“Ms. Reynolds, how do you feel about the Sheridan execution?”

“Ms. Reynolds, tell us about your new murder trial.”

“Ms. Reynolds, do you consider yourself a legal vigilante?”

“What is Senator Reynolds’ feeling on the death penalty?”

Lauren tried to hide from the flashes.

“Get back,” Royce ordered. “Leave her alone.” He bent close to Lauren’s ear. “Just keep walking, and stay close.”

Someone stuck a microphone in Royce’s face. “Who are you? Are you her date?”

They were only a few steps from his truck when something ice cold splattered all over them. Lauren jumped and screamed. Several reporters cursed. Royce didn’t take time to consider what had been thrown or if there was real danger. Instinct and training had taught him to assume the worst, and act.

He yanked the passenger door open and helped Lauren inside the vehicle. At that moment, an egg smacked into the panel beside him and Lauren gasped at the thump. “What was that?” she asked, leaning toward him. He eased her back into her seat.

“Stay inside,” was his only reply, before he shut her inside the vehicle.

The hair on the back of Royce’s neck lifted as he moved to the driver’s side, and climbed inside the cab. The FBI had taught him to never ignore his instincts, and his instincts were screaming of trouble where he might otherwise find only irritation.

He locked the doors and started the engine. “You okay?” he asked, glancing Lauren’s way as he maneuvered them onto the highway.

She ignored his question. “That was an egg that hit your truck, wasn’t it?”

“It’ll wash off.”

“We should go to a car wash before it destroys your paint job. I feel horrible about this, Royce.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “You have no idea how much I want to wash the cobwebs from my brain right now, while we’re at it.”

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You don’t control what people do.”

“But I should have considered how I might put you in the line of fire. And I would have had I not stupidly drank too much champagne, which is not like me, by the way. I have a murder trial starting in two weeks, and when I juggle a high profile case, on top of the attention I get because of my father, it can get intense. I feel really, really horrible that I dragged you into my mess.”

“You said that already,” he said. “My truck will be fine. Stopping somewhere will only make us a target for ambitious reporters who might be following.” Or someone else who intended for them to stop, and intended to take advantage of the seclusion of a late night car wash stop.

“I’m willing to take the risk to save your truck.”

“I’m not and I have insurance for a reason.”

She hesitated and nodded, then touched her dress and smelled her fingers. “Champagne. I think someone threw champagne at us. Either that or I spilled it on myself and I’m more tipsy than I remember. But then, drunks don’t remember, now do they?”

“You’re not a drunk, and don’t put yourself down for relaxing a little. And yes, what was thrown on us was champagne, which is far better than getting hit with an egg.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I guess there’s that to cling to.” She hesitated, then, “Maybe it’s the tipsy part of this equation for me, but that scene back there rattled me way more than it normally would.” She shivered and hugged herself. “I’ve been around my share of creepy bad guys and I got that same feeling of malice rolling off the crowd.”

“It’s called a typical Friday night in Manhattan,” he said lightly, not about to tell her he’d felt it too, and because he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, he added, “I need your address for the GPS.” She murmured a reply and he punched the information into the program. “Why don’t you rest your eyes until we get there?”

She nodded and slid down into the seat, a little too willing to do as he suggested from what he knew of her personality. She was rattled all right. She knew she was in trouble.

Chapter Three

Fifteen minutes later, Royce had paid the doorman a hefty tip to park his truck without hassle. Now on the fifth floor of the twenty-story Upper West Side residential building Lauren lived in, he waited while she fished a key out of the small beaded purse she’d gotten from the coat clerk back at the hotel. She produced a silver keychain which she proceeded to drop to the ground.

Royce scooped it up. “Let me,” he offered, and when she nodded, crossing her arms in front of her, he couldn’t help but notice how adorably nervous and vulnerable she appeared. He was being allowed to see what he doubted many had before him. This was a glimpse of what lay beneath the confident Assistant DA’s public persona, and it was so much more than what he gambled on. Lauren wasn’t a spoiled senator’s daughter, or even an arrogant public servant with too much power, as he imagined she might be. She was so much deeper, so much more than her beauty, and she didn’t even seem to recognize it.

He slipped the key into the lock and shoved open the door, flipping on a light and illuminating a marbled floor. He stepped back into the hallway to let Lauren enter, then followed her inside, shutting the door and locking it behind them. He took a step forward, noting the kitchen to his left, at the same time that Lauren said, “Royce,” and whirled around and right into him.