The bodyguards had pried the truck door open. They were pulling the driver out. Julian shouted a command, pointing to the safe zone behind the barrier.
He was taking charge. No press, no cameras, just action.
Ben came running up the embankment, slipping in the mud. "Elena! Oh my god, are you okay?"
"Get the shot, Ben," Elena hissed through her teeth. "It's Sterling. He's saving the driver."
"Sterling?" Ben whipped his camera up. "Holy..."
He started snapping rapidly. Flash. Flash. Flash.
The light drew attention. One of the bodyguards looked up, hand moving to his jacket.
Suddenly, a screech of tires tore through the air.
A sedan, trying to rubberneck the scene, slammed on its brakes too late. It hydroplaned. It spun out of control, missing the truck but careening toward the shoulder.
It smashed into the back of the City Chronicle van.
BAM.
The impact was massive. The van lurched forward, propelled by the force, and slammed directly into the rear bumper of Julian Sterling's armored SUV.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered.
"No," Elena whispered.
Her ride. Her equipment. And now, they had just rear-ended the Mayor of New York.
The sedan driver was okay, airbag deployed. But the Chronicle van was totaled, steam hissing from the radiator. And the Mayor's SUV... the bumper was dented, the taillight smashed.
Julian walked over. He didn't look at the cars. He walked straight to Elena.
He towered over her. Up close, he was even more intimidating. He smelled of rain and cedar wood and raw power.
"You're hurt," he said. His voice was deep, a baritone that vibrated in her chest.
"I'm fine," Elena said, trying to scramble backward. "Just a sprain."
He looked down at her ankle. It was already swollen to the size of a grapefruit, turning an angry purple against her pale skin.
"That looks like a liability," he said, his tone devoid of sympathy.
A man in a suit-his Chief of Staff, Marcus Tate-ran over, looking furious. "Mr. Mayor, these idiots just hit the beast! The rear axle might be compromised."
Ben looked like he was going to vomit. "I'm so sorry. It was the other car... it pushed us..."
Marcus glared at Ben. "This is a federal-grade armored vehicle. Do you know how much the repair costs on a custom chassis?"
"Enough," Julian said. He didn't look at Marcus. He kept his eyes on Elena. He narrowed his gaze, looking at the press pass dangling from her neck.
"Press," he muttered, as if identifying a cockroach.
"I can't walk," she admitted, hating the weakness in her voice.
Julian didn't hesitate. He crouched down, ignoring the mud ruining his suit pants. He didn't ask permission. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back.
"What are you doing?" Elena panicked.
"Clearing the scene," he said simply.
He lifted her.
He was strong. Shockingly strong. He stood up effortlessly, holding her against his chest. Elena instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck to stabilize herself. Her muddy cheek pressed against the lapel of his trench coat.
He was warm. In the freezing rain, he was a furnace. But his expression remained granite.
"Put me down," she protested weakly. "This is inappropriate. I'm a journalist."
"You're an obstruction," he corrected.
He carried her toward the SUV. "Marcus, put the photographer in the front seat. Get their gear."
"Sir, protocol-" Marcus started.
"Protocol is suspended," Julian said. "I'm not leaving witnesses on the side of the road to sell the story of how I left them there."
He walked to the rear door of the SUV. The bodyguard opened it.
"Get in," Julian said, depositing her onto the leather seat.
"My van..." Elena said, looking back at the smoking ruin.
"It's gone," Julian said. He climbed in beside her. The door slammed shut with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing out the storm, the noise, and the reality of her life.
She was trapped. In a box. With the most powerful man in the city.
---
