"Thank you," I say softly. "I know I can be stubborn sometimes. I just needed to..." I glance over at the paper. Where do I begin?

I take a deep breath. "The police are definitely looking for me."

His grip tightens on mine.

"But I don't know if they're going to chase me down across state lines," I add quickly. "Honestly, I don't know how any of this works. Maybe they're going to track my credit card or something. Maybe it's stupid to run, but-"

"I don't care if it's stupid."

The intensity in his tone makes me forget everything else I was going to say.

"I don't care if this is reckless or idiotic or if they have every cop in the country looking for us," he says. "I'm with you all the way."

I don't deserve this. I don't deserve for someone like Ward to look at me and promise me those things. I have a habit of dragging down the people who get close to me, and I don't want to pull him deeper into my mad whirlwind than I already have.

"There's nothing about you in the article," I tell him. "They don't know you're with me."

"They'll know soon enough."

"Your father might not know that you're with me."

Something flashes in his eyes.

"He'll have noticed I'm gone," he says, and the tenderness of his voice a moment ago has been replaced by something hard. "He's not a moron. I'm pretty sure he's figured it out."

Another thought occurs to me. Maybe I'm pushing it, but I can't be silent.

"The police haven't figured it out yet. Or the press," I remind him. "Or if they have, they haven't revealed that information to the public. Maybe your father has something to do with that. Maybe he's protecting you."

"You mean he's protecting himself. From scandal."

I've ticked him off again, but I don't care.

"Look," I say, "I know that-"

"Here you are! Two pork belly specials." Bill the waiter is back, armed with a smile and a tray full of steaming food. But though the smell is mouthwatering, I couldn't care less about eating right now. I'm forced to pull my hand back from Ward's to make room for our plates, but I lock eyes with him across the table.

He doesn't say a word.

"There you go," Bill says, setting a dish in front of each of us. "And some extra napkins. You'll be needing these."

"Thanks," Ward says. He sounds like he wants to sock the guy.

"Anything else I can get you folks?" Bill asks, completely oblivious to what I a.s.sumed was a very palpable cloud of tension over our table. "Oh, almost forgot your silverware." He fumbles in the deep pocket of his ap.r.o.n, then sets two napkin-wrapped silverware bundles down on the table.

"Oh, I was reading about this," he adds.

I'm still looking at Ward, but Bill's comment is random enough that I glance up at him. The waiter isn't looking at us anymore. Instead, he's staring down at the newspaper sitting on the edge of the table.

I stiffen.

"The rich ones are always crazy, aren't they?" Bill says with a laugh. He pokes at the giant picture of my face. "Having that much money does things to your head."

It's all I can do to bite my tongue. But Ward suddenly reaches out and grabs the paper.

"Sometimes you can't know what's going on in someone's head," he says, and the look he gives the waiter would send a lesser man scrambling back a few steps.

But Bill either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore Ward's tone.

"I'll say." He gives another laugh. "No idea what's going on in that one's head."

"No." Ward's sitting perfectly upright now. "I mean you shouldn't judge people until you know what they've been through."

"Give me a rich guy's problems any day," Bill says. "Maybe her daddy shouldn't have bought her everything she ever wanted."

Ward's on his feet so fast that he knocks over his gla.s.s of tea. It crashes across the table, drenching his pork belly special.

But my eyes aren't on the table. Neither are Bill's. With his height and his muscles, Ward's not exactly a small guy, but he seems even more impressive right now-and Bill finally seems to notice. He stumbles back and gives a nervous laugh.

"Easy, man. Didn't mean anything by it. Was just making conversation."

That muscle in Ward's cheek is twitching. His entire body is rigid.

"You've made your f.u.c.king point," he says. "Don't you have a job to do?"

This escalated way too quickly. I rise and put a hand on Ward's arm. His jaw tightens, then releases. Slowly, he relaxes.

Bill still looks a little nervous, and I don't blame him. But as Ward lowers his arms, the tension leaves him as well. His gaze darts between Ward and me, then drops to the newspaper, which is still sitting on the table. His eyes shoot back to me, and then they widen.

Oh, no.

"You're her," he says. "I can't believe it. You're her."

By now, most of the restaurant is looking at us. Great.

"We should go," I say softly to Ward. My hand is still on his arm.

"Yeah," he says. "We should go."

His hand falls to my waist and he starts to lead me toward the exit.

"Wait!" Bill calls after us. "You're going to have to pay for that food."

"Send us a f.u.c.king bill," Ward shouts back over his shoulder.

"No. That's not how it works in here." Bill runs after us, catching up just as we reach the door. He grabs my arm, yanking me back into the restaurant.

And that's when everything explodes.

I only have a split-second to register the fact that Ward's hand is no longer on my waist. Suddenly he's twisting, turning toward the man who still has my arm in his grip, and that hand-now a fist-is flying through the air.

I've seen Ward fight before. But I've never been this close to the action. When his knuckles slam into Bills face, I swear I feel the vibrations of the impact.

The waiter releases my arm as he goes flying backwards. He slams into a table, sending sugar packets and silverware in every direction. I grab Ward.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get out of here before-"

But Bill's already back on his feet. He hardly looks stunned.

"Is that how this is going to go?" he says, his eyes glinting. He turns his glare on me. "I don't care who you are or who your daddy was. We don't tolerate thieves in here."

"Stand back," Ward murmurs, nudging me toward the entrance.

This needs to stop before it gets any worse. "I don't think-"

"Stand back," he says again, and this time he shoves me.

