The heat radiating from the undercarriage was intense, fighting against the cold rain. Dawn could hear the hiss of water hitting hot metal.

"Miss Dawn! It's going to blow!" O'Malley was at the top of the ridge, shining a flashlight down.

"Throw me the jack handle!" Dawn screamed back.

O'Malley didn't argue. He slid down the mud, the tire iron in his hand. He handed it to her, his face pale.

Dawn took the heavy iron bar. She didn't strike the glass blindly. She aimed for the corner, where the stress points were highest. She swung with her entire body weight.

Crack.

The safety glass spiderwebbed. She swung again. And again. On the fourth blow, the laminate gave way. She used the hook of the iron to peel the sheet of glass back like a sardine can lid.

She crawled inside.

The world tilted. The interior was a mess of deployed airbags and loose luggage. Jennings Stafford was suspended by his seatbelt, his body hanging at an awkward angle.

As soon as she got close, a hand shot out.

It clamped around her throat.

Dawn froze. The grip was weak, trembling, but the intent was lethal.

"Get... away," Jennings rasped. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

He thought she was the assassin coming to finish the job.

Dawn didn't pull away. She didn't panic. She looked straight into his dilated pupils. She placed two fingers on his wrist, right over the radial artery.

"Thready pulse. Tachycardic," she said, her voice calm and professional, cutting through the chaos. "Multiple rib fractures are compromising your breathing, and you have a compound fracture of the left tibia. I can feel a hematoma forming on your chest. If you don't let go, you'll pass out in thirty seconds and burn to death in two minutes."

Jennings blinked. The medical jargon seemed to short-circuit his fight-or-flight response. His hand dropped from her throat.

"Who..."

"Dawn Hoffman," she said. "I'm getting you out."

She reached for the seatbelt release. It was jammed. Of course it was.

"O'Malley! Knife!"

O'Malley passed her a pocket knife. She sawed through the thick webbing. As the belt gave way, Jennings's weight shifted. She braced herself, catching him before he could crash into the door panel.

He was heavy. Solid muscle and dead weight. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of agony that vibrated against her chest.

"I've got you," she whispered near his ear. "I need you to push with your good leg. On three."

"I can't..."

"You can, or you die," she said. "One. Two. Three!"

He pushed. She pulled. They tumbled out of the broken window together, landing in the mud.

The pain must have been blinding, but Jennings didn't scream. He just clenched his jaw so hard she thought his teeth would shatter.

"Move! Move!" O'Malley grabbed Jennings's other arm.

They dragged him ten feet, twenty feet. The mud made it impossible to get traction. Dawn's bare feet were cut and bleeding, but she didn't feel it.

Whoosh.

The gas tank ignited. A wave of heat slammed into their backs, throwing them forward.

Dawn landed on top of Jennings, shielding his head with her arms. The explosion roared, shaking the ground. Debris rained down around them-bits of metal, plastic, and burning rubber.

For a moment, they just lay there. Dawn could feel his heart hammering against her own. She could smell the copper scent of his blood mixing with the expensive musk of his cologne and the acrid smoke.

He was looking up at her. His face was streaked with mud and blood, but his gaze was clear. He was assessing her. Even now, on the brink of death, he was calculating.

"You're... Montgomery's daughter," he whispered.

"Yes," she said, pushing herself up. She wiped the rain from her eyes. "And you're heavy."

"We need to get him up the hill," Dawn said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

O'Malley nodded, though he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. "Yes, Miss."

They hoisted Jennings up. He hissed in pain as his broken leg dragged over a root. Dawn winced in sympathy but didn't stop.

"Keep the leg straight," she ordered. "Don't let it twist."

It took them five minutes to scramble up the embankment. By the time they reached the road, Dawn's lungs were burning, and her silver dress was ruined, stained black with oil and red with blood.

Catrina was standing by the open door of the Lincoln, holding an umbrella over herself. She took one look at the bloody mess they were dragging toward her and shrieked.

"Oh my god! Don't bring him here! Look at him!"

Jennings, despite his condition, turned his head. His eyes narrowed at the woman screaming.

"Open the door, Catrina," Dawn said.

"No!" Catrina blocked the entrance. "He's bleeding everywhere! He'll ruin the upholstery! And think of the liability, Dawn! If he dies in our car, we'll be sued! We should just call 911 and leave."

Jennings let out a dry, dark chuckle that turned into a cough. "Liability," he muttered.

Dawn stopped. She let O'Malley take Jennings's weight for a second. She walked up to Catrina. She was shorter than her cousin, and barefoot, but in that moment, she loomed.

