Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All creative rights to the characters in this story related to High School Musical belong to its original creators. Any other names, places or events that may have similarity to existing/actual names, places or events is purely coincidental and the use of such is for the purpose of this story alone. Lastly, the author does not, in any way, profit from this story.

Within minutes of setting foot in the local hospital carrying his girl savior in his arms and having her whisked away by bustling hospital staff while firing questions at him about what happened, Troy very quickly concluded that the emergency room is not for the weak hearted . . . or the weak stomached.

As soon as he relinquished the girl in his arms to the impatient personnel in a scrub suit, he turned away to wait and finally noticed his surroundings. Then he stopped dead on his tracks. The images he saw and smelled quickly assailed his senses to make him wince inwardly and his stomach feel queasy. The shock of the chaos around him bothered him to a point of confusion that when a stretcher bearing a bloodied man who lay rigidly pale and barely breathing whizzed past him as he was hurrying to head out, Troy was almost certain he was going to retched right where he stood.

Then when he jumped back to avoid the rush of injured people pouring in and out of the wide swinging doors, thinking how excessively dangerous this area of Albuquerque must be for that many people to be scuttled into emergency care, he bumped into a woman with a heavily swollen belly that in his disorient failed to recognize she was actually pregnant instead of suffering a rare kind of stomach disease—which he surmised is what caused her belly to bloat that big; he was almost afraid she would burst into pieces before his eyes.

Troy excused himself to the woman while she threw him a furious glare then in the next breath her face abruptly contorted as if from extreme discomfort and sooner than Troy could think what to make of that, he heard a low whooshing sound just before water coming from between her legs spilled to the floor and onto his shoes.

Troy stood immobilized, unable to curse in righteous anger much as he wanted to, almost afraid to lower his gaze to see his shoes, his mind denying what he thought just happened and reversing his assumption of the woman's condition from 'rare kind of belly disease' to 'pregnant and about to pop any second', then he willed himself to look from the panicked woman's face to his sodden shoes in wide eyed disbelief and that was before the pregnant woman screamed, "My water broke!"

Immediately snapping out of his stupefaction, Troy dashed out from his spot suddenly desperate for a fresher air to breathe and once he was standing next to a tree several paces from the emergency room, he braced both hands against it and took eager gulps of the cool night air. Blessedly, minutes later, he managed to gather his wits about and calm his strained nerves.

He stared at his classic slip on Vans shoes in acute disgust. The wetness didn't seep through the material—and he hoped it won't—but he wanted nothing more than to rid his feet of it and put on a new one. But since none of that is viable because he will not walk about barefooted on these dirty streets and he doesn't have any other shoes to put on or buy from around here, he'll have to contend with the unpleasantness of his shoe problem at the moment.

Finally composed after bargaining another ten minutes to keep his irritation at bay, and able to temporarily push aside the disgusting thought of some pregnant woman's water absorbed into his shoes, he located a pay phone and made a call to the local precinct to report the mugging and after answering several more questions to the lady cop who answered his call, assuring her he would drop by the station with the girl who saved him as soon as the hospital discharges her, he went back in the emergency room and found a vacant seat at the designated waiting area.

He has every intention of waiting on the girl he'd mistaken for a boy—not just to make her accompany him to the precinct but also to make certain she's all right. Not even a pregnant woman's water or the black toothed man seated next to him incessantly chattering and bugging him to have coffee can deter him from leaving his savior there.

His impatient and annoyed gaze wandered the expanse of the stark white area noting the rushed noise of people coming to and fro the wide swinging door, intermingled voices punctuated by shouts, loud crying or various sounds to express pain, the constant whirring or beeping of whatever medical equipment was being used and the jarring whine of the ambulance sirens outside. There were several beds in the room separated by dull looking drapes suspended from metal rungs. Most of the beds are occupied by patients and placid faced medical staff attending to each of them, stethoscopes hanging from their necks and clipboards in their hands to jot down pertinent information regarding the patient.

