II NO RAIN, NO FLOWERS （AUGUST）

I have a big damn problem in my hands.

Literally.

Considering I made it exactly three steps toward Miss Lark just in time to catch her as she fainted, and now my arms are full of a soft young woman who isn't able to move.

When the slender blonde introduced herself on our flight, I never expected to wind up in this predicament—even with her silly-ass attempts to distract me from my work.

She's got my full attention now.

I don't have time for flirtatious women. It's nothing new to me, and all they do is break my focus.

Fate's decided I don't get a choice right now.

This girl—Elle Lark—is alarmingly light in my arms. Trim, pale, and tangled up in me like a tree branch.

Her wispy strawberry blonde hair floats over my arm, so light and fine it wants to defy gravity rather than falling down gracefully.

What the hell did she say her health issues were again?

Headaches?

She certainly feels fragile.

Blue veins glow against thin wrists. She's long legs and not much else, a girlish frame that would make my gaze linger if she wasn't out cold.

Before, I thought she was young—too young for my hungry eyes—but I realize now as I look at her face that it was simply her ivory color and smallness spinning that illusion.

For someone so pale, she's surprisingly warm against me, a living sunspot draped against my arms and chest.

"Sir?"

Blinking, I look up.

I forgot we're in the middle of a busy airline terminal, fainting girl or not.

People are staring at us like the slack-jawed paralyzed slugs they are.

Everyone except my driver and personal assistant, Merrick "Rick" Adams.

He looks at the girl. Looks at me. Looks back at the girl and steeples his fingers together.

Then he moves closer, wisely choosing not to comment, waiting for me to speak first.

"I've got her, Merrick."

He offers me his usual gracious smile.

He's a thin, lanky man who often reminds me of an overly friendly cat.

"So then," Merrick says, "your luggage already arrived a day ahead, as planned, and it's been transported to your residence. Will we be making any additional stops on the way to the office, considering the—the situation, sir?"

"Yes. Change of plans," I say dryly, shifting the negligible weight in my arms so I can balance Miss Lark and the laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I nod at her carry-on, which is currently resting on the floor with its strap crumpled on top of it. "Would you?"

"Of course."

He bends and scoops up the bag, then turns to lead me through the terminal, threading a path that avoids the thickest clusters of staring, muttering idiots.

Not an EMT in sight, of course.

Knowing how slow things move around here, it's one of many reasons I decide to deal with Elle Lark myself.

That doesn't stop people from looking, but I don't have any time or fucks to care about gawkers.

Since I'm not an authorized care provider or emergency contact, I'll have to deliver her into the hands of someone who knows her and her medical needs before being on my merry way.

Which is why I avoid the nosy TSA agents as well, brushing them off.

Her breathing is fine, at least.

She isn't bruised or suffering a concussion, and I know it's not diabetic shock, a heart attack, a stroke, a seizure, or anything requiring instant intervention.

For her, it's still a medical emergency.

For me, it's trouble.

More trouble finds me as Rick takes us to the cold parking lot and the dark-blue Genesis G80 waiting to ferry us from the airport.

It's not the way the girl shivers and curls up closer, tucking herself against me for warmth, that bothers me.

The real irritant is that I've got no clue where this girl lives.

That will be a problem.

While Rick deposits her bag on the pavement and holds the car door open, I settle her in the back seat, sitting upright. A quick, nonintrusive search inside her bag reveals nothing. The bulge of a wallet makes a faint outline against the back pocket of her close-fitting jeans.

Fuck.

She's going to make me touch her, isn't she?

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I draw a deep breath.

Annoying.

"Forgive the intrusion," I mutter, despite knowing she's unconscious.

Then I slip an arm around her delicate waist to lift her up, just enough to slide my fingers into her back pocket.

I try to make as little contact as possible, yet it's impossible to avoid the soft, warm flesh through denim, curving against my fingertips.

I damn sure don't linger.

Half a second of annoyingly enticing warmth dipping under my touch, and I snag the barest edge of the wallet and yank it out quickly before settling her back down in the seat.

