The International Relations Building housed organizations and committees from various countries, and security was tight. It was one of a few buildings where she ought to be safe. “Will I require official clearance to sit in the meeting?”
She frowned. “We’ll not be discussing state secrets. Not that I’m privy to those, Detective-Inspector. I daresay your clearance for all things secretive exceeds mine every day of the week.”
“Perhaps not so much now. I wonder if you realize the significance of your position. As the spokeswoman for the organization, you ought to have had personal security options in place long before now.”
“We discussed it briefly, but there didn’t seem to be a reason—until now.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment and released it with a small sigh. “I shall see how matters stand once the Summit meetings conclude.”
An automated carriage sounded in the distance, and Oliver lifted his head to see it was a rented hack farther down the street and not one belonging to the family. Emme was jotting something in her notebook, and he glanced down at her schedule to see the next calendared item.
The carriage engine sounded louder as it approached, and the hair on Oliver’s neck stood up as he realized it was gaining speed at an alarming rate. He whipped his head up in time to see it barreling down upon them, swerving toward where he stood with Emme.
He threw his arms around her and hauled her back, stumbling. He tried to shield her as they fell to the pavement, but they came down hard on his arm and her shoulder. Wincing, he cradled her head with his hand as they rolled, and as they came to a painful stop, he lifted his eyes. The carriage was fast disappearing down the street, and he squinted to see any distinguishing marks on it.
“Sir!” Footsteps sounded beside them as the two uniformed constables assigned to the house that morning came running from the side yard. “Sir, are you hurt?”
Oliver grunted as he rolled slightly and looked at Emme. One of her arms was wrapped around his back, and her other hand clutched a fistful of his shirt. Her breath was quick, and her large green eyes searched his, confused. They also held an element he’d never seen in her: fear.
“Are you hurt?” he managed. He tried to loosen his hold but felt as though his arms had locked in place. His hand still gripped the back of her head, and he forced his fingers to relax. The constables hovered nearby, apparently uncertain which limb to grab in assistance.
She inhaled shallowly and licked her lips, her expressive brow drawing in a frown. “Nothing broken, no. What on earth . . . I couldn’t see . . .”
“Carriage nearly ran us down.” He finally was able to loosen his arms, feeling the scrapes and bruises in full as he moved.
She pulled her arm from around his back and winced. She looked at his face. “Oh! You’re bleeding.” She looked up at the constables, who still gaped. “Give me a handkerchief.”
She shoved at Oliver’s chest, and he shifted to take his weight off her, involuntarily grunting when she caught him in the stomach with her elbow.
She winced again as they sat up, favoring her side, and he was reluctant to release her entirely. Dirt smudged her cheek, and her hat and notebook lay on the walk next to his. He looked down the street, but other than catching the attention of the gardeners and nannies, nobody else was about, and all was as it had been moments before.
“No, turn your head back this way.” Emme placed her hand on Oliver’s cheek and reached around his other shoulder, effectively embracing his head.
“I’ve got to see if there are other threats—”
“If you see a carriage, we’ll move.”
He was trying to see around her arm, which was reaching up to the constable who’d now moved behind him, probably in an effort to help them stand. Oliver turned his head toward her, and the tip of his nose brushed against her neck. He smelled the light floral scent he’d come to associate with her. He’d never experienced it in a situation that didn’t also involve one of them antagonizing the other, and he was suddenly very much aware of his arm still holding her, his hand splayed across her back.
“Thank you,” she said to the constable, but the words landed in Oliver’s ear. She pulled her arm back, holding a white cloth. She placed it against his cheek and held it for a moment, frowning at him, and then bit her lip as she examined the side of his face, lifting the edge of the cloth.
He was too stunned to move, completely at sea, entirely out of his element. The day before, when Oliver had expressed frustration over his role as Miss O’Shea’s bodyguard, Conley had said, “You’ll allow she’s extraordinarily pretty.” He swallowed. Pretty did not begin to describe Emmeline Castle O’Shea. The woman was a force of nature, and he was holding her intimately.
“Your face,” she muttered. “Perhaps we should visit Sam and Hazel.”
“I am fine,” he managed. He cleared his throat, trying to make sense of their tangled limbs. She still held the cloth pressed to his face, and when he moved his hand to his cheek, she shook her head.
“Wait.” She lifted the cloth and examined his face. Her eyes narrowed as she dabbed at his skin, gently at first, and then firmly.
He winced. “It will be fine.”
“Be still. You’ve rocks in your face.” Her eyes flicked to his, and she gave him a wry smile. “Surely a big, strong man can withstand a few scrapes.”
His mouth went slack. “Miss O’Shea, are you attempting to soothe my fears?”
“Well, forgive me, Detective, but you do seem a mite flustered. There.” She flicked away a pebble and dusted off his shoulder. “No more embedded rubble.” She flashed another