Troy carefully avoided looking at any patient or the people seated next to him on both sides. He doesn't want to converse with anyone of them. He merely sat there observing everything in a detached manner, hoping his savior wouldn't take too long to be discharged, since he already felt annoyed and ill at ease with everything. It isn't any wonder though because in the entire twenty years of his life, this is the first time he's ever stepped inside an emergency room and an emergency room of a public hospital at that.

His personal encounter with a doctor is usually with Dr. Matthews, the Bolton family doctor, who come to the Bolton mansion to check them up or they go to his austere but spacious private clinic which was artfully designed in a way that the waiting area would look like an opulent drawing room. He had grown up believing and knowing as well, that doctors wait on their patients not the other way around which obviously isn't the case here because, he realized, with the number of would be patients arriving, the hospital is very short staffed.

Troy had been hospitalized once too for a ruptured appendix but even then, the entire wing of the hospital was closed off to others for the duration of his confinement there and he was waited on hand and foot by the hospital staff as per his father's booming instructions.

He knew things are different with the less privileged, but mere knowledge of it compared to actually seeing those differences firsthand like he is now, is an altogether awakening experience for him. For once in his life, in the space of mere minutes, he was surprised to recognize and actually feel thankful for the things he normally doesn't pay heed to because since birth it's always been there at his disposal. How fortunate he is compared to these people.

Pulling his mind away from the awe of his realization brought on by the current surroundings, Troy switched back to his little savior. The girl was an interesting thought, he mused. Had she been from the same social class as him, she wouldn't have been walking the streets in that silly green costume of hers. Sharpay, his lovely, elegant, gently reared cousin, would be caught dead before she even considers wearing those. The other females within his social circle will most likely choose to go about naked rather than wear that drab clothing. But then neither of them—except maybe Sharpay, although he's not entirely sure—would have gone the lengths his savior went through to try and save him from being stabbed and at the same time unwittingly aid him in overwhelming those muggers.

She's a brave one, he'll give her that . . . and also stupid for having no sense of safety for her own person. But that doesn't lessen anything of her daring deed in the alley; neither does it change the fact that Troy owes her his life tonight and he had repaid her by shouting at her and insulted her further by assuming she's a boy.

Girls have them! She had said when he commented on her having breasts. And I—am a girl. Troy couldn't help the unconscious smile that lifted the corners of his lips as he recalled how she angrily insisted and stressed her gender to him. In his defense though, the lighting was poor, she was wearing a costume complete with sword that should be worn by a boy and he was completely alarmed when he saw she was bleeding.

He doesn't know what her name is or how old she is and he didn't think to ask earlier either because he was worried foremost by her bleeding flesh and the pain on her side where one of the muggers kicked her. But if he has to hazard a guess based on her small stature and small . . . breasts, she's probably around 15 or 16 years of age.

A teenager. A teenager with a temper and a sharp tongue when insulted. But one who ignored danger and risked herself to help him.

"Coffee?" The man seated on his right said, intruding into his thoughts again and promptly a steaming paper cup was slid under Troy's nose.

Instantly, Troy recoiled from the hot cup and shook his head, frowning darkly at the pesky stranger who has been offering him coffee despite his repeated refusal. "I said no." Troy bit out not bothering to conceal the curtness in his tone.

The man shrugged, not in the least bit slighted, then turned his back to Troy and struck a conversation with the stranger on his other side. Troy crossed his arms over his chest and deliberately shut out the conversations swirling around him. He was getting impatient, waiting has never been a strong point of his but he was willing to make an exception for this slip of a girl.

Thankfully, after twenty minutes or so, one of the scrub suited personnel with the clipboard and a bland expression on her face approached the waiting area and raised her voice to address them in general. "For Montez . . ." She looked into the clipboard. "Gabriella Montez." She repeated then when no one responded to the name, she displayed a hint of annoyance for the silence and added impatiently, "The girl with the leafy green shirt—"

Troy abruptly stood. "I'm with her."

