Authors: Donna Richards
“You’re right,” she said. “My brother is an idiot.” She glanced toward Mr. Thomas. “Thank you, Walter. Calling Stephen won’t be necessary.
I’m fine.”
Oreo continued her low, threatening growls. Walter’s gaze never left the dog. “I’ll leave you alone then. I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
He took a step back, then disappeared off the tiny porch.
Angela glanced over at Hank. “I need to get up now.” His gaze, warm and compassionate, searched her face. If only he weren’t her client, she’d lean in, ever so slightly…. “You’ll need to let me go.”
“Oh.” His eyes widened while the arm she’d found so comforting disengaged. He helped her stand, then watched as she began her step-hop-step-hop up the stairs. Within moments Hank’s hand wrapped around her upper arm, half-lifting, half-supporting her labored progress.
“I swear,” she said, trying to dismiss the solidity of his support. “If you try to sweep me into your arms again, I’ll blacken your eyes.”
“I believe you.” He chuckled, negotiating her smoothly to the landing.
“I’ve seen how much damage you can do.” A bit of temper flared but when she turned to reply, he held his hands up in mock submission.
“Look,” Angie said. “I need to change. Thanks for your help and everything but I can handle it from—”
“Don’t you need to go back down these stairs?” he asked.
“Yes, eventually, but I’m sure I—”
“I’ll wait.” He leaned against the newel post. “Take your time.”
“Maybe you could wait in the kitchen?” she asked hopefully. “I feel a little nervous changing with you out here. Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee or something?”
“You’ll call when you’re ready to come down?”
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She nodded, figuring he’d only leave her alone if she agreed. “The kitchen is downstairs in the back. Follow the beeps.” He looked confused.
“The answering machine,” she explained. “It’s in the kitchen.” She turned to negotiate the hallway, but listened to his footfalls down the steps and around to the kitchen. Oreo’s tail thumped approval marking his progress.
Going down the steps was much easier than going up, especially without Oreo weaving through her legs. Proud that she’d managed without his assistance, she followed the welcoming scent of fresh-brewed coffee back to the kitchen. Hank sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, one hand wrapped around a steaming Classic Limo mug.
Oreo lay sprawled at his feet, as if tall, muscular men at her kitchen table were an everyday occurrence. The thought brought an unexpected ache deep inside.
She leaned against the doorway. “As you can see, I’m capable of managing on my own, so you don’t have to wait any further on my account.”
He frowned. “I thought you were going to call when you were ready to come down those stairs?”
“Hank, really I appreciate—” The telephone rang, interrupting her plea. She sighed, knowing instinctively who was calling, and would continue to call, if she didn’t answer. “Excuse me,” she mumbled.
She crossed the room to the telephone, glancing at the digital display on its base. Eight messages.
You’d think the woman had nothing better to
do.
“Hi, Mom. I just got in.” She paused, watching Hank leave the table.
“Yes, I’m fine. Oreo and I were out for a walk.” She watched him cross the hall to the dining room where he studied the colorful Tree of Life quilt hanging above the dry sink.
“Over to the reservoir. The woods are beautiful, the leaves are starting to peak.” She answered her mother’s questions without thought, all her attention focused on the man who picked up a paperback romance she’d left on the dining room table. One dark brow lifted in 42
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In a Heartbeat
question. Well, what did he expect? Accounting texts? She turned her back to him.
“I know you called, Mom. I can see the messages, but I just got in.
Honest.”
She listened to questions so familiar she could answer them in her sleep. “Yes, I’m taking my pills… No, I’m not pushing myself too hard…
Yes, I feel fine.” Before her mother could start up again, she interrupted,
“Listen, Mom, can I call you back? There’s something I have to take care of. Yes, I promise I’ll call you right back… Okay, Mom. Love you too.”
She hung up the phone, grateful that the action silenced the irritating electronic beep, and looked for Hank. She found him in the tiny living room in the front of the house. He sat on the couch, one foot balanced on the other knee, just as if they were in Wilson’s office. The triangle formed by his legs reminded her of her recent contact with that very region. Residual embarrassment collided with a bit of yearning warming her far beyond anything controlled by a thermostat.
