She sat helplessly entrapped by the crowd of newspeople. Bauman elbowed his way past, throwing her one last glaring look. Sullivan muffled an oath, shoving his way clear so that she sat there alone. Numb and confused again by fever, she felt the grip of a hand on her arm. Stupidly she looked up. Up into the face of Matt Breckenridge. Her lips parted, and tears rolled silently down her cheeks. “Come on,” he urged. “Can you stand?” Blindly she rose, a feeling of utter weakness making her lean heavily against his strong body as he made a path for their exit. Once inside a small side room, he closed the door, locking it behind him. Alanna stared up at him, lips parted, unable to say anything. How could she? What could be said to salvage their destroyed relationship? “Here, sit down before you fall down,” he ordered tightly, guiding her to a straight-backed chair. She sat, and he knelt down on one knee, touching her hot, fevered cheek. “You’re burning up,” he growled, searching her face worriedly.
