by Arlene James
Suddenly, Dale was on one knee before her. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Just give me a minute.”
He ran his hands lightly over her shoulders in a soothing gesture. “Didn’t you see that pile of debris?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll help you up. Don’t try to stand on your own.”
“Okay, but…” She rolled her weight slightly, testing, and grimaced. “I, um, think I’m going to have a problem with my skirt.”
His eyebrows rose, and he slid his puzzled gaze over the slender garment. “What sort of problem?”
Petra felt her face heat. “A, um, ripping problem. From the hem to the waistband, maybe.”
Comprehension dawned in his green eyes. “Oh! Uh, we can take care of that. Sort of. Here.” He started unbuttoning the plaid shirt that he wore over a simple white T-shirt. Shrugging out of it, he rolled down the sleeves and looped the garment behind her, tying the sleeves at her waist in front, so that the shirt would hang down like an apron worn backward. “Okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.” The cotton shirt felt soft and silky from many washings and as warm as a blanket. She wanted to bend over and stick her nose into the cuff to see if it smelled of him.
“No problem. Now let’s get you up.”
She nodded. He moved to her side then took her arm and wrapped it around his neck. Next, he slid his arm about her waist. She tried not to inhale his aftershave or register the incredible heat that seemed always to radiate from him.
“Here we go.”
He rose swiftly but smoothly. It was only then that she realized she’d lost a shoe, a red leather flat with a pointy toe and gold buckle.
“Ow, ow. Not good,” she sang, her foot protesting any attempt to put weight on it. “Feels like I twisted my ankle.”
“Guess there’s only one thing to do then,” he said, bending to sweep her off her feet. She gasped and threw her arms around his neck. When he straightened, he had her shoe in the hand of the arm supporting her knees. “Want this?”
Her heart had vaulted into her throat. She swallowed it down and said, “Thanks.” Taking the shoe, she cradled it against her chest as he started forward, carrying her down the hall toward the elevator.
She felt oddly treasured and almost smiled, catching herself only at the last instant. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from exulting in the warm strength of his arms. She wanted to lay her head on his strong shoulder and just be the weaker vessel for a little while. Something told her, perversely, that she could find strength in that, but she couldn’t let herself believe it, not while she rode helplessly in his arms. Not when she wanted so desperately to be right where she was.
Chapter Seven
Lifting her leg, Petra made a show of frowning at her ankle. It had already started to swell.
“Think it’s broken?” he asked.
“Hope not. Don’t think so. I didn’t feel that kind of pain.”
“We’ll get an X-ray to be sure,” he said, as if that settled the matter.
She didn’t argue. She was too distracted by the feeling of being in his arms.
They reached the elevator, and he carried her onto it. “You’ll probably want to hit the button.”
“Shouldn’t you put me down first?” she asked reluctantly.
“I’d just have to pick you up again,” he said, maneuvering so he could poke the lobby button with his elbow. He held her tight while the elevator jolted into motion then lowered to the ground floor. All the while, she babbled in an effort to keep unwise delight at bay.
“I—I feel like such a fool. I should have watched where I was going. Was that stuff even there when we came by earlier? I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Accidents happen,” he said as the elevator came to rest.
She couldn’t think what to say to that. Being held by him felt so good, so right, and even though he radiated heat like a campfire, she didn’t feel burned. She felt…safe.
Suddenly her ankle started throbbing like a big bass drum. She tried worriedly to wiggle her toes, and managed it. Sort of. That didn’t give her any comfort.
“Maybe it is broken.”
“We’ll soon find out,” he told her, carrying her across the lobby.
A trio of workmen came through a door just then and stopped in their tracks.
“Boss?” one of them queried worriedly.
Dale kept walking. “Little accident. Nothing serious. Get on about your business. Tell Jackie that Miss Chatam and I are gone for the day. And get someone to clean up that debris in the hallway on the third floor!”
“Yes, sir.”
They were on the sidewalk before the three men had scattered.
“My car’s in the hotel lot around the side of the building,” she informed him.
“Mine’s right here,” he replied, carrying her to the white double-cab truck parked at the curb. “Hold on.”
He put a foot on the running board, and effectively balanced her on his knee while he fished his key from his pocket and opened the door. The backseat, she noticed, was stacked neatly with plans, notebooks and others papers. He eased her inside, buckled her safety belt as if she were a child and walked around the front of the truck to slide behind the steering wheel.
“There’s a primary care clinic a few blocks from here.”
“Maybe I should head home to change first,” Petra began, but he cut her off.
“Nope. X-ray first. Then home.”
Petra sighed. She knew he was right, but she didn’t have to like showing up with his shirt tied around her waist.
When they arrived at the clinic, he parked the truck and went inside, returning a few moments later with a wheelchair. After settling her, he pushed her into the building. Half an hour later, she got that X-ray. An hour after that, they were still waiting for the doctor to come speak to them. During all that time, Dale stayed by her side, chatting about one thing or another, the job, his nieces and sister, his dad, who had felt unwell on Sunday morning and been convinced to sleep in.
“Probably in the same fashion I was convinced to have my ankle x-rayed before going home to change,” Petra mused grumpily. Dale laughed.
“It was something along those lines. Quit grousing. So your skirt got torn. You’re decently covered.”
“I hurt,” she complained, and she did, from her ankle to her waist. But at the same time, she was deeply grateful for Dale’s calm, commanding presence.
“I know you do,” he told her, patting her hand. “Won’t be long now.” And it wasn’t. The doctor came in a few moments later.
