A Season of Miracles by Heather Graham Page A

threatened. She hadn’t really talked to him yet, because there hadn’t really been the opportunity. A simple, normal opportunity. But she hadn’t been worried about it. She was in design, he wasn’t. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure why Douglas had suddenly brought him in, but she had neither felt threatened nor overly impressed.
    But at this particular moment, he seemed extremely imposing. The man was very tall, even down on one knee the way he was now. His shoulders were broad, though he seemed as sleek and agile as a man more slimly built.
    â€œA hospital couldn’t hurt, other than the hours you’re likely to spend in the emergency room,” he told her.
    She realized that she hadn’t responded to his earlier comment; she had just been staring at him. “No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Really, I’m fine,” she protested. “Please, I just—” She broke off, aware that a sea of faces seemed to be looking on.
    In the distance, she even saw the face of the tarot reader. The woman was watching her gravely, as if she weren’t at all surprised by this turn of events.
    For some reason the sight of the woman was disturbing. Jillian felt uneasy again, as if something was wrong but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if the tarot card reader knew something she didn’t.
    Something that she should know.
    The woman turned away, and Jillian’s uneasiness dissipated. She felt simply and completely like an idiot.
    â€œWhat?” Marston asked quietly, seeming to sense her unease.
    â€œI just need to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was soft. Raspy. “I could really go for some air.”
    A second later, she regretted her words, as Marston lifted her into his arms, striding from the pub. “Excuse us, the lady needs air.”
    She wasn’t white anymore. Her cheeks were flushed with mortification.
    Outside, she found herself seated on the hood of a silver sports car. She heard Connie’s heels hitting the pavement as she and Joe hurried out to join them, followed by Tip, still in his Carmen Miranda getup.
    â€œIs that better?” Those uncannily dark blue eyes were on hers.
    And her hands were on his arms, she realized; she had gripped him to steady herself. She snatched her hands back and grasped for some dignity. “Look, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine now. I just—”
    â€œHad too much to drink?” he suggested.
    She straightened in indignation. “I never have too much to drink.”
    â€œNo?” A spark of humor touched his eyes.
    â€œI don’t believe your job description includes anything about picking me up from barroom floors, though I do appreciate the concern. However, I really am fine.”
    â€œShe does seem to be okay,” Tip said.
    Marston turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of the big cop in drag. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you two were together,” he said briefly.
    â€œNo, no, they’re not together,” Joe said quickly, explaining. “Tip is a friend of mine.”
    Jillian could have knocked him silly. She offered him a scathing glance, but he didn’t notice.
    â€œI think I should get off this car before the owner sues for damages,” she said, starting to move.
    â€œGive yourself another second.”
    His hands were on her shoulders. Long fingered, clean, neat, powerful. She glanced down at his touch and felt a strange, warm tremor. Barely remembered. Not welcomed now.
    â€œI’m on someone’s Mercedes.”
    â€œIt’s mine,” he said.
    Naturally. The Mercedes said everything there was to say about him. Smooth, cool. Sporty but mature. Handsome, powerful, sleek.
    â€œMaybe you should take Jillian home, Mr. Marston,” Connie said, concerned. She looked from one to the other. “We haven’t actually met,” she said to him. “I’m Connie