She felt like she’d been doing a lot of running away lately, but this was even worse than usual, because what she was running away from now was herself.

Gabriel wasn’t drugging her. It had been a ridiculous accusation even when she’d had the thinnest shred of “evidence” to hang it on; it was beyond ridiculous now, so she wasn’t going to try. Something was going on with her. In the course of a few days, she’d gone from reserved and cautious to groping a virtual stranger every time she got within two feet of him.

If it wasn’t his fault; it was hers—so what was happening?

She was so consumed with her own stupid thoughts, it was a complete surprise when she looked around her and found she’d wandered far enough away from the hotel that she wasn’t sure how to get back. She was still surrounded by hotels—this was Vegas, after all—but they were a far cry from the Bellagio.

She reached into her pocket for her phone to pull up a map, and her hand found an empty pocket.

God damn it.

She’d dumped the contents of her pockets on the dresser in her room when she was unpacking, and her phone was sitting in the fancy bowl—valet—whatever.

She turned, figuring she could at least retrace her steps to someplace where she could get directions, and somewhere close by, a woman screamed.

It was one of those moments to either think or act; somewhat uncharacteristically, she chose the second option. The scream had seemed to come from off to her right; she looked cautiously down the nearest side street and saw nothing, then moved halfway down the block in the same direction and peered into a parking garage.

The wan illumination of the overhead lights barely penetrated into the far corner of the garage, but it was enough to show her that this was trouble of the worst sort. A petite blond woman wearing a tiny red skirt and bandeau top was trying her damnedest to pull out of the grip of a stocky, bald guy in a black sweatshirt, while another guy, this one in a T-shirt and baggy shorts, tried to trap her wildly flailing legs.

Not that getting away from them would have been particularly helpful anyway, not when there were two other guys standing ready to catch her if she did.

Lily thought about leaving … and then she remembered that she was a woman, and thought about how that could have been her in there, if she’d walked by five minutes sooner.

“Hey,” she shouted, and took two steps inside. “I called the cops! Let her go!”

In her head, this was perfect. It was going to send the guys scattering to the four winds, and then she’d help the woman to safety.

In reality, the two guys not currently holding a struggling woman came after her at a dead run. She had time to think, Oh, shit! and turn to run—and then they were on her.

She screamed and got backhanded for her trouble, which pissed her off enough that she started kicking and punching in earnest. But there were two of them and one of her, and it was a matter of less than a minute before she was hauled back into the garage and pushed up against a wall next to the other woman.

Their eyes met as one of the guys holding Lily slid his hand up under Lily’s shirt and copped a quick, assessing feel, the zipper at the wrist of his red jacket scraping against her skin. Lily felt like she might be going a little mad, and was surprised that no matching expression could be found in the other woman’s eyes; the other woman just looked—what?

Resigned, Lily decided. She looks like that scream was all the fight she had in her.

The fourth guy, who was decked out in a blue wifebeater and—of all the crazy-ass things—yellow flip-flops, let out a yelp then swore and let go of Lily for a moment. “Fuck! Something bit me!”

“What the fuck, dude?” Red Jacket said, though at least it got him to take his hand off Lily’s boob so he could restrain the arm Wifebeater had let loose.

“I don’t know— I thought it was a cat, but then— I don’t know. Fuck!” Wifebeater was rubbing his forearm, and it did indeed have a giant, reddening welt on it.

“Never mind your fucking arm, for Christ’s sake,” Red Jacket said. “Get one of her arms.”

Wifebeater complied, recapturing Lily’s left arm and pinning it against the wall. He looked at her with a lecherous grin. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, getting in close to her face. “We’re gonna party, okay?”

Okay? she thought. It is most certainly not okay. Has he lost his mind?

Rather than get into a debate about his sanity, she spat in his face.

Not smart, as it turned out, since he backhanded her—this was her evening for being backhanded, it seemed, which would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so terrifying. To think that thirty minutes ago she’d been in a however-many-thousands of dollars per night hotel suite with the hottest guy she’d ever met, eating gourmet food and trying to decide whether to cap off her night with an hour in the solarium or the jacuzzi.

Now she was being smacked around by a couple of lowlifes—and the smacking around was actually the least of her worries.

She tried again to get a limb loose, but after almost a full minute of struggling her hardest, she got nowhere; they had her arms well-pinned and Red Jacket was pressed against her legs in a manner that was both repulsive and impossible to escape.

She cast her gaze over to the other woman, and swallowed convulsively when she saw her shirt was in shreds and her skirt was rucked up completely over her hips—and the furious kicking with which the woman was keeping her attackers at bay was becoming less effective as they used the sheer weight of themselves to press her against the wall behind her.

At least I’m not wearing a skirt, she thought—as though that was going to make any difference at all, in the end.

Closing her eyes, she sent up a wordless prayer for help.