"Catrina," Dawn said, her voice low and dangerous. "If you don't move, I will send Aunt Eleanor the video of you and the senator's aide from last summer's polo match. The one you paid the stable boy to delete."

Catrina froze. Her hand went to her throat. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then let's test that theory. Get in the front seat. Now," Dawn said. "And I'll also tell her about the money you skimmed from the charity fund last month."

Catrina's face went white. "You know about that?"

"I know everything," Dawn lied. She didn't know about the fund specifically, but people like Catrina always skimmed. It was a safe bet.

Catrina scrambled into the front passenger seat without another word.

"Back seat," Dawn told O'Malley.

They maneuvered Jennings into the spacious rear cabin. Dawn climbed in after him. There was barely enough room for his legs. She had to sit on the floor, kneeling beside him.

"O'Malley, go," she said. "West Wing entrance. The service road. No lights."

"Understood."

The car pulled away. Dawn immediately went to work. She ripped the hem of her dress-silk was strong, good for binding. She tied a tourniquet above the gash on his thigh.

"This is going to hurt," she warned.

"Do it," Jennings gritted out.

She tightened the knot. His body seized, every muscle locking up. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard enough to bruise bone.

Dawn didn't pull away. She let him anchor himself to her. She watched his face, monitoring his pain levels.

"You're a doctor," he said, his voice tight. It wasn't a question.

"I was," she corrected. "Now I'm just a liability."

He looked at her, really looked at her, through the haze of pain. "You're not a liability," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the shock began to set in. "You're an asset."

The drive to the estate felt like an eternity. Every bump in the road elicited a sharp intake of breath from Jennings. Dawn kept her hand on his chest, monitoring the rise and fall.

"Stay with me," she commanded softly. "Don't you dare die on my upholstery."

His lips twitched. A ghost of a smile.

When they pulled up to the service entrance of the Montgomery estate, the house was dark. Good. Aunt Eleanor went to bed at nine, but she was a light sleeper.

"Catrina, go to the main house," Dawn ordered as the car stopped. "Take a shower. Burn that dress if you have to. And say nothing."

"I'm not going to burn a Valentino," Catrina hissed, stepping out into the rain. She looked at the blood on her shoes and gagged. "You deal with this... stray. I'm washing my hands of it."

She ran toward the main entrance.

Dawn turned back to O'Malley. "Help me get him to the guest room in the West Wing. The one near the old library."

It was the most secluded room. No servants went there unless called.

They carried him in. The transition from the cold rain to the climate-controlled stillness of the mansion was jarring. The house smelled of lemon polish and old paper.

They laid him on the four-poster bed. The pristine white duvet was instantly stained red.

"I'll get the first aid kit," O'Malley said, rushing out.

Dawn stood over Jennings. He was shivering now. Shock. She needed to get his wet clothes off.

She reached for his belt.

"Buy a man a drink first," Jennings mumbled. His eyes were open again, glassy but alert.

"You're in no condition for cocktails, Mr. Stafford," she said, unbuckling the belt.

The sound of wheels rolling on hardwood floor froze her.

Whir-clack. Whir-clack.

Her mother's wheelchair.

Dawn spun around. She stepped out into the hallway just as Eleanor Montgomery rounded the corner.

Her mother looked frail. The disease that would eventually kill her was already eating away at her muscle mass, but her spine was as stiff as iron. She wore a silk dressing gown and a look of supreme disapproval.

"Dawn?" Eleanor's eyes swept over her daughter's ruined dress, the mud, the blood. "You look like you've been in a war. Where is the gala? Where is Catrina?"

"We... we had an accident," Dawn stammered. The lie tasted like ash. Seeing her mother alive was a punch to the gut. She wanted to fall into her lap and cry, but she couldn't. She had to be the general now.

"An accident?" Eleanor's voice sharpened. "Is the car damaged?"

Not are you hurt. Is the car damaged.

"The car is fine," Dawn said. "But we picked up a... a friend. He was hurt. I brought him here."

"A friend?" Eleanor tried to look past Dawn into the room. "Who is he?"

"Just a friend from the city," Dawn blocked her view. "I didn't want to take him to the hospital and cause a scene. The press, you know."

Eleanor sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. "Always the drama with you, Dawn. Always the stray dogs."

"I'll handle it, Mother. Please. Go back to bed."

Eleanor looked at her for a long moment. "Don't let him bleed on the Persian rug. That's an antique."

She turned her wheelchair and rolled away.

Dawn let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned back to the room. Jennings was watching her from the bed. He had heard everything.

"Stray dog?" he asked.

"Better than 'dead body'," she retorted. She closed the door and locked it.