"Dallas, maybe you ought to wait for backup. I'll have – "

"Forget it. I'm sick of idiots." She slammed her door, took three long-legged strides. And the world erupted.

She felt the hot fist of air punch her in the back, scoop her up like a doll, and fling her forward. Her eardrums sang with the force of the explosion as she flew. Something sharp, twisted, and flaming shot past her head. Someone screamed. She didn't think it was herself, as she couldn't seem to draw in air to breathe.

She bounced headfirst off the hood of a car, dimly saw the shocked, white face of its driver gaping at her, then hit the street hard enough to scrape flesh and rattle bones.

Something's burning, something's burning, she thought, but couldn't quite place it. Flesh, leather, fuel. Oh God. With wobbly effort, she pushed with her hands, managed to lift her head.

Behind her, people abandoned their cars like rats running from doomed ships. Someone stepped on her, but she barely felt it. Overhead, the traffic copters zoomed in to shine security beams and blast out cautions.

But eyes were dazzled by the fierce light, the shooting flames coming from her vehicle.

She wheezed in a breath, let it out. "Son of a bitch." And passed out cold.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Roarke muscled his way through crowds of people, lines of emergency vehicles. Airlifts hovered above, shooting out their streams of lights amid the shriek of sirens. There was a smell of sweat and blood and burning. A child was screaming in long, gulping wails. A woman sat on the ground, surrounded by sparkling, fist-sized diamonds of Duraglass, and wept silently into her hands.

He saw blackened faces, shocked eyes, but he didn't see Eve.

He refused to allow himself to think or to feel or to imagine.

He'd been in Eve's office, tinkering with McNab, when the hail for Peabody had come in. He'd continued to work, amusing himself by listening to Eve's voice, the irritation spiking it, then the disgust when she'd ordered Peabody to call for a floater.

Then the almost female shriek of the explosion had caused the communicator to jump in Peabody's hand. He hadn't waited, not even a heartbeat, but had been out of the room and gone even as Peabody had desperately tried to raise Eve again.

He'd abandoned his car a full block back, but was making good time on foot. Sheer force of will had people scrambling out of his way. Or perhaps it was the cold rage in his eyes as he scanned faces, forms.

Then he saw her vehicle – or what was left of it. The twisted hulk of steel and plastic was hulled out and coated with thick white foam. And his heart stopped.

He'd never know how long he stood there, unable to breathe, his body rocking with shock. Then he broke, started forward, with some wild notion of ripping the ruined car to pieces to find her.

"Goddamn it, I said I'm not going to any hospital. Just patch me up, for Christ's sake, and find me a fucking communicator before I kick your sorry ass over to the East Side."

He whirled, his head whipping up like a wolf's scenting its mate. She was sitting on the running board of a medivan, snarling at a harassed medical technician who was struggling to coat her burns.

She was singed, bleeding, bruised, and furiously alive.

He didn't go to her at once. He needed a moment for his hands to stop shaking, for his heart to stop sputtering and beat normally again. Relief was like a drug, a spiked drink to make him giddy. He gulped it down, then found himself grinning like an idiot as she rammed her elbow into the MT's gut to prevent him from giving her a dose of medication.

"Keep that thing away from me. Did I tell you to get me a communicator?"

"I'm doing my job, Lieutenant. If you'd just cooperate – "

"Cooperate hell. Cooperate with you guys and I'll end up drooling and strapped to a gurney."

"You need to go to a hospital or health center. You have a concussion, second-degree burns, contusions, lacerations. You're shocky."

Eve reached up and grabbed him by the band collar of his uniform coat. "One of us is going to be shocky, ace, if you don't get me a goddamn communicator."

"Well, Lieutenant, I see you're in your usual form."

She looked over, up, and, seeing Roarke, wiped the back of her hand over her bruised and sooty face. "Hi. I was just trying to get this jerk to find me a communicator so I could call you. Let you know I'd be late for dinner."

"I figured that out for myself when we heard your explosion." He crouched down until they were eye to eye. There was a nasty scrape on her forehead, still seeping blood. Her jacket was gone, and the shirt she wore was ripped and singed. Blood stained the sleeve of her left arm from a six-inch gash. Her slacks were literally tatters.

"Darling," he said mildly, "you're not looking your best."

"If this guy would just patch me up enough so I could – hey, hey, hey!" She jerked, slapped out, but wasn't quick enough to prevent the pressure syringe from shooting into her arm. "What was that? What'd you give me?"

"Just a pain blocker. This is going to hurt some."

"Ah shit, that's going to make me goofy. You know that stuff makes me goofy," she said, appealing to Roarke. "I hate when that happens."

"I rather enjoy it myself." He tipped her chin up as the MT went to work on her arm. "How many devoted husbands do you see?"

"Just you. I don't have a concussion."

"Yes, she does," the MT said cheerfully. "This gash is plenty dirty – got lots of street grit in it – but we'll clean her right up and close it."

"Make it snappy then." She was starting to shiver – part cold, part shock – but didn't notice. "I've got to follow this up with the fire team and the explosive unit. And where the hell's Peabody, because I… shit, shit, shit, it's happening. My tongue's getting thick." Her head lolled, and she shook it back into place. She felt a snort of laughter building and fought to suppress it. "Why don't they just give you a couple shots of Kentucky bourbon?''

"It isn't cost-effective. And you don't like bourbon." Roarke sat on the running board beside her, took her free hand to examine the scrapes and burns himself.

"Yeah well, I don't like this either. Chemicals make you all otherwise." She stared dully as the medic guided a suturing wand over her ripped flesh, neatly mending it. "Don't you take me to the hospital. I'll be really pissed."

He didn't see her beloved leather jacket anywhere and made a mental note to replace it. For now he stripped his own off and tucked it over her shoulders. "Darling, in about ninety seconds you're not going to know what I do with you, or where I take you."

Her body began a lovely slow float to nowhere. "I will when I come out of it. Why, there she is. Hey, Peabody. And McNab, too. Don't they make a cute couple?"

"Adorable. Put your head back, Eve, and let the nice MT bandage it for you."

"Okay, sure. Hiya, Peabody, you and McNab out on the town?"

"He drugged her," Roarke explained. "Tranqs always do this to her."

"How bad are you hurt?'' White-faced and shaken, Peabody knelt down. "Dallas, how bad?"

"Oh." She gestured widely, and managed to slap the long-suffering MT. "Bumps and stuff. Boy, did I fly. Let me tell you, the up part can be pretty cool, but those landings suck space waste. Wham!" To demonstrate she attempted to slam her fist on her knee, missed and caught the medic in the crotch. "Oops, sorry," she said when he folded. "Hey, Peabody, how's my vehicle?"

"It's a dead loss."

"Damn. Well, good night." She wrapped her arms around Roarke, nestled into him, and sighed.

The MT sucked his breath back then got shakily to his feet. "That's the best I can do for her here. She's all yours."