That shove is the only thing that saves me from Bill's next charge. The waiter isn't paying attention to me, and I might have had an elbow in my face if Ward hadn't gotten me out of the way. I stumble into the racks of newspapers, but I regain my balance in time to see the two men locked together, swinging angrily at each other.

Ward grunts as the older man gets him in the ribs. But he's been in worse situations than this, and he manages to catch the waiter on the jaw with his next punch. I have to jump out of the way as they both come tumbling into the entryway.

My gaze shifts past them to the rest of the dining room. No surprise-everyone is watching. Half of them are on their feet. A couple of people even throw out encouraging cheers as either Ward or Bill makes contact.

Maybe this is entertaining to them, but I just want it to be over. And I'm not the only one-on the far side of the restaurant, I notice one of the other employees talking agitatedly into the phone, making gestures at the fighting men. A hundred bucks says he's talking to the police.

If we don't get out of here soon, one or both of us might be arrested. And that is not how this is going to end.

"Ward," I say. "Ward, we have to go."

The only response I get is a grunt as Bill elbows him in the stomach. Not sure what I was expecting. Ward can't exactly get up and walk away.

Which means I have to stop this fight another way.

I'm not exactly a brawler. And I don't want anyone to get hurt. But I can be creative.

There's just enough room for me to squeeze past the men and slip back into the main part of the restaurant. As soon as I'm past them, I hear them slam into one of the newspaper racks. I have to be fast.

There's a couple at the closest table.

"I'm sorry," I tell them as I grab their drinks. No time to worry about being rude. I turn and beeline back to the two men, an icy soda in each hand.

And then I let the drinks fly.

Both men freeze in shock as the cold liquid hits them. It's just enough of a break for me to lean down and grab Ward's arm.

"Come on," I say. "Quick. They're calling the police."

Ward starts to get to his feet, but neither he nor the other man looks like they're even close to cooled off, despite the ice sliding off their clothes. Bill grabs Ward's leg as he tries to get up. And Ward spins, ready to sock him again. But I'm not going to let that happen.

I throw my arm out in front of Ward, and his body goes rigid as he brings his fist to a stop in mid-air. Some of the battle-l.u.s.t in his expression fades when his eyes meet mine.

The sudden lift of his eyebrows is my only warning.

Pain slams into my face and my vision explodes in white. I'm dimly aware of falling-or rolling, or spinning. I'm not sure which way. I only know that everything feels like the wrong direction, and then I can't feel or hear or see anything at all.

CHAPTER FIVE.

It's my smell that comes back first. I smell food. Something smoky. Somewhere far away, my stomach rumbles in response to the delicious scent.

I gulp in a mouthful of air. My cheek is tingling. My whole face is throbbing.

And someone is shouting.

"...hit her! What the f.u.c.k?"

I know that voice. That's Ward's voice. Ward is shouting. Why is Ward shouting?

I try to move, and pain shoots through my skull. It comes back to me slowly-the fight, my interference, Ward's eyes suddenly going wide-and I realize I was. .h.i.t. The waiter punched me in the side of the face.

"What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?" Ward shouts at the other man.

Carefully, I sit up. The world only spins for a minute, and I take that as a good sign. And then hands-Ward's hands-are on me, lifting me to my feet. Everything falls into focus around me. The newspaper stands have been knocked over, and several dozen images of my face are scattered across the floor. When I look up across the dining room, I find a stunned and silent restaurant looking back at me. Bill looks just as stunned as the rest of them. In fact, he looks almost sick.

Ward is still shouting. The only other person moving is the man on the other side of the room with the phone. He's still on the call, and by the way he's staring at us, I know we're still in trouble.

"We need to go," I say. I lift my hand and touch my cheek. The skin feels warm, and it's still tingling. That probably means I wasn't out long, if at all. Not that I really have any basis for that a.s.sumption. I've never been knocked out before.

Still, it takes a moment for my feet to obey me and move toward the door. Ward resists. He continues to yell at the waiter, and I don't want to think about what will happen if I let go of him. I've seen him fight before. I've seen him angry before. But I've never seen him like this-so enraged that he seems to have forgotten everything else. He's shaking violently.

"Please," I say. "Ward, please." I give him another tug, and this time he turns his head and looks at me. For a second I don't recognize the person I see in his eyes-but just for a second. When he focuses on me, a bit of the Ward I know breaks through, and I pull his arm again.

He follows me outside.

We stumble across the parking lot, and Ward fishes his keys from his pocket as we head to the car. I throw a glance over my shoulder at the restaurant, but no one is following us. Maybe they've decided to let us walk away before things get any worse. Or maybe they're hoping the cops will head us off.

Ward doesn't say a word to me as we climb into the car. It takes him three tries to jam the key into the ignition. His hands are shaking on the wheel as he steers us back onto the highway.

I'm shaking, too. The tingling in my cheek has turned into more of a p.r.i.c.kling feeling, and now my whole head hurts. I reach up and gently touch my face. Slivers of pain shoot across my skin. It still feels much warmer than normal, almost feverish, and I can already tell it's getting puffy. I wonder if the swelling will reach my eye. I can only imagine the bruise I'm going to have.

Ward switches lanes, and even buckled up, I'm thrown against the door. He's driving way too fast, weaving through the lanes, pa.s.sing cars on every side. Part of me is grateful that we're putting lots of distance between us and that restaurant, but the other part of me is terrified. I know that we're only going to get pulled over again if he keeps driving like this. The last thing I want is another face-to-face encounter with the police.

Ward's looking straight ahead. He's gripping the wheel so tightly that the veins are bulging out of the back of his hands. He's so intent on the road that it's almost as if he's forgotten I'm here.