"Your... I guess your girlfriend?"

"Yvette?"

As if that confirmed something for her, she let out a disappointed breath. He would have commented on that, but she immediately rallied with determination.

"I saw her outside."

Yeah, he knew that. "She's grabbing some fresh air." Impatience and something more, something turbulent, churned inside him.

"I...I think she needs you."

Needed him because she was upset? Or something more?

Wanting to see for himself, he nodded at Mary. "Thanks." He started away, but again she held on.

"Listen to me, will you?" Aware of the crowd, she lowered her voice. "When I went out, she was there alone. But then some guy got in her s.p.a.ce, and I don't know her well, but I do know pushy men. That guy was pushy." Mary lifted her shoulders. "I could tell she didn't like it."

Heath? No, it couldn't be.

Not here, at a crowded public place. Probably just some idiot flirting with her. But, d.a.m.n it...

Cannon quickly kissed her cheek. "Thanks, honey. Appreciate it." Apprehension pulsed in his temples. He crossed the bar in long strides, wending his way through the patrons with haste, unable to reply to greetings and ignoring questions.

He knew Mary followed him, maybe a few others, too. d.a.m.n it, Yvette hated scenes. If he charged out there, half the d.a.m.n bar would go with him.

He was probably overreacting; he couldn't imagine any guy seeing her and not making a play.

That wasn't reason to go on a rampage.

But his heart beat harder and a dangerous mix of fury and fear stacked up inside him.

He pushed through the doors, quickly scanned the groups of people loitering about. He didn't see her and the panic set in. He turned, searching every dark corner and alley, and finally glanced across the street.

A trio of boys he knew spotted him, and by their expressions alone he knew something wasn't right.

Jogging, he headed toward them. A car horn blared; a driver cursed him.

They didn't greet him as usual, didn't smile at his presence. They were young, but they'd seen enough brutality to recognize it at a gut level.

"Have you seen her?" Cannon asked even before he'd reached them.

"She is with you, then?" one of them asked.

f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. "Where is she?"

The oldest of boys, probably only sixteen, jerked his head to the side and back.

Cannon peered through the dark between tall buildings to a gravel lot behind them-and saw Heath and Yvette next to a car. Body language said they were both p.i.s.sed. Heath's voice rose, indistinct but angry.

The kids shuffled restlessly, taught to stay uninvolved, but influenced by Cannon to do just the opposite. It was a daily battle they fought between social apathy and schooled justice. "We were trying to decide if we should come get you-"

Heath opened a car door and Yvette protested. She turned to leave, but Heath grabbed her back.

Every combustible feeling Cannon suffered suddenly ignited, then blew. Forgetting the boys, he took off in a run, rage expanding with his pounding footsteps.

Everything faded from his periphery except for Yvette. Her fear-widened eyes. How she strained away from Heath. The noise her sandals made as they slipped in the gravel.

"Let her go." The lethal order must have given Heath pause, because he hesitated. Yvette almost twisted away, but Heath caught her by the back of her T-shirt. It ripped from the shoulder.

Uncaring who might hear, Cannon told him, "You are so f.u.c.king dead."

At that, Heath shoved her to the side and charged.

He had only a second to glance at Yvette, to see she was okay, before Heath was there, right in front of him.

Cannon met him with a fist that knocked his head back. Another to his gut. As Heath reeled back, Cannon kicked his ribs. The hit sounded like a blast, and he knew he'd just broken a rib or two.

On a savage groan, Heath threw his body against Cannon and they both went down.

Not a problem.

Despite the overload of emotion, Cannon moved with precision. Heath thought he had the advantage, being on top. Allowing him to raise up a little, Cannon waited for him to throw a punch, then isolated his arm. Too fast for Heath to see it coming, he used his legs to trap his head and upper body, one leg under Heath's chin, the other across his chest with his arm between. Lifting his hips, he extended Heath's arm until he popped his shoulder.

Then popped it again, ensuring he'd dislocated the joint.

Heath gave a wounded-bear roar. The second Cannon released him, he tried to curl in on himself.

Wasn't happening.

Still driven by fury, Cannon punched his smug face again, heavy punches, right fist, then left, right again- "Enough." Armie tackled him away from Heath and they both went down on the rough gravel. When Cannon instinctively fought him off, Armie said again, "Enough."

Cannon meant what he'd said. He wanted to kill Heath.

Arms locked around Cannon's torso, Armie said in a harsh whisper, "This isn't the audience you want to perform for."

The black cloud dissipated and reality sank in. Familiar faces from the bar circled them, moving in, all talking, taking pictures with their cell phones.

Breathing hard, Cannon easily shrugged Armie off.

