Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

She turned back toward campus, intending to hunt down a campus phone—and promptly collided with Derek.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as icy sheets of rain streamed through his dark hair.

Leave it to Derek to be unbothered by getting drenched.

“I have a flat,” Sloane informed him. “There’s a nail in my tire. And I can’t get the damned lug nuts to give.”

“Outdone by a couple of lug nuts? That doesn’t sound like you. The Sloane I knew would have bludgeoned those lug nuts off the tire and flung them onto the ground, where they’d be begging for mercy.”

“That was then. This is now. Things change. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some help.” Sloane dragged her left sleeve across her face to wipe away the rain so she could see. Then she sidestepped Derek and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute.” He grabbed her right arm to stop her. “I’ll help you change the—” He broke off as Sloane emitted a stifled whimper. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, gritting her teeth as a jolt of pain shot through her arm. She flexed her fingers and winced as the pain radiated down, slicing through her finger and palm.

“I’m fine,” she managed. “I just need to get the damned flat fixed.”

“No, you’re not fine.” Derek saw her wince again, his gaze shifting to the arm he was still gripping. Abruptly, he realized what was going on, and released his hold. Instead, he caught her wrist and drew it toward him, turning her hand palm up.

Sloane bit back a moan of pain.

“Your whole palm is inflamed,” Derek announced, frowning. “What the hell did you do, wrestle with the lug-nut wrench for a half hour?”

“I didn’t time myself.” Sloane tried to tug her hand away, but Derek wasn’t complying. He stared at her injury, seeing it—really seeing it—for the first time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, scrutinizing the sharp incision lines and patches of scar tissue, now swollen and red from Sloane’s battle with the wrench. “Your hand’s like a battlefield.”

Something inside Sloane went very cold. “Give the man a cigar. He finally gets it.”

For a long moment, Derek said nothing. He just stared at her hand. When he raised his head, his midnight gaze reflected some ambiguous emotion that Sloane couldn’t quite place.

“You and I need to talk,” he stated flatly. “I’m driving you over to the student health center so you can get whatever first aid you need for your hand. While you’re there, I’ll come back here and change your tire. Then we’re getting out of here. You’ll follow me in your car. We’ll drive to my glamorous Best Western. We don’t have to go inside. We can sit in the car. Or walk around the parking lot with an umbrella. I don’t give a damn. But we’re having a conversation—a real one. Alone and without interruptions.”

Sloane didn’t even blink. “With all due respect, it’s a little late for that. Thirteen months too late. Plus, I’m not in the mood. I’m in horrible pain. I’m freezing cold. I’m wet and dirty. I’ve got three pissed-off dachshunds waiting for me to pick them up, and an exhausted, elderly woman taking care of them when she should be taking care of herself. Oh, and I’ve got a few favors to call in so I can get my hands on cell-phone records and figure out who’s been screwing with me via heavy-breathing hang-ups and following me around. So how about if you just drop me off at the health center and change my flat. Then you can take off, and we can skip the conversation.”

“Wait.” Derek held up his palm. “Go back to that part about the hang-ups and the stalker.”

“I don’t know if he’s a stalker. Maybe he just wants a date. If so, I’ll either say yes or get a new cell-phone number, depending on how hot he is.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Neither am I. But I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“And I’m capable of pulling the strings you need to bypass the red tape of initiating a call trace. You’ll have your caller’s info and a call block ASAP.”

Sloane inhaled slowly. “If you can make that happen, I’ll owe you one. In the meantime, I’ve got to take care of my car and my hand.”

“Like I said, I’ll help you with both.”

“I appreciate that. But just so we’re clear, the payment for all this help you’re offering doesn’t include a heart-to-heart.”

“Wrong. You said you owed me one, remember?”

>

“I remember. And I meant it—with one stipulation. No personal conversation. I’m not interested in reliving our good-byes—or lack thereof.”

“Sorry, that stipulation doesn’t work for me.”