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Heather flipped her hair behind her shoulders and eyed Ed with a look of exaggerated sexiness. She slouched in her new red dress. “Hi, there, big boy,” she whispered. “What are you wearing? Oh, nothing? Well, guess what; neither am I—”

“Stop!” Ed cried, holding up his hands. “You're making me sick. I mean, you know, in a really good way.”

She giggled. “So I get the job?”

“Definitely. But I . . .” Ed stopped talking.

Tears were suddenly rolling down Heather's cheeks. But she was still laughing. Okay.
Major problem. Rewind.

“Heather, what's wrong?”

“I . . .” She shook her head, biting her lip. “I'm sorry, Ed. I'm trying . . . really. But every time I have a second to
think,
I just can't. Everything is too screwed up. My parents are broke, Ed.” Her voice caught. “And Phoebe . . .”

She wasn't laughing anymore. She was only crying.

Damn.
He had known she was bummed out. But Ed had never seen the great Heather Gannis in despair. She had mastered the art of the emotional mask.
Seeing her actual tears in public was the equivalent of spotting Elvis Presley, alive and well, in the middle of Times Square.

“I think now would be a good time to tell you that I won twenty-six million dollars in my lawsuit,” he whispered. “As soon as the appeal is over.”

She sniffed and looked at him. She didn't say a word, but her eyes flickered.

“Come on, Heather.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I could never spend that much money. I promise I'll take care of you and your family until things get better. You are
not
going to be homeless.”

Heather wiped her cheeks with her napkin. “I couldn't take your money—it would be wrong. I shouldn't be bawling on your shoulder, anyway....”

Ed swallowed. “It's my money,” he stated. “I can do what I want with it.” Maybe tonight wasn't the right time to tell Heather about the operation. Besides, he had no idea whether or not it would be a success. Why build up her hopes? Right. He would keep the news to himself for now. It would be the best thing for everyone. For now, he would make Heather happy.

 

“I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE NEVER DONE
this,” Sam whispered, shivering. “It's amazing.”

Less Than Nothing

Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge had been Gaia's idea. It was one of her favorite New York activities, mainly because it didn't cost anything. Of course, she hadn't done it in a very long time, and not only because of the cold. Mostly she hadn't done it because she'd been mushed too deep inside her own trash compactor of a life to think about taking time do something
fun . . .
for fun's sake.
But now
—
and very suddenly, it seemed
—
she had all the time in the world.
It was as if she had abandoned her own existence and been reincarnated as a normal teenager.

Gaia's eyes roved over the deserted walkway. Thousands of cars crossed the bridge every day, but like all things New York, it was also designed for pedestrians. Gaia would miss that about the city if she left: its pedestrian-friendly vibe. Well,
if
Oliver ever got in touch with her. Somehow, with each hour that passed, that seemed less and less likely. Maybe he'd disappeared for good. Maybe she'd never see him again....

But it didn't matter. She had Sam.

She swallowed, glancing over at him as he peered down at the rippling black water. His eyes were like a
little child's, wide and awestruck, as he soaked in the dancing reflections of the city lights on the waves. From here the Manhattan skyline looked like an architect's scale models. She stood beside him, huddling against him for warmth.

“It's so nice up here,” he whispered, his teeth chattering. His gaze shifted to one of the city's football-field-size sanitation barges, slowly drifting beneath them. “Ah, the fresh smell of rotting garbage,” he joked.

Gaia slapped him playfully. She never gave a whole lot of thought to matters like romance—but she had to admit, even in the freezing cold, the night
was
undeniably romantic. For one, the bridge was almost deserted. Not many New Yorkers were insane enough to venture out at midnight in winter. The only other pedestrians she could see were two shadowy figures, approaching them from the Brooklyn side.

Sam stiffened beside her.

“What's wrong?” Gaia asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured with a chuckle. But she couldn't help noticing that his eyes were glued to the approaching silhouettes. “So what do you say we head back? I don't feel like catching pneumonia.”

