The man slammed into her thighs, and she toppled, doing her best to land on top of him and hoping like hell he didn’t have a knife or a gun. People around them were screaming, and so was he, something about men’s rights and red pills, and oh, shit, that elbow in her ribs hurt, and he was clawing at her, spitting at her, and Alex was there too, struggling and scrabbling, trying to get between her and the attacker, both men red-faced and shouting words she couldn’t make out, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she knew everyone was safe.
Then security came rushing onto the scene, just like in the hospital, and she rolled aside as soon as they had the man incapacitated. From her prone position on the red carpet, she watched him get dragged off to goodness knew where while she panted and evaluated all the places she hurt.
No stab wounds. No gunshots. Just a lot of—
“Lauren!” Alex was on his knees beside her, his hand unsteady but firm on her cheek as he tried to get her attention. “Lauren, answer me. Where are you hurt?”
“Bruises,” she managed to say. “Just bruises. You’re okay?”
“Pristine,” he said with awful, bitter sarcasm.
Deep breaths, one after the other. No one was bleeding or broken. Not him. Not her.
The excited conversation all around them was a disorienting tide of noise. It rushed through her head, dizzying her.
Flashes of light, so many of them. People were taking photos. Of her. Of Alex.
“If you’re not injured, it’s through no fault of your own.” Whipping off his jacket, he used it to wipe the saliva from her arm, his cheekbones ruddy with high color. “I want you looked at, and I don’t want a single fucking argument from you. He took you down like a bowling pin, and he kept swinging his fucking—”
With a violent jerk of his head, he looked around and yelled, “Where’s Desiree? I want a medic here right now!”
“I don’t need—” she began.
The sound he made in response to that …
Undiluted rage. Directed at her. It shocked her into silence.
He leaned his head close and hissed in her ear, and the heat radiating off him scalded her. “You just got between me and a fucking attacker, Lauren, so if I say you’re going to see a fucking medic, you are going to see a fucking medic. Do you understand me?”
His chest rose and fell in rapid pants, and when he pulled away, his eyes were narrowed, hot slits on hers, and she nodded numbly.
“Good.” The word was a snarl.
Alex brushed Lauren’s tumbled hair back from her forehead in a surprisingly gentle stroke, then spat out a vicious, abrupt fuck and got up on his knees.
“Where the hell is Desiree?” he bellowed, and then the publicist was running toward them both, wide-eyed and frantic. “Lauren needs medical attention. I’ll help you take her—”
“No,” Lauren said.
He swung on her, jaw jutting and bunched, and again. That sound.
“I’ll see a medic.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, desperate for him to hear her. “But I’m really fine. You need to stay here and give your interviews.”
He dismissed that with a violent shake of his head. “I don’t give a fuck about interviews.”
“Charity.” She kept her voice calm and low, her hand tight around his. “This is for charity, Alex. Women and children who need help. You’re the host. The big star.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, his upper body still heaving with every breath.
“I’ll personally take care of her,” Desiree assured him. “One of my assistants can guide you to the right media outlets along the carpet and at the step and repeat. And as soon as she’s been checked out, Lauren can rejoin you inside the ballroom.”
A minute passed, and they waited for him to calm. To decide what to do.
At long last, Alex raised his head and met her gaze. “Lauren? Do you want me with you?”
Yes. Shockingly …
Yes.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine on my own. You go ahead. Desiree will take good care of me.”
With a chiding tsk tsk, he bent close to her ear again.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he breathed, then moved far enough away to help ease her to her feet. His hands on her were firm but gentle, supportive as she locked her shaky knees beneath her and found her balance.
She thanked him with one more squeeze of his hand before letting go. “Don’t say anything we’ll all regret.”
He grunted in response. Then, after a final, stern look at Desiree, its message clear—do what you said you’d do, or else—he followed a hovering young man with a headset to the next interviewer.