“Look, Hank—”
“You didn’t tell your mother about your ankle.” Oreo sat by his side, content to have Hank’s fingers scratch her between the ears.
Traitor
, she thought. Hank patted the cushions next to him, inviting her to join him on the couch. She hobbled over to the opposite wing chair instead.
“If I had even hinted about hurting my ankle, she’d be packing to come home before I could hang up.” She eased onto the cushions and relaxed. The chair felt good after the earlier ordeal on the steps.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Hank’s brows rose quizzically.
“Your family obviously cares a great deal about you.”
“I know they love me, but that kind of love can be smothering.” She placed her injured foot on the coffee table. “All my life they’ve waited on me. Protected me. Never let me do for myself. Well, I’m not sick anymore.
It’s time, past time, that I stand on my own two feet.” She glanced at her wrapped ankle. The irony of the situation, that she couldn’t literally stand on two feet at that moment, didn’t escape her. She glanced up at www.samhainpublishing.com 43
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Hank half-expecting him to laugh, but he didn’t. He waited for her to continue.
Before she could, her stomach rumbled, announcing to the world that she’d missed a meal. Hank shifted his position on the couch.
“You can’t stay here by yourself, not with that ankle.”
She started to protest but he held up his hand. “I know you’re not comfortable calling your family. Is there someone else? A neighbor maybe? A friend?”
“Mrs. Kravitz next door is seventy-five years old. She’d have more trouble with the steps and Oreo than I would. You met my neighbor on the other side. Obviously Mr. Thomas…” she smiled, “…Walter wouldn’t be comfortable with Oreo.” She thought of Nicki, her best friend, but she was away for the weekend. “I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Well, that settles it,” he said, patting one of her mother’s quilted throw pillows.
“Settles what?”
“This couch feels pretty comfortable. I’ll stay here.”
“No! You can’t.” She gasped.
“Why not? You need someone to help you. You won’t come to my house where I can see to you in private. So I have no choice but to stay here.” He kicked off his shoes and stretched his body out full length on the couch. “Yes, this will do nicely.”
“But my neighbors,” she argued. “People will see you. I told you I could lose my job.”
“Are you afraid I’ll take advantage of you?” He smiled and liquid warmth poured through her body at the suggestion. “Relax.” His dimple deepened. “I’m involved with someone else, remember?”
Elizabeth Everett, how could she forget? The image of the tall, dark model formed in her memory. Angie supposed this was his way of tactfully suggesting that she was not his type. Indeed, the exact opposite of his type. A strange sense of disappointment tugged at her heart.
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“And,” he continued, tossing the pillow from one hand to the other as if it were a football. “When I answer the phone, I won’t hesitate to tell the person on the other end about your foot or my identity. Even if it’s Falstaff himself.”
Her throat constricted; her lips went dry. But with his gaze fixed so steadily on her face, she refused to moisten them.
He smiled, his eyes claiming victory. “So you see, Angel—”
“Angela,” she corrected. He merely nodded acknowledgment.
“You can dig out some guest towels, or pack a bag to spend the weekend with me.” He paused. A wicked smile tilted his lips, sending an anticipatory shiver dancing down her spine. “The choice is yours.”
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“See what I mean?” Hank guided his Lexus past a brick column supporting the numbers 1107. “Nobody can find you here. Not even Falstaff.” Even through the dusky light that settled so early this time of year, she could see the house would be difficult to spot from the road.
The long driveway and banks of trees, many still holding their brightly colored foliage, obscured the view.
“And you’ll be able to rest that foot,” he continued his cheerful tirade.
“So just relax. Enjoy the weekend.”
Relax? She accepted that the house was private, and the ranch styling would be easier to negotiate. But relax? She stole a sideways glance. Not with this man. Something about him kept her on edge.
The curving driveway ended in front of a sprawling ranch of stone and dark-hued timber. No welcoming lights shone through the windows, as if the house didn’t want her there anymore than she wished it herself.