Gaia opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. It
was
cold. And if Sam was nervous about those guys ... well, he had every right to be. New York City was a dangerous place. More dangerous for some
than others—
namely, those who weren't experts in a variety of martial arts or perfect shots.
And just because
she
was a freak of nature who couldn't feel fear, she had to learn to empathize with people who could. Especially since she was in love with one.

Yet part of her still wanted to lie in wait like a predator—a predator who washed the city clean of scumbags who even
considered
messing with a young couple on a bridge, enjoying an intimate moment—

“Gaia, let's get the hell out of here,” Sam hissed. His voice was hushed, urgent. He tugged on the sleeve of her parka.

The wooden walkway boards began to rumble beneath her feet. Gaia glanced up. The figures were no longer silhouettes; they were two plainly visible
guys,
running straight toward them. One of them was holding something. Gaia almost smiled.

In the filtered light from the bridge's lamp, a blade glistened.

A tingle shot through her veins.
I wanted this, didn't I?
she realized. Yes . . . deep in her subconscious she
wanted
to put herself at risk, with Sam at her side to witness it. She wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was as simple as a desire to show off.
Or maybe it was just because she wanted to prove him that she could take care of herself. No matter what the circumstances.

The guys were almost upon them now—not running anymore, just walking and smiling. Time slowed to a standstill. She was aware that Sam was tugging on her, yelling at her, but her mind was totally focused on the two attackers. One was about six-foot two, and Gaia estimated his weight at about 230 pounds. The other, the one with the knife, was shorter and wiry. Both wore ski caps.

“Hand it over, bitch,” the taller one gasped.

Gaia almost laughed. Well, this guy wouldn't be winning any fitness awards. He was practically fighting to breathe. Did he even
think
he was threatening?

Sam positioned himself in front of her. It was sweet, brave (almost heart wrenching, actually), but foolish. He would just get in the way. As gently as she could, she pushed him aside and stepped forward.

“Hand what over?” she asked.

“Your wallet.” The shorter guy waved his knife menacingly at Sam. “You too, asshole.”

In a flash she launched herself into the air. She kicked, and her right foot came into contact with the blade. It flew out of the mugger's hand. He fell to one knee, clutching his wrist. “Shit!” he screamed. The knife clattered to the walkway, right by the fat guy's feet.

As soon as Gaia landed, the other guy pounced at Sam. But when the guy's fist came flying, Gaia gracefully darted forward and delivered a block with her
forearm,
using her own momentum to spin and deliver a punch to his mammoth gut.

“Oomph.”
He doubled over, wheezing for breath.

The wiry guy's eyes flashed to the knife. He lunged for it, but Gaia kicked it as hard as she could, sending it flying through the railing and out over the water. It glittered for a moment like a falling star, then vanished from sight. Stunned, the guy froze. Gaia used the opportunity to seize his forearm, wrenching it behind his back. He winced, and his muscles tensed. With a shove she sent him sprawling by the feet of his fat friend.

“Get the hell out of here,” Gaia ordered.

That was all the encouragement they needed. Clutching each other for support, they took off back toward Brooklyn, hobbling as fast as they could.

“Holy shit,” Sam whispered.

But Gaia barely heard him
The adrenaline was slipping away.
Gaia clenched her jaw. That fight was nothing, less than nothing. But it didn't matter. She still saw the familiar black spots in front of her eyes . . . the way she always did before she was about to collapse.

“Sam, you're going to have to help me,” she panted.

He surged forward. The next thing she knew, she'd slumped her weight against him. Instantly his arm encircled her waist.

“I've got you,” he grunted. He half carried, half
dragged her back down the bridge, back toward Manhattan. From what felt like far away, Gaia heard his boots shuffling against the pavement. She knew she weighed a ton, but she was helpless. Asking her to walk on her own two feet would have been the same as asking her to carry an elephant on her back. But she was lucid enough to wonder:
Did I want this, too? Did I want Sam to see it
—
all of it? The skill and the weakness?

“Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

She managed to shake her head. “I'll be fine.”

