Beneath Her Sleeve

"Do not close your eyes."

Hannah Brooks heard the voice a heartbeat before her knees gave way. She reached for the stone column outside the Blackstone Hotel, missed it, and fell against something warm and solid instead of the rain-slick pavement.

An arm supported her shoulders. A hand cradled the back of her head with such unexpected care that, for one confused second, she thought she must know him.

"I have you," the man said. "You can stop trying to stand."

She wanted to explain that this was embarrassing, that she was a nurse and knew better, that she had only needed to reach the bus stop. Instead, she gripped his sleeve while headlights stretched into golden ribbons behind his shoulder.

Twelve hours at West Haven Community Clinic had left her with a headache, an untouched water bottle, and half a sandwich in her bag. She had stayed late for a frightened mother whose toddler was struggling to breathe. When she finally left the South Loop clinic, the October rain had soaked through her coat before she reached Michigan Avenue.

Now she could barely feel her feet.

"Call an ambulance," the stranger said.

He spoke quietly, but someone immediately answered him. Around them, shoes shifted across wet stone. An overcoat settled over Hannah, carrying the scent of cedar and clean wool.

"There is no need," she managed. "I just need a minute."

"Then take it. The ambulance can come while you do."

His fingers touched her wrist, searching for her pulse. The movement drew her soaked sleeve back, and something changed in his face.

She knew what he had seen. She pulled weakly at the fabric, shame arriving faster than fear.

"Please," she whispered.

He stopped looking at the marks. With his free hand, he drew the sleeve down and tucked the coat around her arm.

"All right," he said. "You are cold. Let us deal with that first."

Her throat tightened. She had expected questions, perhaps the familiar doubtful expression that made an explanation feel like an accusation. His refusal to make her explain nearly undid her.

A man appeared with an umbrella. "The car is ready, Damen."

"We are waiting for the paramedics. Give me your scarf."

The scarf was warm from another person's neck. Hannah felt it against her damp collar and tried to thank them both, but the words slipped away. The last thing she saw was the stranger bending closer, rain shining on his black hair, his gray eyes fixed on hers.

When she woke properly, daylight lay across a hospital blanket.

She stared at the ceiling, taking inventory before she moved. An intravenous line, a blood pressure cuff, a monitor. Her shoes stood beneath a chair. Someone had hung her coat to dry and placed her canvas bag where she could see it.

She reached for the call button, then noticed her phone.

Seventeen missed calls from Evan.

Her hand stopped halfway across the blanket.

A nurse entered carrying a small tray. "You look as though you are about to argue with somebody. Please let it be the oatmeal instead of me."

Hannah read her badge. "Rebecca, I need to call my clinic."

"Your supervisor knows you are here. She told us to keep you away from patients long enough to become one."

"That sounds like Denise."

Rebecca set the tray down. "Your doctor will be back shortly. You were exhausted and dehydrated, and you need to eat something before you start negotiating your release."

Hannah glanced at the oatmeal. "Is that a medical instruction or a threat?"

"I work nights. I can make it both."

The laugh escaped before Hannah could stop it. Her head protested, and Rebecca adjusted the bed without being asked.

"I am sorry about all this," Hannah said.

Rebecca's expression softened. "You fainted, Hannah. You did not set the hospital on fire."

After the doctor examined her and explained the plan for observation, Hannah ate. She texted Denise, then turned her phone facedown without opening Evan's messages. Two weeks earlier, she had ended their relationship. He continued calling the apartment they had once shared his home, although he had moved his belongings out months before.

She had changed the locks. She had stopped answering after ten at night. These had seemed like meaningful steps until she saw the number of calls.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

The man from the rain stood in the doorway. In daylight, without water blurring his features, he was more unsettlingly handsome than she remembered. His dark suit fitted broad shoulders; a faint scar interrupted one eyebrow. He held a paper bag that looked incongruous in his large hand.

"May I come in?"

She nodded before remembering that she did not know him.

He placed the bag on the table. "Rebecca said the kitchen had ambitions involving oatmeal. I brought an alternative."

Inside was a blueberry muffin and a banana.

"You consulted my nurse about breakfast?"

"She seemed to be in charge."

"She usually is."

He pulled a chair closer, then paused. "Is this all right?"

Hannah nodded again. She was acutely aware of her unwashed hair and the shapeless hospital gown, and irritated with herself for noticing either.

"Thank you for last night," she said. "I remember enough to know I would have hit my head."

"You frightened the valet. He is very attached to that pavement."

She looked at him, uncertain, and caught the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth.

"I will apologize to him personally."

"I would rather you ate the muffin."

She broke off a piece. He watched until she swallowed, then looked away, as though he had been caught doing something private.

"Your coat," she said. "I still have it."

"I know where it is."

Her sleeve slipped when she reached for the bag. She drew it down immediately.

He noticed. This time she was awake enough to see what he did with the anger: his jaw set, his hand flattened against his knee, and his voice remained level.

"Is the person who hurt you waiting at home?"

The directness took her breath. "I live alone."

"That was not quite what I asked."

"It is what I can tell you."

He considered her for a moment. "Then I will leave it there."

She expected relief. Instead, tears threatened, sudden and humiliating. She concentrated on wrapping the remaining muffin in its paper.

He placed a business card beside the water cup.

"If living alone stops feeling safe, call that number. It comes directly to me."

"You do not know anything about me."

"I know you are trying very hard not to need anything."

She looked up. He had no right to sound so gentle about it.

"Are you always this intrusive?"

"Usually with less success."

She almost smiled. "What is your name?"

"Damen Moretti."

Her fingers closed around the muffin paper. Moretti Shipping. Moretti Holdings. Restaurants with waiting lists and men whose names appeared in newspaper stories beside words such as alleged. Evan had once pointed out a photograph of him with a kind of hungry admiration.

Damen saw recognition settle over her.

"You know who I am," he said.

"I know what people say about you."

"Some of it is true."

She searched his face. "They say you are dangerous."

"I am."

He did not soften the answer, and she was grateful for that even as her pulse quickened.

"Then why did you save me?"

He stood, adjusting his cuff. For a moment she thought he might offer a clever answer, something that would make the room feel normal again.

"Because you were falling."

After he left, she sat very still. Then she picked up the card, running her thumb across the embossed name.

Her phone vibrated against the blanket.

Evan's latest message filled the screen.

I went to your apartment. Where the hell were you all night?