Free Wrath - 4 by Robin Wasserman Page A

through the crowd of bimbos at the end of the game and see for herself that he was safe and whole.
    Maybe Kane dreaded the bimbos as much as she did, because ten minutes before the end of the final quarter, he quietly slipped off toward the locker room. He would probably change quickly and head for the parking lot, Miranda realized, in hopes of avoiding the crowd. She didn’t let herself wonder whether he might want to avoid her, too—at this point, hesitation would just make her chicken out.
    She caught up with him in the parking lot, limping toward his car.
    “Kane!” she cal ed, not quite loudly enough for him to hear. There was stil time to walk away, before she risked humiliation.
    But not enough time, because he’d heard her, after al .
    “Stevens!” He waved and, even from a distance, she could see him wince. He brought his arm down and cradled it against his side. She trotted over, and he gave her a weak smile. Without thinking, she touched his face gently, where a large, purplish bruise had bloomed just under his eye.
    “You should see the other guy,” he said rueful y.
    Miranda usual y agonized over every word she said to Kane, striving for the perfect combination of confidence, solicitation, and flirtatious banter. But now she didn’t stop to think, or disguise her concern behind her wit. “Look what they did to you,” she murmured.
    “It’s not so bad.”
    “You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror yet,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. He leaned against her, and she forced herself to keep breathing. “Come on, I’m helping you to your car.”
    “I’m fine, I swear.”
    “Humor me.” They made it to the Camaro, and Kane climbed into the front seat, then looked up at her expectantly. “Wel ?”
    “What?”
    “Aren’t you coming? Or is your nursing shift over for the night?”
    Her heart fluttering, Miranda went around to the passenger seat and closed the door behind her. By the light of the dashboard, she could see that his face wasn’t cut up as badly as she’d thought, but it stil looked plenty painful. She pul ed a water bottle out of her bag and dug around for a tissue. Wetting it, she began dabbing away some of the dried blood dotting his face. He squirmed away as she held the damp tissue against a cut at the edge of his lip.
    “Don’t be a baby,” she chided him. “This’l help.”
    “You’re good at this,” he said softly.
    “What? Washing faces?”
    “Making people feel better.”
    Miranda blushed, and al her self-consciousness flooded back. “Just cal me Florence Nightingale,” she said wryly.
    Her hand stil pressed lightly against his lips. Suddenly, Kane mirrored the gesture, bringing his hand to her face and tipping her chin so they were staring into each other’s eyes. “Don’t joke,” he insisted. The infamous Kane Geary smirk was nowhere to be seen. “I mean it. Thank you.” She couldn’t al ow herself to be honest, and she didn’t want to spoil the moment by saying something funny. So she said nothing, and neither did he. They faced each other in silence, their faces il uminated by only the glowing dashboard and the flashing lights of passing cars pul ing out of the lot.
    Does he know what I’m thinking? she asked herself as she stared at his bruised face and his swol en lips, wishing that this was about more than his gratitude. The soft, almost glazed look in his eyes made it seem almost possible. And he stil hadn’t taken his hand away from her face. Does he finally see me? she wondered. Does he finally get it?
    And then, as if there’d been a signal that only he could hear, Kane moved away and turned the key in the ignition. “I’m headed home,” he said brusquely. “Where can I drop you?”
    She could go along with him, staring out the window and praying that when he stopped the car they would regain that moment of honest intimacy. Maybe things would even go further, and she’d have more than just a long gaze and a lingering