"No. Oh, some b.u.mps and bruises, but nothing important. I'm a little shaken up." She held out her hands, studied them a moment as if checking out what the shakes looked like, then dropped them with a sigh. "I'm so sorry, Ethan. I was an idiot."

She'd taken the words right out of his mouth.

"This must be upsetting for you. Rick told me about what happened when you were in high school."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"But what happened today wasn't the same at all," she told him earnestly. "Not that you were truly in the wrong then. The police did rule it was self-defense. They jumped you, for heaven's sake. Three of them, one of you. Which must make it seem similar, but-"

"Did Rick tell you that Robert Parkington could have died?" he asked savagely. "That I broke his jaw and sent him cras.h.i.+ng headfirst into an iron fence, and he ended up with a depressed skull fracture?"

"Yes, he told me. You must have been terrified."

She just didn't get it. "I saw red. I was in a rage, not a terrified funk."

"Well, anger is just fear turned outward, isn't it? Fear points in, anger points out."

"You don't know what you're talking about." His mouth was dry, the way it had been when they'd grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. He'd been so surprised. Stupidly surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that a bunch of frat brats would pull something like that.

"I know some people say that fear leads to anger, but I think anger is just fear turned inside out."

With Ethan held by his two buddies, Parkington had hit him. A blow in the stomach first. It had hurt, but mostly made him mad. His abs had been rock solid from all those sit-ups the coach insisted on. So he'd spat in Parkington's face, called him a coward. Parkington had flushed an ugly red and hit Ethan in the face then, using both fists, one after the other. His jaw. His eye. His cheek. He still had a scar there.

And Ethan had come unglued.

Claudia didn't seem the least fazed by his lack of response. "Rick said they'd been picking on someone you knew. I gather the boy was rather undersized, unable to defend himself. You made them stop."

"Three college boys show up at a high school hangout, it figures they're looking for trouble. Someone to push around. I decided they ought to get what they wanted-only with someone who could push back." He shook his head. "Talk about stupid."

"Standing up for him wasn't stupid. The way you went about it wasn't too bright, maybe."

He snorted. "You can say that again." He'd invited all three of them outside, figuring he'd find a buddy or two hanging around out back if he needed backup. Not much caring if he didn't, though. He was big, he knew how to handle himself and he wasn't drunk the way they were. "I thought I was hot stuff. And I liked to fight."

"I can't say I understand that, but a lot of adolescent males do seem to enjoy punching one another. You don't like to fight anymore. Though you are very good at it." There was a hint of a lift at the end of her sentence, leaving it dangling halfway between statement and question.

Ethan frowned. What he felt was more complicated than liking or not liking. "About two months after Parkington was released from the hospital, I found out he was in physical therapy. He'd lost partial function in his left arm, something to do with the pressure on his brain from the skull fracture. I was ... upset. My uncle talked me into taking judo lessons."

"That seems like an odd way to deal with your feelings."

"It was exactly what I needed. Uncle Luke pointed out that I couldn't trade in my body for a weaker version, and I couldn't guarantee I'd never have to defend myself or someone else, so I'd better learn how to do it without killing anyone."

"Oh." She thought that over for a moment, then nodded. "Is that where you learned to fight with a stick?"

"Eventually. First I had to learn discipline." How to fight cool, not hot. How to avoid fights when he could, and how to win one as quickly as possible if he couldn't avoid it, using as much force as necessary. And no more.

How to trust himself again.

"I think I'd like your uncle. Um..." She sneaked a glance at him. "Did Parkington regain use of his arm?"

"Yeah. Pretty much." After Ethan started working part-time for his uncle Thomas and had learned something about the detective business, he'd undertaken some private surveillance. From what he'd been able to tell, Parkington used the arm normally.

"I'm glad."

She didn't say anything more. After a few minutes Ethan frowned.

What had just happened here?

His hands were easy on the steering wheel. The tight band across his shoulders had loosened, and that deep-down shaking was gone. There was a funny feeling in his gut, sort of a visceral humming. Not unpleasant. In fact, he felt ... good. Energized.

Of course, below his gut could be found the most likely reason for his sense of well-being. Nothing like a little arousal to make a man feel alive. It was a perfectly natural reaction, he a.s.sured himself. Given the adrenaline c.o.c.ktail he'd served his body, it would be amazing if he weren't somewhat aroused.

But his anger was gone. Kaput. Vanished. Dammit, he'd wanted to be mad. Mad was better than thinking about what could have happened to her. By G.o.d, she deserved for him to be angry.

So how come he'd been discussing the worst time in his life with her?

Obviously, she'd mounted a sneak attack. Caught him off guard. That wouldn't happen again. Just as well he'd calmed down, though. He still intended to read her the riot act, but now he could do so coolly. Rationally. When he was through, she'd never even think about pulling a stunt like this again.

Not that he meant to be too harsh. She'd had a rough time, he thought, glancing at her. She wasn't hugging herself for warmth anymore, but she sure didn't look like the polished Ms. Barone. Her face was still pale and her hair straggled down in those wet rattails.

They'd nearly reached her apartment. "I'm going in with you," he announced.

"Oh," she said, smiling brightly, "that won't be necessary."

"I find it extremely necessary." Calm, cool and reasonable. That was how he'd handle this, he thought as he pulled up right in front of her building and killed the engine. He opened his door.

She grabbed his arm. "You don't want to get out here."

"Don't waste your breath arguing."

"This is a tow-away zone."

"So?" He slammed the door shut behind him.

Nine.

C laudia's insides were jumping like popcorn. Or like bacon frying-sizzle, pop, splat! Hot-grease attack, stinging on the inside of her skin. Her eyes were dry and hot. So why did she think that any second she might start crying?

She needed to be alone. Badly. And the stupid man who had rescued her insisted on riding up in the elevator with her, looking like a thunderstorm about to happen. She needed him to go away ... before she threw herself into his arms and sobbed like a baby.

That image made her cringe inside. So she'd let him get the lecture out of his system. He was obviously bursting with it. Like a boil, she thought as she got her key out. Or a pimple. Pop it, let it drain, and it went away. Ethan would go away soon.

She stuck her key in the door. Look there. Her hand wasn't shaking anymore. She was going to be just fine.

"All right," she said as she closed her door. "Go ahead and say what you have to. If you hurry, I'll have time for a shower before I have to dress for the board meeting this afternoon. And maybe you can get your car before it's impounded."