She gave Troy a quick once over and tipped her head in the direction of the beds. "This way." She led him forward. "In there." She nodded to a closed curtain and imparted in a toneless voice, "She'll be fine." With that, she left flipping through her clipboard.

Troy slipped through the curtains with a bit of unwanted trepidation, suddenly unsure what to do now that he was finally going to talk to his savior without her screaming and kicking to get away from him like earlier when he had no choice but to carry her out of the street, make her concede to have her injuries checked by a doctor and wring from her directions to this hospital. She was seated on the bed, her legs dangling on the side, a hospital gown served as her new shirt over the green tights—the torn leafy one lying on the edge of the bed—and her head was bent low as she lifted the starched white hospital gown to examine the gauze binding just below her chest.

He walked closer to the bed alerting her of his presence but she did not look up, her attention diligent on the binding of her wound and the ugly purple bruise on her side. Troy winced at the bruise, feeling all the more guilty for it but he cleared his throat and asked, "How are you feeling, Miss Montez?"

Gabriella's head jerked up at the formality of his tone and her name. And as soon as their eyes met, Troy found himself staring dumbfounded into a glorious pair of almond shaped liquid brown eyes, fringed with incredibly long, sooty lashes that it was almost absurd to believe what he's seeing is real. He was taken aback and unwillingly mesmerized by the startling innocence in their brown depths as she curiously studied him, that it took a moment to recover from his shock and instead of repeating his question, he asked another one that he suddenly felt was important he know.

"How old are you?" Troy inquired.

Surprised by the question and the demanding tone in the way he asked, Gabriella answered hesitantly, "Eighteen."

His face registered some shock, Gabriella noted, as if he's finding it hard to believe she's almost out of her teens. But he recovered quickly, nodded at her, cleared his throat again and repeated his first question, "How are you feeling?"

"Achy." She quipped, an uneasy smile on her lips as she fixed the hospital gown to cover her torso. "But it's nothing serious. According to the doctor, I'll live."

Troy chuckled softly, thinking he was probably too shaken by his encounter with the muggers than he realized to have mistaken her for a boy earlier. Her hair is short like a boy's and the costume she was wearing hid her frame, but her gorgeous eyes which is the first thing one notices of her face and her elegantly shaped lips could only belong to a female and her speaking voice sounded quite feminine and nice as well that it would be ridiculous and off to hear it coming from a guy's mouth. "That's good to hear."

"I thought you left already."

It was a simple statement but Troy sensed the underlying surprise and relief in them, he knew were for reasons that had to do with what happened earlier. "I didn't." He said evenly.

"Did you have your bruises checked?"

He shook his head and would have left it at that but her eyes were fixed on his face with a searching look of concern that for a brief moment Troy felt uncomfortable to be the recipient of her soft gaze. "I don't like strangers touching me." He elucidated.

She smiled at him like she understood his reason perfectly, then shifted uneasily on the bed as if trying to gain some courage for what she was about to say. "I have a favor to ask . . ." Her voice was soft, shy, entreating. "if it's okay with you."

"What is it?" Troy urged, already knowing what she intended to say—monetary consideration for saving his life.

"Could you—" She hesitated, bit her lip, carefully considering her words. "Could you pay for my charges here?"She paused expectantly to see his reaction and when seconds ticked by he didn't say anything but kept staring at her like she just transformed into another being before his very eyes, Gabriella hurried to explain. "I don't have money with me because I left my backpack in school which is also why I wasn't able to change into my own clothes. I was practicing for the school's musical . . ." She realized she was rambling, abruptly stopped, took a breath and quickly threw in an assurance. "I'll pay you back . . . you'll have to come with me to my place though so I can get money to pay—"

"Don't worry." Troy interrupted, surprised by her distress on the simple favor. He was expecting her to demand excessively from him, apart from the money, for saving his life. He wouldn't have argued or haggled had she demanded righteously. But she only asked for a favor and even assured to pay him back, reinforcing his earlier impression of how naïve and guileless she really is. "I'll take care of it." He reassured her, gentling his tone while his guilt compounded. "You don't have to pay me either. I owe you a great deal more than paying for your hospital bill."

