"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her voice gone low and shaky. She scooted back a foot on her bottom, her eyes dropping to her thighs. Her face flushed dark red. "Shit." She struggled with her skirt, pulling it down to cover most of her thighs.

Damn. Gone were the garters and the tops of the silk stockings. He should feel guilty for having looked, but somehow couldn't find it in him. He did, however, regret that he'd frightened her, on top of knocking her down. He held up a hand meant to soothe. "I didn't mean to scare you, miss. I was just trying to see if you'd broken your ankle." He moved his hand to her ankle, stopping an inch away to look for permission. "Okay?"

She nodded, her eyes now wary, and he went still. This close he could see her eyes weren't blue, but a deep purple. Violet. The combination of violet eyes with her black hair was… striking.

"It's okay," she said, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. Her ankle. Her potentially broken ankle. She frowned again. "I can sign a waiver if you're worried I'll sue you," she added sarcastically when he still didn't move.

Surprised to feel his lips twitch, Steven made himself look away from her violet eyes and concentrate on her ankle that was already starting to swell. As gently as he could he probed the ankle while watching her response from the corner of his eye. He didn't miss the way her arms folded tightly across her chest, the way her breath caught, the way she bit down on her lips. She was in pain, but her ankle was probably not broken. Gently he placed her foot back on the tiled floor, trying not to notice the way her toenails were painted a soft pink, the way the silk stockings clung to her calves. Trying very hard not to remember she wore honest-to-goodness garters under her modest lavender skirt.

God. How women wore real garters anymore?

He cleared his throat and hoped his voice sounded normal. "I'd say it's just a bad sprain, but you might want to get it looked at," he said, sitting back on his heels, looking away from her legs. He took note of her shoes, both lying off to the side. Black, open-toed, four-inch skinny heels.

Forcefully, he pushed the image of her legs in those heels from his brain, instead going for a tone of mild reproach. "A pair of more sensible shoes might have done a better job at breaking your fall."

Her lips fell open. "Of all the-" Her violet eyes rolled again and she struggled to her knees, smacking his outstretched helping hand out of the way. She stared him in the eye, her hands plunking down on her rounded hips. "You, sir, have one hell of a lot of nerve. You run into me, knock me down, and then have the nerve to criticize my choice of shoes!" She grabbed her purse and started to shove her lipstick, keys, and other sundries back into it. "Like I wanted to buy the damn things anyway," she muttered.

Steven picked up a shiny black compact and she snatched it from his hand with a scowl. "Give me that," she snapped.

"Then why did you?" Steven asked, handing her a plastic bag filled with… He narrowed his eyes and stared. Dog biscuits? These, too, she snatched from his hand and shoved in her purse.

"Why did I what?"

"Why did you buy those shoes if you didn't want them?"

She stopped, her hand on her palm pilot. When she looked up, her dark hair parted Like a waterfall and Steven felt his heart stop. She was smiling. Grinning, even. Frowning, she was striking. But smiling… She was absolutely beautiful. And her smile made his own lips curve up. Warmed him, inside and out.

"My friend talked me into buying them," she answered. She reached for one of the shoes, holding it up for a rueful inspection. "I told her I'd probably fall and break my ankle."

Steven laughed out loud, physically feeling the burden lighten from his shoulders. Not forgotten, not by a long shot, but lighter. For the moment. Suddenly uncomfortable, Steven stood up. Her eyes followed him, not looking away as he found himself wishing she would.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I wasn't watching where I was going and I ran into you as much as you ran into me. You've been very polite and I've been surly. I've had-" She shrugged. "A bit of an intense day. I know that isn't a good excuse, but it's the best one I've got. I hope you'll forgive my bad manners."

Steven cast his eyes around the school's lobby seeing the papers still strewn about. "It's okay. Let me pick up your papers." He could hear the brusque note in his voice and hated it, just as he hated it every time it came out. But it had become a part of him, part of the shield that kept all nonessential peo-ple at bay. Still, he hated the way her violet eyes widened and her dark brows scrunched together, puzzled.

Jenna stayed where she was for a long moment, offensive shoe in her hand. The change in his expression had been abrupt, laughing one moment, then distant the next. She wondered what she'd said. He'd started picking up the strewn papers. As he leaned forward, his golden hair picked up the reflection of the overhead lights, taking on a reddish gleam. He was tall and powerfully built and she found herself mentally comparing him to Mr. Lutz as she set the shoe aside and began gathering papers. Both men were tall, but the similarity ended there. Lutz used his size and physical power to intimidate. The stranger had a gentle touch. After her initial surprise when he'd picked up her foot, she'd felt no fear at all. Lutz's eyes had been cold as ice. This man's were a warm brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed.

Her hands stilled. Brad Thatcher had dark hair and a slender build. But her student's eyes were brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed. In fact, Brad's brown eyes and warm smile were a lot like those of the man gathering her scattered papers. She closed her eyes as heat rose in her cheeks and she pressed her hands against her face. Brad's eyes and smile were exactly like this man's. Like father… like son. Oh, Lord, she thought, swallowing the groan that had started in her throat. This man was Brad's father. She'd called him an incompetent idiot. And she'd practically shown him her underwear. Some first impression she'd made.

She looked up, unsurprised when she saw her purple folder in his hands. He was reading a test in the folder, his face a study in helpless, frustrated misery. He looked up and met her eyes and she felt as if she'd taken a rabbit punch to the gut. In his eyes she saw a riot of fear, disappointment, and a weariness that made her heart clench.

"You're Brad's Dr. Marshall," he said quietly.

She nodded. "And you're Special Agent Thatcher."

He slid Brad's test back into the folder. "I'm Brad's father, yes.

"We need to talk, Agent Thatcher."

Friday, September 30, 4:30 P.M.

Leaning one shoulder to the wall, Victor Lutz watched the principal pace the threadbare carpet of his office with growing impatience. "It's quite simple, Dr. Blackman. Overrule her."

Blackman looked up, his scrawny face tight with anxiety. "I can't do that," Blackman said.

Lutz didn't blink. "Why not?"

Blackman paced to the window and, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looked through the glass to where the Friday night football crowd was beginning to assemble.

Lutz shook his head. Blackman was a fool and Lutz was growing very tired of having to deal with him. He pushed away from the wall. "Blackman."

The principal's head whipped around at the curt address.

"I asked you a question. Why not?"

Blackman swallowed and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Cleared his throat. "Because technically she's right. Rudy is failing her class. School policy-"

"I don't give a flyin' rat's ass about your school policy," Lutz interrupted with a snarl. "I want Rudy to play. Today."