By the time Tony reached the woman who?d been struck by the van, she was sitting up, dusting the palms of her hands and examining one of them, which was bleeding from a long scrape. "I?m fine," she insisted to the driver of the van. "Really, Mitch. I?m okay."

"I?m sorry," he said, sounding far from reassured. "The sun was glaring, and you just bolted from behind that car ?"

"I mean it, Mitch. I?m fine."

Tony couldn?t believe what he was hearing. Why was she absolving the driver? In New York City, she?d be warning that her lawyer would be in touch. She?d be moaning that her neck hurt, her back, her leg, and asking him how much insurance he carried. She certainly wouldn?t be saying she was fine.

"Don?t move," he ordered her as she bent her legs and brushed small bits of gravel from her knees. "You could be seriously hurt."

"That?s what I?m thinking," the driver of the van agreed as he and Tony hunkered down next to her. "How?s your head, Diane? How?s your vision?"

"Just don?t move," Tony repeated.

"Oh, please!" She laughed ? a sweet, musical sound that seemed as unreal as everything else in this hick town. "Stop fussing over me. It?s just a scratch."

She displayed her palm, which was scraped up past her wrist. Tony pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around her hand. Back home, cops were always cautious when dealing with open wounds. But she looked healthy and wholesome, and he wasn?t back home.

"I feel terrible," the driver mumbled.

"Really, Mitch, it was my fault. Is the money pouch somewhere?"

"Right here," the driver said, holding up the canvas bag. "I think we should report this to the police."

"Report what? I walked into your van, lost my balance and got a scratch. It?s embarrassing. Why bring the police into it?"

Because that was what police were for, Tony wanted to say ? although he had to admit that in New York City, no cop would waste time writing this one up. They were too busy dealing with traffic fatalities and serious crimes to worry about a woman in need of a little gauze and tape.

And he shouldn?t be wasting his time with her, either. He was here to do a job. He couldn?t get sidetracked by a pretty woman with a bleeding hand.

"I?ll take you to see Dr. Bennett," the driver insisted.

"I don?t need a doctor. I can get this cleaned up inside." She gestured toward the drugstore, then rubbed her thumb over the square of white linen wrapped around her hand. She lifted her gaze to Tony.

"You should see a doctor," he urged her, his voice unexpectedly husky.

"You really do need to have Dr. Bennett check you out," the driver agreed. "I?ll run you over." He winced. "Bad choice of words."

"Maybe you should file a police report," Tony suggested. "I can take her to the doctor." And then he?d get back to work.

"Forget the police," the woman argued. "Do me a favor, Mitch, and bring the money pouch back in to Stan. Tell him I?ll go to the bank later." Once again she turned to Tony, and a small sigh escaped her. Her hand tightened around his handkerchief. "Do you really want to take me to the doctor?"

He really wanted not to want to. He really wanted not to have any interest in her at all. But he couldn?t seem to help himself. "Yeah."

"All right. Let?s go."

He felt a combination of relief, regret, and the certainty that he was pursuing something better left alone.

A faint smile curved her lips, and he knew that whatever it was, however wrongheaded it was, he had to pursue it....