his chin on top of my head.
    “Never a dull moment, Kat,” he said with a sigh.
    We emerged from the mouth of the alley to find two police cars pulling up, sirens blaring.  A blinding light flashed at me and I realized there a few photographers there, too.  A quick glance at Blane showed me that he looked like he'd obviously been in a fight.  His hair was tousled and a bit of blood marred the corner of his mouth.  His once white shirt was stained and torn, the cuffs open from where the buttons had come off.  I saw his knuckles were raw, scraped and bloody from the fight.  The veneer of gentility he'd worn earlier was gone.  He looked altogether masculine and dangerous. 
    A cop stepped up to us, blocking the photographers.  “Mr. Kirk, is that you?” he asked.  At Blane's nod, he turned his attention to me.  “You must be the victim.  Someone heard you scream and called 911.  You all right, miss?”
    “I'm fine,” I said, my voice a little too weak for my liking.  The cop nodded and stepped past us toward the prone and now groaning mugger lying on the ground.
    “Hey!  That's Blane Kirk!”  The words came from one of the photographers and seemed to ignite a frenzy of flashbulbs.
    Turning me gently towards his chest, Blane hid my face from the cameras as we moved forward through the photographers and small crowd of onlookers that had gathered.  Flashes continued to go off and I didn't know how Blane wasn't blinded by them.  When we reached the street, he let out a piercing whistle and a passing taxi pulled to a stop.
    He opened the door, eased me inside, and carefully shut it.  Leaning into the open driver's window, he spoke to the cabbie.
    “Take her home and help her inside.”  I saw him give the driver several bills before he turned to speak to me.
    “I'll handle the cops and press,” he said.  “I'll come by when I'm through.”
    I nodded silently, grateful to be going home.  The adrenaline was wearing off and my body was forcefully reminding me of the abuse I'd just endured.
    With one last searching gaze, Blane backed away.  The driver pulled into the street and I turned in my seat to look out the back window.  Blane stood watching until I was out of sight.  Flashbulbs brightly illuminated his torn white shirt and body every few seconds, the silence of the scene from the confines of the cab making it appear eerie as they bathed Blane with their cold glare.
     

Chapter Two
     
     
     
    The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only the pain of my injuries in its place.  I sniffed, scrubbing a hand across the tears on my cheek.
    “Are you ok-k-kay?”
    I looked up, focusing on the driver who was taking quick glances in his rear view mirror at me while watching the road.
    Clearing my throat, I said hoarsely, “Yeah, I'm fine.”
    “I c-c-c-can t-take you to a-a hos-hospital,” he insisted, a very pronounced stutter making it difficult to understand him.
    “No, really,