Rules of Engagement by Ann Bruce

bleeding all over the place.
     
    And only hours ago, she’d believed herself in love with another man.
     
    Noelle gingerly probed beneath her defenses. She should be hurt, torn up inside. Yet all she felt was more anger at herself for being so stupid than at Gil for cheating on her.
     
    The rough voice pulled her back. “Not there.”
     
    Noelle was glad of the darkness as warmth flooded her cheeks.
     
    “Is it just your side?”
     
    “Mainly.”
     
    “Are you going to let me check it out?”
     
    “Are you a nurse or a doctor or a paramedic?”
     
    She drew back as if attacked by a kitten. Her lips thinned. “No, but I do know basic first aid. Or do you think sheer macho willpower will take care of your injury?”
     
    A rough sound rumbled from his chest. “I’m sorry.” Very gingerly, very slowly, he moved his hands away from his left side and said, “Here.”
     
    Carefully, Noelle scooted down so she could better examine the wound. She pulled the black T-shirt from his jeans and peeled it up. A blade had sliced through the leather jacket and the T-shirt and left a long cut that wasn’t as deep as she’d feared. But it wasn’t as shallow as she’d hoped.
     
    “We should get you to a hospital. You need stitches.”
     
    The only response she got was an indecipherable grunt. She assumed it was a sound of protest.
     
    She sighed. “Shouldn’t I call the police?”
     
    He growled a very decisive negative.
     
    “What is this aversion you have to the police? Is it cops in general or just the NYPD?”
     
    “No,” he repeated more firmly.
     
    “Why not? Your tax dollars pay for their services.” A thought occurred to her. “Uh, you do pay taxes, right?”
     
    He slanted a narrow glance at her. “Yes.”
     

Excerpt from Before Dawn
     
    “I’m sorry, but guests are not allowed in this area.”
     
    He moved deeper into the office. “You sound a little hoarse,” he said, ignoring her statement, and held out a flute filled halfway with champagne. “Take this.”
     
    Mercy automatically accepted the offering. “Thank you, Mr.—?”
     
    “Edmond,” he said, a hint of an accent flavoring the name. It sounded French, which suited the name and his Gallic coloring.
     
    “Thank you, Mr. Edmond.”
     
    He shook his head but his hair barely moved. “Just Edmond.”
     
    “Uh, okay.”
     
    He lifted his own flute, tipping it toward her. Feeling a little awkward, she touched her flute to his, very aware of his eyes following her every movement. Not wanting to insult a man who’d forked over two hundred and fifty dollars for a ticket to the fundraiser and a potential donor, Mercy took a sip, just enough to coat her mouth and her esophagus.
     
    And squeezed her eyes shut as her head swam and her hand faltered, tilting the flute dangerously. She really should’ve eaten something beyond the banana and carton of cherry yogurt at lunch.
     
    A hand caught hers. She had the impression of icy coldness a heartbeat before warmth washed over her like rain. The champagne flute was rescued from her unsteady fingers. Despite the voluntary darkness, her head continued to bob like a bottle tossed in the sea. Her hand reached back and found the solid surface of her desk.
     
    “Mercy?”
     
    That compelling voice filled her head, dampening the waves. She exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath ’til that moment. A heavy, artificial scent filled her nostrils and she instinctively turned her head away. Satin brushed the naked skin of her legs, cool and slick. His cape. Fingertips skimmed the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat, the slope of her exposed shoulder. And she couldn’t protest, couldn’t stir herself from the lassitude that trapped her in its silken grip. Not even long enough to lift her lashes, let alone break away.
     
    The exploration continued, soft and gentle and warm…and somehow familiar.
     
    There was nothing to fear from him. That thought whispered through her