Sharon smiled, smugness radiating off her like a second skin. “We’re not most families, and thank God for it.”

“Exactly my point,” Lauren mumbled and accepted a champagne flute from a waiter, feeling the hot stare of Royce without even looking at him. But she knew where he was in the far corner, leaning on the bar, waiting for her. She tipped her wrist back to drink and silently vowed that tonight was about indulging, about living a little.

“I see you received the watch,” Sharon said, glancing at Lauren’s wrist. “At least thank us for it.”

Lauren didn’t bother commenting. Sharon would never understand the difference between giving love and buying it. “Where is my dear brother Brad?” she asked instead, unable to stop the intended jab from slipping past her lips. She didn’t like Sharon’s son any more than she liked Sharon. He’d been eighteen and Lauren seventeen when her father had remarried, not three years after her mother’s cancer had shattered her world, and though they were siblings by marriage, his creepy flirtation had been almost instant. Now, seven years later, nothing had changed.

“Brad,” Sharon replied, “is off taking depositions in an important case for your father’s firm, and your father would expect nothing less. In case you forgot, he runs it now, after you refused the job.” Sharon's eyes darted toward Royce. “I see you have caught the eye of the oldest Walker brother. You should be more discreet.”

No, Lauren thought, downing the rest of her champagne. She was tired of discreet. Really darn tired of it and Sharon. She might have said as much, had Sharon stayed by her side one more second.

Lauren’s gaze immediately sought Royce’s and found it. He was watching her exchange with Sharon. He knew they’d fought, she realized. He was too attentive not to have noticed. And oddly, considering the man was a complete stranger, she had this sense that if she needed him, he was primed and ready to act, to be there for her. For a girl who normally valued her independence, Lauren was shocked to find that idea beyond sexy, while still dipping into the realm of being downright comforting. And for the first time all week, she let herself admit that she’d been feeling uneasy, like she needed to look over her shoulder, for no explainable reason. Correction, Lauren thought. No explainable reason besides the obvious that she was readying for a murder trial and dealing with her stepmother both in a two week span. If those two things didn’t deserve a dose of comfort Royce Walker style, she didn’t know what else did.

***

If Royce had ever seen a woman looking for escape, it was Lauren. She didn’t like the politics of her father’s world, nor most definitely the disposition of her stepmother. It was clear to him that Lauren was realizing that she had no real control that it all belonged to her father. She wanted out desperately yearning for freedom. He’d spent years as a hostage negotiator, seen how people dealt with the feeling of being trapped, of having all control stripped. So when Royce watched Lauren reach for yet another glass of champagne, he knew she was in trouble. He knew she never had more than one drink. He knew this from her profile. He knew a lot about Lauren that he’d venture to say she didn’t want him to know. Most importantly, he knew it was time to escort her home before she did something she’d regret in the morning.

He shoved off the bar, intending to go after her, when Lauren headed down the stairs, and began weaving or rather wobbling her way in his direction. In several long strides, Royce was in front of her, gently shackling her arms to steady her. Her hand went to her forehead, distress in her delicate features.

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Thanks. I think”

“You drank too much.” He kept his voice low, and then leaned down near her ear, and whispered. “Perhaps regretting the invitation you gave me earlier?”

He felt her shiver, and then watched defiance flash in her eyes. “No. I’m not.” She paused. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She let out a breath. “It’s my stepmother. It’s the party. It’s my… I’m rambling and I never ramble but I’m only a little bit tipsy. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am doing, though. I do.”

She might know what she was doing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t regret her actions in the morning. He wasn’t in the habit of causing regret in women, and he wasn’t going to start with Lauren. The best thing he could do was get her home safely, and walk away. Lord, please give me the will to do that and nothing more. “Did you drive to the party?”

She shook her head. “I’m a sensible subway and taxi girl. I won’t pay to park a car I barely drive.”

“That leaves you with two options to get home. I can get you a taxi or I can drive you home.” He wanted her to say ‘taxi,’ for her sake, for his. But he couldn’t let that be her answer, not and do his job. He needed to be her ride, to get to her home, to get closer to her.

She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, her voice soft and raspy, and oh so sexy as she said, “You know I want you to take me home.”

The obvious reiteration of the earlier invitation he couldn’t accept no matter how much he wanted to punched him in the gut. “Consider me your ride then.”

A few minutes later, the two of them stood in the lobby of the hotel while a valet pulled his truck to the bottom of several flights of outdoor steps. He slipped his arm around her waist and they headed into an unseasonably cool April evening air. They managed to make it as far as the bottom of the first set of stairs on the terrace area, when they were suddenly swarmed by reporters. Cameras flashed and microphones were shoved in their direction.