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  Clinton-mask fell onto into the gravel, his buddies making commiserating sounds of pain as they tried to help him up. Lisa rolled to her feet, ready to run. A roaring growl filled the night, close to her face, and she fell back.

  Deacon's Harley spun the grit and stones, spattering her face. Lisa threw up her hands to shield her face and stood. The heavy folds of her skirt fell back down around her ankles.

  Clinton-mask was still writhing on the ground, but the other president-masks were no longer trying to help him up. Deacon punched the kick stand down on his bike and leapt off it. His red helmet glinted like fire in the orange parking lot lights. With the face shield down and his leather-gloved fists raised menacingly, he didn't look human. He looked like some sort of alien warlord, a cyborg. An avenging angel.

  The president-masks fled before him like fluff blown from a dandelion. Clinton-mask, spying the threatening form bearing down on him, somehow managed to find the strength to fight the pain from his bruised groin. He got to his feet in a flash, tripped and went down to his knees in the gravel. Yelping, he pushed to his feet again and flew into the tree row. The sounds of branches slapping flesh and cries of pain and terror echoed through the night.

  "Are you all right?" Deacon knelt beside her, his arm around her. He yanked the helmet from his head. He smelled like pumpkin pie.

  Lisa caught sight of her watch, stunned to realize that less than ten minutes had passed since she'd stepped out into the parking lot. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Deacon's arm on her shoulder was blessedly warm. Suddenly she felt chilled.

  "Hey, what's going on out here?"

  Lisa saw a tall, strongly built man racing toward them. His face in the orange light was grimly focused. His fists were clenched.

  "Get your hands off her," he commanded Deacon.

  "Hey, man, no problem," Deacon said smoothly, squeezing Lisa's shoulder. "I was just trying to help."

  "Step away from her, mister, unless you want trouble," Lisa's would-be protector said. "I saw what was going on! You were trying to rape this woman!"

  Deacon sighed heavily, but he dropped his arm away from her. "You've got it wrong."

  "Back off!" The man turned to her. "Are you all right, miss?"

  "I'm fine." Her voice didn't sound as shaky as she'd feared it might. She looked toward Deacon. "And he was trying to help me. A bunch of high school boys attacked me, not Deacon."

  "You know him?" The man still looked suspiciously at Deacon.

  Seeing Deacon's rumpled dark hair, his leather chaps over faded jeans, and the denim vest bespangled with the Harley-Davidson logo, Lisa guessed how a stranger might mistake him for someone who might be up to no good. Hadn't she, who thought she knew him, discovered his bad-boy exterior matched his internal character all too well? But not in this case. This time, he'd come to her rescue.

  "Yes, I know him," Lisa said firmly. "But thanks for your concern."

  "I saw a scuffle out here," the man said doubtfully, still giving Deacon an evil look. "I heard some screams as I was coming out of the vestibule. I saw this man grabbing you...."

  "It's all right, really," Lisa assured him. "They ran off into the trees."

  She looked down at the ground. "They didn't even get my purse." She didn't mention the other object Clinton-mask had demanded. The mortification was too much.

  "My wife's called the police," the man said.

  "Great," Deacon muttered.

  "Great," Lisa echoed. Now that everything was passed, the last thing she wanted to do was spend the evening telling the local cops how an adolescent boy had tried to steal her purse and her underwear.

  "If you're sure you're all right," offered the man hesitantly. He looked back and forth from her to Deacon, his brow creased in concern. "My wife's waiting for me over there."

  "Sure, go on," Lisa said. "And thank you so much."

  The man didn't seem to want to go, but he did, casting a hard look over his shoulder at Deacon. Then they were alone, the two of them, and his stare made a different sort of chill run down her spine.

  "Thank you," she said. "If you hadn't come back --"

  "You looked like you were handling it pretty good on your own."

  "Why did you come back?"

  His gaze pierced her and made her knees week. "I heard you call after me. I was going to keep driving home. Then I changed my mind."

  He'd been coming back to talk to her. Lisa's heart thudded a little, but pleasantly. He'd actually turned around to come back for her. Now he opened his mouth as if to speak, and she wanted him to. It didn't matter what the words might be--accusation, confession, or explanation. All that mattered was that he was going to talk to her.

  All at once the red-blue, red-blue of the police car lights lit up the parking lot and turned the orange from the overhead lights to alternating bands of fire and sickly purple. Deacon bit back whatever he'd been about to say, his full mouth closing abruptly. A pang of disappointment filled her stomach.

  Deacon bent down and picked up two things from the ground. "You might want these."

  He pressed her purse and the shredded remains of her white cotton panties into her hand.

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  "So let's go over this one more time," said Officer Hewitt. Though he spoke to Lisa, his sharp gaze didn't waver from Deacon's face. "You were attacked by four men wearing rubber masks."

  "Reagan, Nixon, Clinton and Carter masks," Lisa replied. "Terry, I told you all this already."

  Deacon knew the cop was up to something. He just didn't know what. They'd been at the station for hours, far longer than should have been necessary for Lisa to tell her story and sign the essential papers. He didn't like the way the other officers milled around the desk, looking at him. Like he'd committed a crime.

  "And they took your purse and your..." Deacon was pleased to see Hewitt falter. "Your underwear."

  "They tried to." Lisa was beginning to sound aggravated, and no wonder. Hewitt was questioning her like she'd pushed herself down in the gravel. "I told you before. Only one of them actually assaulted me. The others just watched. I got the feeling they'd been put up to it somehow."

  Hewitt cast another piercing glance at Deacon. "Uh-huh."

  Lisa sighed impatiently. "Terry, I think they were just kids. They didn't hurt me really."

  The cop was looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Honey, they pushed you down in the parking lot! Your hands are all scraped up. What do you mean they didn't hurt you?"

  Lisa's cheeks flushed. In a low voice, she answered, "I mean they didn't hurt me, Terry. I'm okay."

  "Are you saying you don't want us to pursue this?" Hewitt sat back in his seat, frowning.

  "No," Lisa said hastily. "I just... I think they were just doing it for a dare or something."

  "Robbery and assault isn't something to be taken lightly," Hewitt told her sternly. Lisa looked chastened. "If we find these young men, you can be sure they'll be facing criminal charges."

  "And jail time?" she asked weakly, with another quick look at Deacon.

  So that was what this was about? She was worried about sending somebody else to jail? Deacon frowned at her, aware that every move he made was under the scrutiny of half a dozen officers. She hadn't seemed to care so much when it had been him up on the stand, even when he'd protested his innocence. She hadn't believed him.

  "Yes, Lisa." Hewitt looked at Deacon.

  Right then, Deacon knew something was up. They were going to try and pin something on him, just because he had a record. He watched the cop's eyes flicker behind him, giving some sort of silent signal to his co-workers.

  Hewitt's smile didn't meet his eyes. "You can go now. We'll let you know."

  Lisa got to her feet and clutched the beaded handbag. It was a little worse for the wear after landing in the dirt. She leaned awkwardly across the desk, allowing Hewitt to kiss her cheek.

  "Call me later," she said quietly.

  Deacon got up from his seat