She accepted that with a gracious and relieved smile that enlivened her face. "Thank you."

"I also have a favor to ask of you after I settle your dues here."

"We're going to the police station." She stated without needing to ask.

"Yes." Troy nodded, pulling his wallet from inside his jacket and then eyeing the starched clothing she wore with a critical frown. "Will you be allowed to leave here in that—that drafty hospital gown? If not, is there someone here who can sew that green shirt?"

Gabriella gaped at him, an expression torn between comical amazement and disbelief playing on her face. After a long pause wherein she realized he's in fact serious with his questions, she said in a strangled voice, "I—I'll ask around."

Troy mistook her choked tone to mean she doesn't have a choice but to wear the torn shirt again when they leave. The idea was unacceptable to him. The shirt looked silly and its frayed condition does not provide a decent cover for her upper body.

Gabriella was surprised to see him suddenly shrugging out of his dark gray jacket and handing the expensive looking clothing over to her. "Use this." He said, his firm tone dissuaded any objections from her and as soon as her fingers closed over the jacket, he strode off.

* * * * * *

"This is where you live?"

Gabriella shot him a sideways glance and saw his mortified reaction to the dismal two-storey building where she lives. She did not answer him, letting him roam his eyes around the place and arrive at several ugly conclusions on his own as they climbed the creaking stairs up to the second floor where her aunt's apartment was. They had just left from the police station where she made her own statement about the mugging corroborating Troy's—that's his name, she discovered during the interview with the officer who took their statements—and upon his insistence, accompanied her home because he said, "I will feel better knowing you got home safely."

Gabriella was a little wary of his gruffness at first but she sensed underneath it all he is genuinely concerned for her well being and she has to admit it felt quite nice to know, that aside from bringing her to the hospital and paying for her medical charges as a way to thank her for saving his life, he is also making an effort to amend for his error earlier about her gender.

For that, she can ignore his brusque behavior which she deduced was probably the result of how he was brought up . . . but still she couldn't shake off the strange uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. From the time she agreed to let him accompany her home, he took on this brooding expression like he's carefully considering his options and not liking them or waiting for the right moment to say something disagreeable to her but is unwilling to hurt her feelings; whichever it is Gabriella couldn't stop herself from trying to guess what's going on inside his good looking head that it added more to her anxiety.

And he just had to be handsome too. Distractingly handsome! It was quite off-putting for someone as plain and artless as her.

She was unbelievably relieved, short of skipping her way in, when they reached her building because it meant they will now part ways and she couldn't be more eager to do so if only to settle her emergent restlessness, but his reaction of growing horror—although not quite surprising since as she had been carefully observing his urbane mannerisms, the way he seems to carry himself with natural confidence and an air of casual indifference, Gabriella arrived at the conclusion that he may be from a lofty social background—was nevertheless too extreme in her opinion.

However, she did not comment on it nor did she make excuses for the place where she lives. If he really is from the upper crust of American society, she could understand his appalled reaction and therefore, even if she's inclined to apologize for the place she calls home—which she's not—nothing she says will change his opinion. Besides, she didn't ask him to come. He insisted and in their brief time together, she gathered he seems of the intelligent sort, so she's certain he knows what to expect from this part of town.

Once they reached the designated door, Gabriella knocked because the door was locked like she anticipated and she has no key—stupid backpack! She hoped fervently that Jason and the girl with him has enough sense and respect for her aunt's place, and they aren't exploring each other's anatomy or she will be waiting outside for quite awhile.

"Are you sure there's someone inside?" Troy asked after three minutes of Gabriella's knocking without so much as a squeak heard from the other side of the door.

"My brother and his date are in there." She mumbled, raising her fist to knock louder. "Dammit, Jason! I know you're in there! Open up!" She isn't stupid not to know what could be happening inside but she couldn't stop wishing she's wrong and that Jason was just soundly sleeping in his room because she's desperate to get in and bid Troy goodbye.

