A Season To Believe. Elane Osborn

shops to carry them, then participated in a couple of craft fairs this summer, and the thing just mushroomed. Since July I’ve been really busy. I decided to adapt my faces to create special Santas and his little helpers in place of woodland elves and make angels instead of fairies. That’s one of the reasons I was downtown yesterday. I delivered some of these to a place called The Gift Box, and they asked me to make even more.”

      “It seems you’ve become quite the businesswoman,” Matt said as he pulled into a parking space overlooking the beach, then added teasingly, “I hope you have someone you trust keeping your books.”

      He switched off the engine and turned to Jane.

      “I suppose,” she said in a mock huff, “that crack was a veiled reference to my mathematical abilities.”

      “No,” Matt said as he opened his door. “It’s a direct reference to your decided lack of said abilities.”

      Before Jane could respond to this allusion to what he and Manny had termed her “numerical dyslexia,” Matt slid from his seat and said, “Stay where you are,” before snapping his door shut and stepping around to her side of the car.

      “I’ll have you know,” she said the moment he opened her door, “that I have managed to master math. The important stuff, at any rate. I can add, subtract, divide, multiply and figure fractions with the best. The rest is superfluous. The idea of adding a’s and b’s and coming up with x’s is an exercise in futility, if you ask me.”

      Matt hooked his hand over the top of the door’s frame, noticing the way Jane’s closed eyes wrinkled as she blindly reached for the buckle of her seat belt. That intense concentration of hers was a wonder to behold. It was the secret, he suspected, behind her swift recovery from the sort of injuries that had kept muscular linebackers out of commission far longer than they had this delicately boned girl.

      Woman, he corrected himself when, freed of her seat belt, Jane pivoted toward him, slid out of her seat, then stumbled into his arms.

      For the second time in two days Matt found himself holding her close to him. For one moment, he wondered if he could somehow absorb the joy that seemed to emanate from her, even when she was frightened. He had once responded to life that way, too, thrilled by the surge of adrenaline that came with walking the tightrope between safety and danger. He hadn’t experienced that since leaving the hospital.

      Until yesterday—when he’d walked into Maxwell’s security office and gone to Jane’s defense.

      And now, the idea that Jane had begun to remember, that there was a chance he might solve a crime that had its origins back in the days before Manny died, before he had given up the career he loved, seemed to promise that he could reawaken the passion he’d brought to his old job.

      Slowly, as Matt continued to hold Jane, he became aware of the awakening of a different sort of passion, the kind that heated his body, tempted him to tighten his arms around the woman he was holding, to lower his mouth to kiss lips that were still softly parted with surprise.

      He just as quickly became aware of how inappropriate it was to feel this way toward the subject of an investigation.

      After checking to see that Jane had gained her footing, he released her and stepped back in one quick motion. Instantly, her eyes flew open, surprised and tinged with hurt.

      A second later she shut her eyes and muttered, “Sorry,” in a voice more husky than usual.

      Damn. Matt’s jaw tightened. Keeping his distance from Jane Ashbury was going to be a challenge, and today it might even prove to be a conflict of interest.

      Yesterday he had watched Zoe carefully. Today he’d planned to copy the therapist’s methods, get Jane to relax in the hope that this would release those trapped memories of hers. Something told him that brusquely stepping away from her wasn’t the best way to go about this.

      Or keep himself sane.