Gretch glanced from Sean to the obese man in the expensive but hideous suit. Tension crackled between them, while the hipster holding the shop door open gaped at all three of them. All she’d done was freshen her lipstick. What the hell had happened out here?

“She’s not going anywhere.” Sean’s calm voice was the emphatic tenor from the dojo. The slouch who’d hopscotched through her brutally unforgiveable behavior at lunch was nowhere to be seen. His profile was chiseled steel, his posture formidable. The smoldering alpha metamorphosis sent a deep shudder through her.

He reached over and clasped her hand. His long, artistic fingers were warm, his grip firm, but after her conduct, this was the last thing she deserved. With a mild tug he eased her behind him. What the hell?

“We’re leaving,” he said to the two men.

Shaking his head, the older man reached into his suit jacket.

“Don’t. You will get hurt.” Sean’s gaze stayed locked on the fat man, although he nudged her further away.

A few yards behind the fat man, a young powerwalking woman wheeled a baby stroller toward them. She slowed, shooting an annoyed expression at the cluster of people blocking the sidewalk. Gretch glanced at the three men, who were in a glaring standoff. Here was her chance.

“Let me help you,” she called to the woman in her trainer’s bark. Both the man and hipster turned on instinct.

Sean dropped her hand. “Run.”

He lunged forward, striking the older man’s chin with an upward sweep of his palm. The blow slammed the man against the glass door.

Sean grabbed something from the man’s jacket and whirled in reverse, kicking the hipster in the head. Gretch gaped at the graceful blur of fury. The boy sank to his knees, bleeding from the nose and mouth.

“I said run!” Sean snarled without looking at her, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in front of the dazed and wobbly fat man. The woman wheeled the stroller in a tight one-eighty and careened away. The baby began to wail.

“Jesus,” Gretch muttered. “What in the hell is going on?”

“Goddamn it, Gretch!”

There was no way she was leaving Sean behind. No way in hell she was running in heels. She spun around, scanning the four streets of the intersection for a cop car or—

“Taxi!”

The cab pulled up, and she darted for the door. Before she got one foot in, Sean shoved her from behind, hard. She flew across the seat and banged her temple on the window. “Ouch!”

He slid in, slammed the door, and shouted, “Go,” to the startled driver.

Wheels screeched as the sedan peeled out. Sean gave Moore and Morrow’s address in his sensei tone. Gretch righted herself and yanked down her hem. She was oddly out of breath. Blocks whirled past.

She glanced right, immediately clamping her lips to hold back the shriek. Sean held a gun in his lap, loosely, like it was a toy. Except for a muscle working along his jaw, and a thin sheen of perspiration coating his temple, he was typical, laidback Sean, watching the scenery out the front window. His breathing was even, while here she was, fighting not to hyperventilate.

“Where did that come from?” Her voice sounded thick, like she was thirsty.

Although he didn’t look over, a ghost of a grin appeared. “Abracadabra.”

“What the hell, Sean,” she whispered. “What just happened?”

He leaned forward and stuck the gun into the back of his jeans. After he flipped the shirt over the bulk, he studied her. His usual sad-puppy brown eyes were dark espresso and deadly. It was incredibly compelling—hotter than anything she’d ever seen. “Attempted robbery.”

Gretch opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her fingers trembled, and she wiped her palms on her dress. Everything was okay. He’d saved their asses, asses she didn’t even know needed saving. Her warrior. “You did good,” she said lightly.

“Thanks. And just for future reference, besides yelling ‘run,’ is there a magic word that’ll get you to actually move?”

She crossed her left leg and tapped the toe of her Michael Kors on his sturdy knee. “No sneakers.” She shrugged in fake helplessness.

He grinned in that lopsided way, his eyes twinkling crescents. Such a darling look. The surge of attraction knocked the breath back out of her. She reached for his hand, still welcoming and protective, and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

His grin faded. He shook his head. “Don’t. I did something so brain-dead stupid you almost got hurt.”

Why he called exploding into a ninja and disarming a man stupid was beyond her, but she sat back and reveled in their safety, cherished the security his clasped hand brought her.

This was the palm that had brushed her breasts last night. She stroked it tentatively with the pad of her thumb. Callused and capable. Maybe the usual abhorrence wouldn’t rear up if she knew it was coming. If she knew it came from him.

Maybe she could figure out a way to get him to kiss her in that all-consuming way again, until she was reeling with lust like last night. Only this time she wouldn’t do her dog-and-pony show, tied to all the sick memories of powerlessness and horror. Just kissing until she was giddy, then try something new. Strictly over her clothes.

Hope radiated through her. God, to be normal! To enjoy sex and feel cherished by a man’s touch… Butterflies pirouetted around her belly.

The taxi pulled to a stop outside of Moore and Morrow.

“What are you doing tonight?” Gretch asked, unable to hide the huskiness, the optimism.

“Karate class.” The promptness of his answer was a guy on autopilot. He hadn’t caught the innuendo, the dolt. He paid the driver, got out, and helped her to the sidewalk.

“What I meant was—”she raised her voice because he was already closing in on the door, “—can I treat you to dinner afterward, since I ruined lunch?”

“You paid for lunch, Gretch. We’re square.”

She slapped her hands on her hips. For Pete’s sake. “I’m asking you out.”

He swung around and gaped at her as if she’d confessed to being a two-headed alien.

She blushed, her defenses ramming a rod up her spine. “Please tell me you’ve been asked out by a woman before.”

He blinked a couple of times and seemed to gather himself. “Yeah,” he said, walking backward to the door and opening it for her. “But they weren’t you.”

His words sent her butterflies into a tizzy. She breezed by him and quickly sat behind her desk. The physical barrier brought a semblance of relief. “Okay.” Get it together! “Stop by my place at eight.”

“Eight thirty.” He cocked his head. “Maybe you should go with me—”

She held up a hand. “No need. Hip-width stance, grab their arm, shift, pull. Got it.”

“Come demonstrate.” He gestured, sensei demeanor intact.

She snorted, remembering the downward dog fiasco. “I’ve maxed my quota of humiliating myself in front of you.” Especially last night. The office suddenly felt stifling and airless. She flicked her pen in the direction of the lab. “Go on.”

“I’ll ask Dane to accompany you after work. You shouldn’t be walking anywhere alone.”

“Enough with treating me like a princess.”

His face broke into that lopsided grin, and the butterflies revved up to Mach 2. “Confess,” he said in a low voice. “Your birthday-candle wish is to be a princess for real, right?”

Responding intelligibly was beyond her. This guy was white hot when he put effort into being outgoing. Even those quirky, sloping eyebrows, like he questioned everything, were becoming endearing.

Then he ruined it with that weird knock-twice thing and strode off.

“Freak,” she said softly, unable to hold back the smile. She brought up her email with surprisingly shaky fingers. The third email down was a response to her request for the Quran provenance. She downloaded the attachment and studied the timeline. Way too tidy. Absolutely a fake. If she hadn’t known anything about researching an artifact’s history, this would pass as legitimate, but provenances were rarely able to prove ownership without decades or centuries of gaps. She forwarded it on to Margo, her email brisk and professional. If this was the stuff the FBI did, she could so hold her own.