Troy Bolton seems like a decent sort, no question about that. In fact, for a guy with his obvious class, he surprised her by being extra considerate of her instead of simply treating her as someone he's obligated to repay then be done with. But the way he kept staring at her face with a rather odd glint in his piercing blue eyes was making her terribly self-conscious, and since she couldn't recall the last time she felt conscious or particularly cared how she looks, Gabriella hated herself for the sudden urge to run her hands through her short locks and tame the unruly curls.

Troy leaned his back against the wall next to the closed door, crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head. "Unless your brother is deaf which I'm sure he's not," He drawled matter-of-factly and quirked a knowing brow at her irritated face. "I think it's safe to assume he's deeply occupied by his girlfriend. Since you can't break down that door and even if you tell me to break it down I won't do it, we might as well leave and come back when they aren't busy anymore. I'd hate to see your knuckles bleed this time from too much knocking."

Mildly flustered by his added concern for her knuckles and the meaningful emphasis of deeply occupied, Gabriella shook her head at his suggestion. "You can go. It's getting late. I'll just wait here." She said but when he didn't budge from the wall, she realized he wants to have his jacket back. "Oh! I'm sorry . . . of course, your jacket." Thinking quickly, she turned away from him to knock on her neighbor's door, Edna Warren, a single mother of two young boys. She can ask to borrow a shirt from Edna for the meantime so she can give back Troy's jacket—

Troy's hand quickly shot out to grasp Gabriella's arm and he exerted just enough pressure to draw her back. "Keep the jacket." He intoned wryly. "Is there anywhere we could eat, preferably decent food, while we wait for your brother and his girl to finish?"

"We?" Gabriella asked, tipping her face up trying to assess his inscrutable expression for what he was suggesting. "You want me to come with you?"

He sighed, but even without her consent, started pulling her toward the stairs. "I believe we means more than one and since I doesn't make we, that means you join me to make us we."

His condescending tone, which is also uncalled for, pierced through Gabriella's wariness. Her eyes narrowed irritably. She jerked her arm from him and retorted, "I hope I'm not the first person to tell you how sarcastic and arrogant you are."

"You're not." He said impassively as he grabbed her wrist and urged her down the stairs at a pace suited for someone escaping a building on fire.

"Slow down!" Gabriella has little choice but to keep up with his steps. She's quite agile herself but he was taller, his legs longer than hers so she was taking the stairs two at a time just to avoid being dragged. "Do you always treat people like this?"

"Like what?" He asked blandly, not breaking his stride and his hold on her wrist.

"Like they don't have a brain between their ears and like you own them." She huffed, exerting an effort to tug on his arm to make him decelerate his descent a little. Thankfully, either by her words or her pull, he made himself trudge down the steps at a less hurried pace but he did not release her wrist. Gabriella wasn't finished with her indignant outburst either. "I refuse to be treated as such regardless of who you are or where you're from. I happen to have a brain that works perfectly well especially when I need it and you—are not the boss of me. I also detest being manhandled by strangers!"

"My God, you can talk!" Troy heaved in exasperation once they were out of the building and he dropped her arm. He turned to her, reluctant amusement lurking in his blue pools, then he plainly averred, "I'm hungry, Gabriella, and between the two of us you're the one who knows where the nearest restaurant is. I want you to show me where it is and I insist that you join me to eat."

"Well," She breathed, equally exasperated but also slightly flustered by the sound of her name from his lips; she plunked both hands on her waist, eyeing him in mild annoyance. "why didn't you just say that in the first place?" Then she straightened and stalked past him, leading the way to the nearest diner in the area and not bothering to tell him to follow.