Easy only because Armie wasn't fighting him. It was more a matter of keeping him from killing the putz.

"Rowdy called Logan," Armie told him. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter." His body still singing with the need for violence, he pushed to his feet. The flashes from a dozen camera phones continued to light the night. "f.u.c.k."

"Take a breath," Armie advised.

He tried. But what he felt right then, pure bloodl.u.s.t, was night and day from a sanctioned fight where he used his cool to win. Different from the defense he offered to the neighborhood businesses to counter bullying thugs. Different from...anything he'd ever known.

This was red-hot, blind and...strangling the f.u.c.k out of him.

Sticking close, maybe in case he went after Heath again, Armie said, "She could use a little of that control you're known for."

He'd been avoiding looking at Yvette, only because in that moment he didn't know himself. He'd fought in plenty of compet.i.tions. Fought for justice. Fought for friends.

Three years ago, he'd fought twisted f.u.c.ks who'd tried to rape Yvette, who probably would have killed her. That had been devastating. For her and for him.

But this was so much more personal, because back then she'd been a sweet girl from the neighborhood. Too young. Untouchable.

And now...now she was his.

He'd never fought for anything this important.

The second his gaze found her, standing well away from Heath's car, cradling one arm and looking lost on many levels, he had to touch her.

Had to.

He started toward her. To his surprise, she sucked it up, squared her shoulders and came to meet him halfway. When they were close, she bit her lip, undecided.

He made up her mind for her, gathering her close, his arms locking around her, holding her but mindful of her arm.

It took him a bit, but he asked, "You're okay?"

She gave a small, jerky nod. "I'm so sorry."

For only a second more, he kept her against him, absorbing her scent and softness and the steady beating of her heart. But, d.a.m.n it, she had the means to set him on fire with need, and to p.i.s.s him off with confusion. Without even trying she left him undone and in pieces.

Another breath helped, one more, and by the third he could grasp sanity again.

"First," he grated, his voice hoa.r.s.e, "your arm?"

"I'm fine."

His jaw flexed until his temples hurt. "Let me see." He tried to take her arm, but she resisted.

"Cannon." In a hushed, breaking whisper, she told him, "My shirt is ripped," as if she'd committed a sin.

"I'll give you another shirt. h.e.l.l, I'll give you fifty f.u.c.king shirts." Okay, so maybe sanity wasn't quite attainable just yet. One more deep breath, and more firmly this time, "Let me see your arm."

She ducked her face and managed to hold the pieces of the oversize shirt together while letting him look.

Bruises already purpled her skin, and d.a.m.n if that didn't throw a match on the smoldering embers of his temper. "I should have broken his leg, too. Or his f.u.c.king neck."

"No." Her breath hitched, a little too high and thin. "You shouldn't even be involved in this mess."

It was the wrong thing-the worst thing-to say to him.

Stepping away from her seemed his best choice, but he only got two feet before storming back. "I'm involved because we're involved."

Eyes widening, lips parting, she stroked him like a mongrel dog. "I know," she said softly, her tone soothing, "and I'm glad."

Glad? She was f.u.c.king glad?

"But you don't have time for-"

"What? You?"

No answer, just a lot of flinching uncertainty. He wanted to pull back, to be what she so obviously needed right now, but he couldn't.

"s.e.x?" He tunneled a hand into her hair, anchoring her to him. "A relationship?"

She blinked big, bewildered eyes. "I don't know."

"Well, I do." Still feeling like a stranger in his own skin, he tugged her head back, her face up, until her lips opened for him.

Then he took her mouth. Hard.

She didn't fight him, just gasped in surprise. He sank his tongue in, stealing the sound.

Tasting her.

The wine she'd drunk, her fear.

Her confusion.

Using his free arm to arch her closer, he turned his head, consuming her, relishing her small whimpers, her soft, accepting moan.

Armie clapped him hard on the back, returning him to the here and now. "You might want to put the brakes on that l.u.s.t, Saint. Looks like you've forgotten, but you're nowhere near a bed."

Jesus.

Cannon freed her mouth, but kept her tucked against his chest. She complied, clinging to him, maybe hiding. Ruthlessly, he crammed back the darkest parts of his rage. "I guess I still have an audience?"

"Most of the women have fainted, but yeah, still there."

Against his chest, he heard Yvette snicker.

No way. He leaned his head back to try to see her, but she squawked and squeezed in close again.

She'd just been through h.e.l.l. Accosted.

By Heath, and by him.

He rubbed his hands up and down her back. "Are you hysterical?"

Her rude snort surprised him. "Feeling a little faint myself, that's all."

Armie chuckled.