Slowly the world came back into focus. Gaia took a deep breath, pulling away from him.

“Gaia, we need to talk,” he stated. His voice was cold, toneless.

She stared at him. “I ... I know.”

“Good.” He took her arm and hurried her back toward the city streets. “Now, let's get the hell out of here.”

Ugly History

IT WAS CLOSE TO TWO IN THE MORNING,
but Sam wasn't tired. Far from it. The events of the night were still too close, too
vivid.
Sitting here in his dorm room with Gaia, chowing on Krispy Kreme doughnuts . . . he knew he should have felt content. But he
didn't. He felt confused, uncertain. The fact of the matter was that he'd devoted a good chunk of the last five months to Gaia Moore, and he still knew almost nothing about her. Yes, they had a connection. Yes, they were attracted to each other.
But it was all intangible.
There was nothing
concrete.
In many ways—many important ways—Gaia was a complete stranger, more so now than ever. And it scared him.

“So . . . I don't get it,” he murmured, staring at her as she lounged on his unmade bed. “You're a kung fu expert? Like Jackie Chan?”

Gaia smirked. “That's
Ms.
Jackie Chan to you.”

Sam grinned, but he didn't know what to make of the reply. It was classic Gaia: smart, quick—and totally unrevealing.

“I'm a pretty good shot, too,” she added, seemingly out of nowhere. “And I can hold my breath under water for about three minutes—on a bad day.” She shot him a seductive glance. “Not to brag or anything.”

“No, please,” Sam mumbled. “Brag away.” After all, if Gaia hadn't been on that bridge with him, there was a very good chance he'd be sliced to ribbons right now or lying on the bottom of the East River.
He didn't know whether to feel ashamed or relieved.
Sam had thought he was involved with a girl. But Gaia was more like a super-hero, like a comic-book character. (Okay, a very sexy one.) Or was she a super
villain?
He still couldn't tell.
He just knew that he was glad she was on
his
side.

“My dad taught me all that stuff,” she muttered, grabbing another doughnut from the box. “He taught me how to be a fighting machine.”

Sam looked at her closely. The muscles in her face had tightened. Her eyes seemed to change color, too . . . almost to a bluish black. Obviously there was some history between her and her father. Ugly history. It was bizarre even to think of Gaia in the context of
having
a father.
Somehow Sam had assumed that she had sprung to life the first day he saw her in the park.
He had never imagined her as a seven-year-old, learning how to ride a bike. Or in her case, learning how to catch a speeding bullet between her teeth.

“Why did he do it?” he prodded. “I mean, aren't little girls supposed to play with Barbie dolls and Easy-Bake ovens?”

Gaia laughed shortly. “I'm not really sure. My dad was a CIA agent—he probably still is. Maybe he thought I'd grow up to be one, too.” She bit into the doughnut as if proclaiming that one's father was a spy was entirely routine. “Too bad I want to be a waitress,” she added with her mouth full.

Sam chewed his lip. “Did he teach you to be brave, too?”

Gaia smiled wryly. “Nah . . . he didn't teach me that.”

“So is your dad out on a mission now?” he asked, suddenly overcome with curiosity. “Is that why you've been living with George?”

“No.” Gaia shook her head. “I mean, yeah, he might be on a mission, but that's not why I was living with ... George.”

Sam braced himself. He'd never heard this tone in Gaia's voice . . . this weakness. He'd heard anger, irritation, occasional happiness.
But right now she just sounded defeated.
“So why did you end up with George?” he pressed.

She tossed the rest of her doughnut back into the box and met his gaze. “My mother was murdered,” she stated simply. “The night of her death my dad disappeared without a word. Just up and split. No note. No forwarding address.”

“I . . .” Sam felt his throat constrict. The intensity of Gaia's stare made it clear: She wasn't going to give up any details about her mother's death. And Sam wasn't about to ask. If he pushed too hard, Gaia would retreat. That he knew. But maybe if he let her tell him her story
her
way, eventually she would let him in on whatever secrets were locked up in that inscrutable past of hers.