a husband. Only one little five-year-old boy, who is going to be thrilled to see you. Come on.”
He hesitated but she wasn’t taking no for an answer, and he’d lost the will to fight for the moment. His leg felt pretty bad. She was probably right. And for the first time since his mother had died, he meekly did what a woman told him to do.
Two
Charlie’s arm, stabilizing Denver, was sure and steady. She was stronger than she looked. He gritted his teeth and avoided her eyes. He wasn’t used to accepting this sort of help from anyone, and to think that he was dependent on this slender slip of a woman really stuck in his craw. But every time he tried to put any weight on his bad leg, the pain shot through him like the slash of a knife. There was no help for it. He was stuck with the situation, at least for now.
The going was slow at first, but once they got the hang of it, they started to move. His wet slacks slapped against his legs, getting colder and colder in the breeze. He felt very aggrieved. His life wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Here we go,” she told him brightly, flashing him a smile. “My cabin’s just a little further. There it is, just above the boat ramp by the lake.”
He looked up and saw an austere-looking cabin just ahead. “That one?”
“No, that one belongs to my friend Margo and her husband.” Charlie grinned. “If she’s watching, I’m sure she’s on the phone to everyone we know. This must look quite a sight to her.” She nodded further on. “That’s my cabin, just to the left.”
He could tell right away that she’d lived in the little bungalow for some time. There were flowers on vines twining everywhere, in pots, creeping up porch posts, in beds alongside the path to the front door. Tiny buds of yellow and lavender and pink and white peeked from under leaves in every direction. It looked like a damn fairy-tale cottage or something equally sappy and that didn’t soften his mood. The hand-painted wooden sign over the door didn’t help either. Welcome Home, it said.
Home. Funny how that word resonated, even when you didn’t have a home.
“Aren’t you being a little free with your welcome?” he grumbled, gesturing toward the sign as he hobbled onto her porch. “After all, you never know who might decide to take you up on it.” He glanced at her, noting the way she was biting her lower lip as she struggled to help him through her doorway. “Can’t be too careful these days,” he added to cover up his own embarrassment at his predicament.
She didn’t respond, and once inside, he blinked, adjusting his vision to the interior gloom after the bright light outside. The place looked like more of the same cheerfulness he’d encountered on the porch—a clutter of handmade wall items, quilted throw comforters and copper pots and pans stacked neatly at the end of the breakfast bar. He might have said it looked like a Snow White cottage waiting for the Seven Dwarfs to come whistling in from the mines, except there wasn’t a sign that anyone masculine had ever been in the place. Anyone over five years old, at any rate.
For some reason, that annoyed him even more, and he frowned, leaning against the back of a wooden chair while she got the couch ready for him, fluffing pillows and moving a small stack of magazines. As she leaned down to work, her blond hair swung about her face, catching the light from the window. Her halter top gaped, showing a generous measure of flesh and exposing breasts just the size he liked them. He hadn’t remembered her with that much of a figure, but she certainly had made up for lost time since he’d seen her last.
“Okay, Mr. Smith,” she said brightly, turning toward him. “Give me your arm. We’ll get you settled on the couch.”
“I can handle it,” he said, pulling away from her and hobbling over on his own.
She watched him position himself to drop down on the cushion, and shrugged. “I’m going to call a doctor,” she said, starting for the phone.
“No, you’re not.” There was an element of command in his voice that stopped her in her tracks. He levered himself down onto the couch, wincing. “I don’t need a doctor.” He glanced up and met her gaze. “But I’m going to need you. You’re going to have to help me take my pants off.”
Charlie’s eyes widened and a bubble of laughter rose in her throat, but she managed to hold her composure. It was clear from his tone and from the look he threw in her direction that he thought the suggestion would shock her in some way. “You think I’m too prissy for a job like that, don’t you?” she accused him. “Well, you just watch, mister.” She came forward with no hesitation, her violet eyes challenging him. “Here’s a news flash. I take men’s pants off all the time.”
Her hands were on his belt before his were, and he lay back against the pillows and let her work. She slipped the belt off and undid the button, then yanked the zipper down.
“You going to help at all?” she asked him tartly.
He kept his mouth from curling but he couldn’t keep the grin out of his eyes. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and he braced himself on his elbows and lifted his hips so that she could tug the slacks down over his green plaid boxers and past his knees. Suddenly he wanted to hurry her along to get this over with before the evidence of how this was affecting him became all too obvious.
And it was affecting him. A hot, heavy pulse was beginning to beat in his veins. Feeling like this just wasn’t right—not for her, the woman he’d idolized for years. Oh hell, face it. She was the woman he’d lusted after for years. The woman he’d never thought he would get anywhere near. And now—here he was. And she was taking off his pants.
“How’s your shirt?” she asked, shaking out the pants and laying them near the fireplace.
“Just a little wet around the edges,” he said quickly. “It’s okay.”
She touched it and gave him a scornful look. “Hand it over,” she said cheerfully, turning to stoke her little fire “We might as well try, at least, to keep you from catching pneumonia.”
He pulled the shirt over his head and handed it to her, grabbing a throw that lay along the back of the couch and covering his semi-naked body with it just as she turned back to him.
“Wait a minute,” she said, sliding in to sit on the coffee table where she could have easy access to him. “I want to have a look at that leg.”
“Hey, no—” he began, but her small hands were already pushing back the blanket and beginning to gently probe around the joint.
“I can’t take the place of a doctor,” she told him as she worked. “But I do know something about this.” She glanced up and met his startled gaze. “I volunteer at the local hospital one day a week,” she explained with a quick smile. “That’s where I’ve been getting my practice at disrobing men.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. There she was, her beautiful face clouded with intensity as she tested his leg, her gorgeous breasts moving in that flimsy blue halter top as she worked, her warm hands on his rough skin. A feeling very near despair came over him. He felt like a man drowning in pure gold. Too much of a good thing couldn’t help but bring on disaster. Could it?
“I’ve had a lot of experience with sprains and breaks,” she went on as she probed. “In the winter, we get a lot of skiers. And skiers get a lot of leg injuries.”
He was speechless. He felt almost mesmerized by her touch on his leg, and he stared at her, heart thumping. What had happened? Had his fall taken him through the looking glass? Was this heaven or something? Was this woman an angel?
No. No angel’s touch would have stirred his blood the way her hands did. He moved restlessly, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and forcing himself to keep his mind from straying into forbidden territory. You weren’t supposed to think about angels like that.
“No kidding,” he responded lamely at last. “A candy-striper, huh?”
She