Reza turned his attention to the girl, who still lay on the ground, weeping.
Three of the biggest boys from his own team stood around her like guards, waiting
for his orders.

“It’s all right,” he told them. “You guys get back to work, but keep your eyes
open. I’ll take care of her.” Kneeling next to the girl, Reza said softly, “How bad are
you hurt?”

Almost unwillingly, she turned over, and Reza helped her to sit up. His face
flushed with anger at the sight of the scratches and bruises that were already rising

against her porcelain skin. She said nothing, but shook her head. Since hardly
anything was left of her pretty blouse, Reza took off his shirt and offered it to her,
careful not to touch her. She had already been touched enough for one day.
“Here,” he said gently, “put this on.”

She looked at him with her dark eyes, brown like a doe’s, but with the spirit of a
leopard’s. There were tears there, but Reza saw no weakness.

“Merci,” she said, wincing in pain as she reached for the shirt. He caught a quick
glimpse of her exposed breasts and quickly averted his gaze, blushing with
embarrassment at seeing that part of her body and anger at the mottled bruises he
saw there. He turned his back to her as she stripped off the torn blouse and put on
his shirt.

“Sorry it’s so dirty,” he said about the shirt, suddenly ashamed that he did not
have something clean to offer her. “It probably doesn’t smell too good, either.”
“It is fine,” she said, her voice quivering only slightly. “Thank you. You’re very
kind.” He felt a light touch on his shoulder. “You may turn around, now.”

He found himself looking at a girl whose skin was a flawless ivory that he knew
from long experience would have a hard time under Hallmark’s brutal sun. Her
aristocratic face was framed by auburn hair that fell well below her shoulders,
untrimmed bangs blowing across her eyes. Reza felt his throat tighten for no reason
he could explain, other than that he thought she was the most beautiful girl he had
ever seen.

“I’m Reza,” he said, fighting through the sudden rasp that had invaded his voice,
“Reza Gard.” He held out his hand to her.

Smiling tentatively, she took it, and Reza was relieved to note that her grip was
strong. This one, he could tell from long experience, was tough. A survivor.
“I am Nicole,” she said, her voice carrying a thick accent that Reza had never
heard before, “Nicole Carré…”

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