When I flick the wallet open, her license tells me nothing except that I was correct about her age: twenty-three.

The address on the license is in New York City.

Not helpful.

With a disgusted sigh, I drop the wallet into her bag.

"Problem, sir?" Rick offers a sympathetic smile.

"I have an unconscious stranger in the back of my car and no idea where to drop her off, so yes, I have one," I retort.

Rick only smiles and shrugs.

I suppose he's used to my barbs by now.

"We could simply leave her with airport security," he points out.

We could.

Hell, maybe we should, especially since we have no idea if she's meeting someone here who might be looking for her and panicking by now when she isn't responding to texts.

I thin my lips.

Simply abandoning her to the whims of overworked TSA agents or an expensive ambulance ride she doesn't need ticks at my morals.

She shouldn't be my problem, but she is now—and I don't leave problems unsolved.

"Check with airport security," I say. "Her name is Eleanor Lark. Ask them to page anyone waiting for her. If there's no one here, then we'll get her wherever she belongs."

"Understood." His nod might as well be a crisp salute.

Rick turns and speed-walks back into the terminal. I sink down into a crouch outside the open car door, watching the unconscious girl with her head tilted against the back of the seat.

"You," I mutter, "have been a pain in my ass ever since you stepped on that plane. What am I going to do with you?"

She actually responds and startles me—though I don't think she's aware.

"Gran? Grandma?" she mumbles in her sleep. "No, no, I told you ... stay. Stay home."

I arch a brow.

Her grandmother must be pretty formidable, if I somehow remind Miss Lark of her.

"I'm not your grandmother," I point out firmly. "If you could provide her address, that will help us resolve this dilemma faster. You don't need a doctor, right? The ER?"

"No. No hospital." She mouths the words more than she says them. "Home. Grandma."

Shit.

"Where is home, Miss Lark?" I try.

She doesn't answer.

She only lets out a soft, pained sigh past her pink lips.

I notice she has a small mouth, a little bud of a thing with a plump upper lip tapering sharply down to peaked corners.

I wait for those lips to move again.

They don't, not even as I hear the echo of her name over the PA system from inside the terminal.

"Problem," I mutter, shaking my head. "You are a problem."

"Bite me," she mumbles back, and I blink.

Is she actually awake now?

"Miss Lark." No response. I suppose this is revenge for ignoring her on the plane. "Miss Lark."

Nope.

She's truly out—either asleep or unconscious or in some haze of pain in between.

It makes me wonder what her life must be like if that's her reflexive response.

I feel a touch of déjà vu as I reach in to shake her shoulder lightly, though no hand rises to stop me. "Miss Lark, wake up. Just enough to tell me your destination so we can be free of each other. Take my hand."

I grab her fingers and fold them around mine. She grips them weakly.

"Nnh?"

I sigh.

She's like a helpless little bird.

This is so not my wheelhouse.

I have zero talent for managing small, fragile things. I'd prefer to put this delicate young woman in the hands of someone more gentle before I accidentally rupture something. Either in her fragile body, or in my exasperated brain.

"Home. Where? Talk to me." Maybe if I keep it simple, the question will penetrate her fog. I just need to leave her wherever she's meant to be.

With a strangled sound, she turns her head and falls to rest against my hand on her shoulder, using it as a pillow. Her skin is soft and feathery warm against the backs of my knuckles. Her slow breaths stir the hairs on the back of my palm.

". . . wanna go home."

"Then tell me where home is," I grit through my teeth.

"Huh?"

"Where."

Her lashes flutter. They're several shades darker than her hair, with a deeper red tinge, almost russet, making the glinting hazel underneath look closer to the rusty golden orange of a wildcat's fur by contrast.

Then she mumbles an address—I think.

I recognize enough of the street name to know it's in the Queen Anne neighborhood.

I only hope I'm not about to deliver her to some psycho ex-boyfriend's house or the place she shared once with a roommate who's long gone.

While I wait for Rick to return, I ponder what the hell to do before I buckle Miss Lark into the passenger side, carefully shifting her into place.

I don't let my hands linger a second longer than they want to.