She shivered.
He noticed. “It’s a shame we had to pick up dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, you know.”
No, she didn’t know. Other than the fact that he seemed bound and determined to make both her working and private lives miserable, she didn’t know much about the man she agreed to hide away with. She bit her lower lip.
“We’ll eat as soon as I bring in some wood for the fireplace. I’ll have you warm and cozy in no time.” He pushed a button on the windshield visor and a door to a cavernous garage slowly lifted.
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“No one else lives here?” she asked, noting a bright red corvette in one of the packing spaces.
“That’s Elizabeth’s. She leaves it here so she’ll have a car available when she visits.”
“Oh.” She sighed. As if she needed further proof that she posed no competition to the beautiful Elizabeth. The sleek flashy Corvette epitomized the New York model, while her tiny battered Civic… Shoot—
her Civic! She hadn’t arranged for anyone to move it from the reservoir’s parking lot.
“I need to make a call,” she said, tugging at the door handle. The engine noise, amplified in the garage, died with the turn of a key, reminding her of yet another complication. Her keys. How could she get her car keys to someone without revealing her whereabouts? “Oh dear.”
She slumped back in the seat with the car door still open.
“What’s wrong?” Hank asked, quickly crossing to her side. He shifted the bag of hamburgers and fries so he could help her ease from the car.
“My Civic is still in the park and I’m the only one with the keys.” Oreo jumped over the front seat, exiting the car moments before the door closed. “It’ll be towed if it’s left overnight.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said, leading her toward the door at the back of the garage.
“But no one can know I’m here. How can you—”
“Look, Angela.” He stopped and faced her. “I know how important this is to you. I said I’ll take care of it and I will.” His hand slid up and down her upper arm, generating warmth that dipped much lower. “Trust me a little.” He smiled. “Okay?”
She nodded, too dazed by her reaction to his touch to speak.
He opened the door leading to the main house and flipped on a light switch, illuminating the great room. “Make yourself at home.” He pushed the bag of food into her arms. “I have a call to make.”
A leather couch and chairs surrounded a small coffee table in front of an enormous walk-through fireplace. She hobbled over to the table and set the bag down. Oreo busily investigated all the corners of the room, www.samhainpublishing.com 47
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her nails clicking on the hardwood floors. She glanced up at the tasteful and quite probably expensive furnishings. No magazines. No photographs. No half-dead plants or partially melted candles. The room felt lifeless, cold, impersonal. A lump formed in her stomach.
She dropped her purse on the nearest chair and limp-hopped to the French doors along the opposite wall. A switch by the door illuminated the grounds behind the house.
“My God,” she whispered. Dark blue canvas covered the in-ground pool directly in front of her. The high fence of a tennis court loomed to the right. Ornamental bushes and what she supposed were the remnants of a garden led from the pool area to a wide grassy field beyond. She could see the outline of trees against the darkening sky. Not a light from a neighbor could be seen. Oreo’s fluffy tail brushed against her leg.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” she whispered to the dog.
“Thanks, Tom. I owe you one.” Hank’s voice drifted from the hallway.
“I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.” He walked into the great room a few moments later.
“I promised to get that fire going.” He pulled a brown leather bomber jacket from a closet to replace his muddy windbreaker. “Oreo can come out with me and do her thing while I get some firewood.” Oreo dashed across the room at the word “out”, twirling in little circles at Hank’s feet.
“Traitor,” Angela scolded, too low for Hank to hear.
“Once the fire’s going, I’ll grab one of those burgers to eat on the run.
You ought to rest that foot, young lady.” He pointed to the couch then zipped up his jacket. “And eat something before the food gets cold. Don’t wait for me.” Man and dog disappeared out the same door through which she had entered only minutes before.
Men. Already he was telling her what to do, and for nothing more serious than a sprained ankle. She almost laughed, imagining his orders if he knew the full truth. She slowly made her way across the room. As tempting as the couch appeared, no way was he going to find her there on his return. She shouldered the strap of her overnight bag and with 48