Except for his father, Troy can't recall anyone treating him the way she just did because the people who know him are aware of the dire consequences such actions would entail. Gabriella Montez is blissfully ignorant of who he really is and what he's capable of but as he trailed behind her, Troy found himself torn whether to be annoyed or amused with her. In the last few hours, she has shown him several contrasts in her personality—she was his valiant savior with a temper when insulted, a docile lamb in the hospital who shyly asked him a favor and promised to pay him back, a teenager flustered to the roots of her hair because he kept staring at her and now, a spitfire hoyden who has no qualms to pointing out the error of his character and treatment of her—and damn if he didn't find her delightfully refreshing. "Don't let anyone trick you into thinking you have a cheerful disposition because you don't." He decided to be amused instead because with everything that happened to him today, Gabriella Montez is undoubtedly the most interesting.

"Oh shut up." She shot back over her shoulder.

"And that's my point exactly."

Five minutes later, Troy looked upon a well lighted eatery with a few cars parked outside. "Sam's Diner?" He said, raising his sights to the huge glowing orange signage erected on the roof of the establishment and the lighted 'Open 24 Hours' notice by the glass window.

"What?" She furrowed her brows at him, half turning to have a better look at his face. "You've never eaten in a diner before?"

"No." Troy drily replied, mentally smacking himself for expecting a classy restaurant. He's in the dumps. Being classy is the least of their concern around here.

Her surprise to his answer was another reason to eye him thoughtfully for a few seconds, once more noting his debonair look, his compelling aura, and arriving at a definite conclusion before Gabriella said in a casual tone, "There's a first for everything even for a rich kid like you, Mr. Troy Bolton—so let's go in."

"Is the food here . . . decent?"

"Very." She assured with an emphatic nod as they entered the diner. Then, turning to him, her face took on a perfect impression of giddiness, her eyes over bright like she just discovered something extraordinary and confided to him in an awed tone, "And the fries here . . . are French!"

She was mocking him, he knew, but in another unforeseen swing of his usually dark mood, Troy allowed himself to laugh at her impertinence. "How clever of them." He rejoined coolly. "The French are quite decent."

Her eyes danced with merriment but she gravely intoned, "So I've heard."

"French chefs are the best." Troy informed casually as if he was eager to impart his superior knowledge to her as they found an empty booth on the far side of the diner. "They're very confident of their abilities and they demand respect every time . . . although they tend to be highly emotional when displeased. I'm sure I'll enjoy French fries. French food is one of my favorites, you know."

"You're mocking me." Gabriella warned but she was helpless to stop the grin from showing on her lips.

He tipped his head at her. "Touché."

After their orders were served by their attending waitress who openly flirted on Troy and which he ignored the entire time, he dismissed the waitress named Millie with a curtness that bellied his irritation for her attempts to entice him. Gabriella lowered her gaze, trying to bite back a smile, to avoid the woman's affronted look at Troy's dismissal of her and the derisive glare she threw her way as if it was Gabriella's fault her outrageous advances were not returned by Troy.

"What makes you think I'm rich?" Troy asked as soon as they were alone in the booth, helping himself with the cheeseburger he ordered for himself.

She shrugged, subtly watching him take the first bite off his burger after he dissected the items between the bun like he is some kind of food connoisseur. Though his behavior seems much more relaxed now, Gabriella noted. "Same reason that you know I'm poor." She answered, sampling the mozzarella stick first.

He eyed her questioningly. "Meaning?" Then his gaze leveled on the fried mozzarella stick she was eating and with his free hand snatched one for himself from the serving plate.

"My eyes don't have a habit of deceiving me like I'm sure yours didn't deceive you either when you saw where I lived. Besides, your intimate knowledge of French chefs set you apart from the rest of us," Gabriella sassed with a jaunty smile. "and you obviously don't look like you're from around here. You look rich."

"I mistook you for a boy." He reminded, deliberately and cleverly diverting the topic from him and his social standing to her.

Gabriella waved the half eaten mozzarella stick at him unaware of the shift. "But you realized your mistake when you saw my—"

"Breasts." Troy filled in with a smirk, displaying none of the disconcertion Gabriella suddenly felt at the direction their talk had suddenly taken. Then he bragged cheekily, "I'm quite familiar with breasts."

