"There," he murmured. "That's better. This is my business." He lifted her chin, skimming a finger in the slight dent centered in it. "My job. You have yours."

"It was a big deal though. Some whatzit merger."

"Scottoline merger – more of a buyout, really, and it should be finalized by the middle of next week. Even without your delightful presence at the dinner table. Still, you might have called. I worried."

"I forgot. I can't always remember. I'm not used to this." She jammed her hands in her pockets and paced down the wide hall and back. "I'm not used to this. Every time I think I am, I'm not. Then I come walking in here with all the megarich, looking like a street junkie."

"On the contrary, you look like a cop. I believe several of our guests were quite impressed with the glimpse of your weapon under your jacket, and the trace of blood on your jeans. It's not yours, I take it."

"No." Suddenly she just couldn't stand up any longer. She turned to the steps, climbed two and sat. Because it was Roarke, she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.

He sat beside her, draped an arm over her shoulders. "It was bad."

"Almost always you can say you've seen as bad, even worse. It's most always true. I can't say that this time." Her stomach still clenched and rolled. "I've never seen worse."

He knew what she lived with, had seen a great deal of it himself. "Do you want to tell me?"

"No, Christ no, I don't want to think about it for a few hours. I don't want to think about anything."

"I can help you there."

For the first time in hours she smiled. "I bet you can."

"Let's start this way." He rose and plucked her off the step up into his arms.

"You don't have to carry me. I'm okay."