I've already been touchy, digging around in her pocket. By the time I slide her bag under her legs and around to the other side to deposit my own bag behind the driver's seat, Rick returns, sighing and running a hand through his short crop of greying hair.

"No one answered the page, Mr. Marshall," he says. "Seems like we're on our own."

"I have an address," I say. "One where we can hopefully leave her safely. It shouldn't be too much of a detour."

Rick's pleasant facade actually cracks—something I've rarely seen in the years he's worked for me. No matter where I travel on the job, Rick is on the ground a day or two ahead of me.

He handles my accommodations and transportation, discussing any local legal issues when I'm contracted out to corporations outside the United States.

When I come home to Seattle, he keeps my house in order, and any business matters that have followed me home from my contract assignations are well sorted and ready for me to handle on my own time.

The man is unflappable, and he typically handles anything without protest.

I'm not used to seeing dismay and concern cross his face.

Just a flicker, but it's there, glaring and unmistakable.

Still, he smiles again and says "Of course" before moving to open the driver's side back seat door for me. "Just let me know where, and we'll be on our way."

I give him the address and slide into the back seat, well aware that I'm typically alone in these instances. But considering Miss Lark is sleeping off her migraine attack, I can at least pretend to be alone until the time comes to deposit her in someone else's hands.

As Rick settles behind the wheel and drives us into the light traffic that comes with a cold Seattle dawn in February, I retrieve my laptop and settle in to review a few reports.

I've mostly closed out my last contract—a major semiconductor chip manufacturer in Taiwan that hired me to step in as temporary COO for a six-month stint to reverse a revenue decline caused by material shortages.

So I restructured their manufacturing processes to reuse waste and scrap materials in new manufacturing, launched multiple new products with tiered pricing models to capture new markets, and sourced previously unknown suppliers who were willing to sell off key materials to help fill the gaps.

Four months in, my client hit breakeven.

By the time I booked my flight back home, they were seeing a profit again.

I'd just like to keep an eye on their actual revenues versus projections over the next six months. Too many companies that bring me on to sort through their chaos like to fall apart again the second I'm out the door.

Technically, not my problem. I've done the job I was hired to do.

I have zero responsibility to stay and hold their hand, but there's nothing I hate more than good work going to waste.

As we take a corner, a soft weight flumps against me.

My laptop veers off to the side, bumping against the door.

That weight slides down my chest, settling in my lap.

I freeze, just staring.

Miss Lark has slid down the back of the long bank of seating in the car's rear passenger area, shifted by the momentum of the turn.

She's so slender there was too much slack in the seat belt, tumbling her down until she's now pillowed on my thigh, with her gold hair spilling over my dark slacks in sunrise tones.

Goddamn.

She still hasn't opened her eyes the entire time.

Even I can't work like this.

"Miss Lark," I say pointedly. Surely, she must be awake by now.

She only gives back a sleepy exhalation and curls up, snuggling into me with her cheek rubbing my thigh.

The sound of soft skin against fine wool is damnably distracting.

The sensation even more so.

I grind my teeth.

"Miss Lark, up. Wake up."

She doesn't.

If anything, my words only push her deeper into sleep. Her lips curve up as she lets out a drowsy mumble.

"Daddy."

"No." My eyes widen. "I am not your father, woman."

Just what the hell have I gotten myself into?

She still isn't moving. I can't prop the laptop on her head and press on with my work, can I?

Swallowing a growl, I close my computer, tuck it back in my bag, and then settle in to look out the window. Somehow, I must endure this until I can hand this impertinent brat with no boundaries off to someone who can help her annoy the rest of the world.

I catch Rick watching in the rearview mirror with clear amusement and bare my teeth.

"Not one word," I bite off. "Drive."

"Of course, sir."

He tries not to smile.

He fails miserably.

That was three words, when I said not one.

What the fuck ever.

Grumbling to myself, I glare out the window, trying like hell not to breathe in her sweetness. She's wearing some scent that's floral and sweet like apples.

I try my damnedest to ignore the soft bundle of woman in my lap while I watch morning struggling to break through a light rain in golden sheets over the hills of Seattle.