"With your looks, I've no doubt." Gabriella promptly rolled her eyes at him and took a long sip of her tall glass of strawberry milkshake until it was nearly empty and her head was beginning to throb from taking too much of the cold drink at once.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned impishly, not oblivious to her discomfort of their topic but he couldn't keep himself from wanting to see the pink tint highlight on her smooth cheeks. "Why thank you, Gabriella Montez." He genially said at the veiled compliment to his looks, at the same time wondering to himself why it felt so easy to relate with her and why talking to a complete stranger from the slums held his interest better than his rich peers could.

Gabriella took it upon herself to change the subject. "How's your burger?"

Though her brothers keep it a point not to talk about their girls in her presence, she's heard enough snippets of their conversations to know how they prefer a certain girl's body part to be like to excite them. And the guys in East High definitely talk a lot about their girls and what they particularly like about each of them. What she knows about breasts are limited to her own which are undersized and like the rest of her could not drive any straight guy to yearning. She's not experienced enough to spar with a worldly rich stranger she just met a few hours ago and on a topic that makes her feel very uncomfortable and inept.

"I've had better." Troy replied without rancor breaking into her musings and Gabriella was briefly startled as she assumed he was talking about her breasts instead of the taste of the burger.

Clearing her head to focus from breasts to the more important issues she needed answers from him, Gabriella squared her shoulders and asked resolutely, "What are you doing in this part of town? Visiting a relative . . . a friend?"

"Getting lost." Troy replied dryly then he leaned back into the booth and looked at the determined tilt of her chin which then drew his attention to the charming little dent on it.

Gabriella wrinkled her nose, now that she successfully diverted their conversation her curiosity of Troy mounted. "Where are you from really?"

"Los Angeles."

"Do you want me to help you get back to wherever you're staying before you got lost?" She tentatively offered, wishing he wouldn't be so uninformative with his replies because she wants to understand what brought him here and why he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave even if it's obvious he dislikes everything he's seen and is seeing.

"Not really."

"Okay . . . so where are you going after we're done here? I hope you're not planning to get yourself mugged again because I'm fresh out of costumes."

Troy grinned at that but his eyes were trained on the soda can on the table he was absently turning between his hands. He looked like he was contemplating what to say, what do.

"I could take you to a hotel . . . a decent one." She offered again.

"I can't stay in a hotel." He said and Gabriella heard faint disgust in his tone before he added, "My father will look for me at every damned hotel in Albuquerque."

Surprised by the vehemence in his voice at the mention of his father, Gabriella let the silence between them reign for awhile as she tried to come up with a suitable explanation for his strange behavior. So far, even if he didn't explicitly admit it, she knows he's rich. She knows it as sure as she knows he got lost in the area from running away from his father. The mugging was purely accidental. Whatever his reasons for bailing on his father, his indecision on what to do next revolved around the man he was desperate to avoid. He may have the money to pay but his options are very limited and . . . with a jolt of realization . . . she is one of the options he's considering to pursue.

In fact, all things she knows of him considered, she's his best choice and he's biding his time to tell her because—he doesn't know how to tell her. He doesn't know how to ask. "You need a place to stay." Gabriella softly said.

"Just for the night." He affirmed then quickly added, "I'll pay, of course."

"My aunt's place didn't impress you at all earlier." Gabriella reminded. "You were ready to bolt as soon as you saw the building."

He didn't deny it. "Regardless of my impression, at this time, it's my best option . . . assuming you're offering."

Gabriella thought he was arrogant even when he's the one needing help. Briefly she wondered how often he found himself in this position as a person who needs help. Probably not often or maybe never . . . until now. "It's not mine to offer but if you're sure you want to stay in a small, dingy apartment with complete strangers just to avoid your father then I'll talk to my aunt."

He flashed a dazzling smile to her. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Gabriella averred, ignoring the startling effect of his smile on her senses by attacking the apple pie she ordered for dessert. "My aunt has the final say in this matter."

"I know, Gabriella . . . I was thanking you for saving my life."

* * * * * *