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She felt like punching him, hard, in the nose, and spent a long minute just glaring at him, rage bubbling up inside of her. He was totally ignoring her however, and she had to content herself with occasionally making dissatisfied grunts.

Eventually the car came to a halt outside a large brick townhouse, and the car's passenger ran his hands through his tousled hair with a sigh of relief. It felt like the longest journey he'd ever been on, and all through it he could sense his "prisoner" trying to bore holes in his back with her stare.

"Here you are Mister Gore." announced the driver, before glancing behind him uncertainly, and leaning close to his passenger, as if to impart some great secret.

The girl made a big show of rolling her eyes and turning her head away to make the point that she wasn't in the least bit interested in whatever they had to discuss.

"Are you sure about this sir? I mean...Her type, she might be trouble."

Martin turned to look at the slight young woman currently sitting in the back of the car, her expression had darkened even further after the driver's assumptions about her and even in the dim light he could see her knuckles had turned white, so hard was she clenching her fists in anger.

"I don't think she's going to murder me in my bed."

The driver leant back with a sigh that said "Your funeral mate" as Martin got out of the car and walked round to the rear door, opening it for the girl.

She had meant to spring out and run off down the road, but when her feet hit the floor, a blinding pain brought her up short, making her stumble. Her "abductor" caught her under the arm before she fell to the floor however, giving her time to steady herself.

As soon as she regained her balance, she made to yank her arm out of his grip, but she hadn't reckoned on the strength of his hand and he kept his grasp easily.

"Don't be ridiculous," he sighed, "Your ankle is probably sprained, you can't walk on it properly."

The only answer he got was a sulky glare. Her anger however had started to dissipate slightly, replaced by fatigue, and she was dimly aware of the fact that she was being childish and ungrateful.

"Yeah well," she thought to herself, "I never asked for the miserable bastard to help me."

Without warning, he had wrapped his arm around her waist, and she found herself pressed against his side. Seeing that she wasn't going to have any say in the matter, she threw her arm over his shoulders, allowing him to bear some of the weight on her left side, as he helped her up the stone steps to the front door of the house.

He stood only a couple of inches taller than her, but he didn't seem to be struggling too hard under the extra weight. The jacket under her hand was leather, and looked expensive.

"Posh car, posh jacket, I bet those are designer jeans." she thought. "He even smells expensive."

Tears filled her eyes as she realised she was stood so close to this immaculately groomed man in clothes that had not been washed in weeks and with hair that had not seen a brush for longer than she cared to remember.

"Hey, are you OK?" His voiced startled her out of her reverie. "Do you want a rest for a minute?"

"No." her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and carried on," I'm fine." Now wasn't the time to start being girly.

They stumbled up the last two steps and finally reached the door. She leant against the frame, while he fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

"Why are you doing this?" It was the big question really, and he let it hang in the air for a couple of minutes before answering.

"Like I said, I couldn't leave you in the road, or just kick you out of the car with nowhere to go, and you wouldn't let me take you to a bloody hospital. What else am I meant to do?"

"That's bollocks. Most people would have sent me on my way without thinking anything of it."

"Yeah, well..." But he let his answer trail off as he finally opened the door.

He resumed his position next to her and they half-staggered, half-fell into the house. Depositing her on a couch, he turned back to close the door and flick the lights on.

Now that she could see her surroundings, she had a good look round, drinking them in. The room was open plan, and the decor was, well, eclectic to say the least, but it felt like a home, instead of some immaculate rendering of a room by an overpaid designer.

The owner soon returned, and stood in front of her on the couch, looking awkward now, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next. His jeans were, in fact, designer, and now he had removed his jacket she could see he was wearing an expensive cashmere jumper. In an odd contrast, on his feet were a scuffed pair of Doc Martens, that reminded her of a pair she used to have. But whilst hers had been red, his were black. His whole outfit was black, which served to contrast the messy mop of blonde hair on top of his head. Hair which he was currently running his hands through in an unconscious gesture of his helplessness.

Eventually he seemed to snap out of it.

"Can I take your coat?"

His manners seemed ridiculously out of place, given the situation they were in, and she began to giggle uncontrollably. The evening's stress and panic rose to the surface, along with the deeper buried feelings of fear that had haunted her all the weeks she had been out on the streets, and she merely sat for several minutes laughing, with tears streaming down her face. Gradually it subsided, and she became aware of the man still standing in front of her, watching her with obvious alarm on his face.

"Sorry." she said, shuffling out of her coat, "Been a long day."

"No kidding." he replied, taking the overcoat from her. "Big enough for you?" he asked.

The coat would be oversized on him, but on her it was ridiculous.

She was instantly on edge.

"It was a present."

"I'm sure." He walked out of the room again, returning a minute later without the garment.

"Here." he pushed a low footstool towards her, "You should probably elevate that or something."

Reluctantly, she lifted her ankle on to the stool. Hissing when she saw how swollen it actually was.

"That is pretty bad. You won't be going anywhere for a while."

Her head snapped up and she glared at him again, but instead of shouting she spoke in a low, controlled voice.

"You can't just keep me. I'm not some stray dog that you found wandering around in your back garden. I'm leaving here the first second that I can. Understand?"

He looked suddenly very tired again, and his headache grew worse than ever.

"Well," he answered her, in a flat dull voice, unlike any she'd heard him use so far, "That's up to you. I'll get you some ice for your ankle."

And he walked out the room again.

She let her head fall back against the couch with a sigh. She was confused. She had, what, hurt his feelings? He had expected to keep her like some kind of pet?

"I guess you never can tell with rich businessmen who like to dress in leather." she snorted at her own thoughts, which were rapidly becoming more incoherent, as exhaustion caught up with her and she drifted off to sleep.

By the time he returned, carrying a bundle of ice in a cloth, she was lolling against the arm of the chair, frowning at him even while unconscious.

"What are you doing Martin?" he wondered to himself, "You don't even know her name."