The ankle was not broken, thankfully. After receiving a brace and instructions on how to apply ice packs and deal with the sprain, Petra was given a sample of a mild pain reliever and discharged.
“Where am I going to get a crutch?” she worried aloud as Dale put her back into the truck.
“Well, I’d bet Kent can help you there.”
She brightened instantly. “Of course!”
“Now let’s get you home.”
* * *
Pandemonium reigned for several minutes after Dale carried Petra through the front door and into Chatam House, surprising Odelia, who nearly swooned as she was coming down the staircase. He thanked God that she didn’t, for how he’d have seen to her with Petra in his arms, he couldn’t imagine. Odelia’s squawk brought Kent, who never seemed to be far away, running from the library, followed by Hypatia and Magnolia, both of whom came from the front parlor. For a while, everyone asked questions at once, with Petra trying to reassure one only to break away and answer another. Finally, Dale took charge.
“She’s fine!” he announced, raising his voice. When the ch
aos subsided, he explained further. “She took a little fall and twisted her ankle, but it’s not broken. Still, she has to stay off it. Kent, she’s going to need a crutch.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” The round fellow took off at a trot.
“Ladies, we need ice packs. The doctor suggested bags of frozen vegetables.”
“As if Hilda would use anything but fresh,” Hypatia sniffed, sounding almost affronted.
“Then baggies of crushed ice,” he said, disciplining a smile as he moved toward the staircase. “She’s going to need help getting undressed and comfortable, too,” he went on.
“I’ll see to that,” Hypatia volunteered, falling in behind him.
“I’ll crush the ice,” Magnolia announced grimly.
“She’ll need tea,” Odelia decided, her hands fluttering anxiously, “and treats. Oh, I hope Hilda has ginger muffins.”
Dale looked down in time to see Petra bite her lip against a smile. He cleared his throat of laughter and started climbing.
“Are you sure you can manage on your own?” Hypatia asked Dale anxiously.
“She’s not heavy,” he replied.
Oh, he could manage to carry her upstairs, all right. The question was, could he manage to let go of her once her got her there? He didn’t want to. That much was certain.
He wondered what he was going to do about her. Garth Anderton obviously wanted her, and Garth had everything going for him. Maybe Garth was what she wanted, too. He’d seen that kiss, after all. In fact, he’d relived that moment a thousand times since. Once he got past the feeling that someone had driven a white-hot poker through his chest, though, he’d started to remember details, like how she’d stood stock still, her arms stiff at her sides, while Garth had kissed her. Her head hadn’t even moved. That might have meant that she didn’t like Anderton’s kiss, or that she simply didn’t go for public displays.
Dale reminded himself that even if she wasn’t involved with Anderton, she wouldn’t necessarily want anything to do with him, either. They didn’t have much in common, after all. He was a simple man doing a simple job that revolved around the family business, and she was a career woman on a fast track, not a housewife like his mom and sister. Shiny as new gold, she dressed as if she belonged in the penthouse, not the upstairs apartment of his folks’ old place. But he had to find out if he might have a chance with her anyway.
Okay, God, he thought, any advice?
God did not, as was His habit, immediately answer. For once, Dale wished He would.
They reached the landing, and Hypatia bustled ahead to open the door to Petra’s room. Dale carried her inside and deposited her in the corner of the pale purple brocade sofa, careful to protect her ankle. Hypatia hurried off to fetch something comfortable for her to wear, while Dale stood there like a bump on a log staring down at her. She looked tiny and fragile and achingly beautiful with her hair coming down and his shirt tied around her waist.
As if his thought reminded her, she began picking at the knot in the sleeves, saying, “Oh, you’ll be wanting this.”
“No, you keep it,” he said automatically.
She said nothing to that, just looked up at him with those big, warm honey eyes of hers. Then she reached out her hand. He folded his own around it, clasped it tight.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Just that, and he suddenly had a lump the size of Kansas in his throat. Bending at the waist, he placed a light kiss on her forehead and got out of there. Still, he couldn’t make himself leave the house. He thought about going to work in the suite, but he didn’t want to take a chance on disturbing Petra, so he went downstairs and let Odelia ply him with tea until Hypatia came down and reported that Petra was sleeping comfortably.
“We’ll launder your shirt for you, dear,” Hypatia said, “as soon as she’s done with it.”
A picture of Petra sleeping in his shirt flashed though Dale’s mind. He had no reason to think that was happening, but it was a sweet image. Finally, he rose to leave. He very much feared, as he drove away, that he was leaving behind more than just his old shirt.
* * *
After a strangely sleepless night, with his restless mind chasing one subject after another down myriad blind alleys, Dale headed back to Chatam House early the next morning. He fairly crept up the stairs, fearful of disturbing a sleeping Petra, only to find her limping toward him with the aid of a single crutch. She’d left her hair down, pushing it back from her face with a hard plastic headband the same shade of teal-green as the wide-legged pants and matching jacket that she wore with a brightly patterned scarf.
“Surely you’re not going to work!” he protested.
“Of course I’m going to work,” she told him. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s just a little sprain.”
He could have argued with that, but he knew from the look on her face just how much good that would do him. Besides, if their positions were reversed, he’d likely do the same thing. That didn’t mean he approved.
“Give me that,” he said, practically yanking the crutch from her hand, “and lean on me.”
She slipped her slender arm up and around his neck without argument, which went a long way toward mollifying him. He helped her hop down the first two steps, but then he stooped to wrap an arm about her waist and simply straightened again, lifting her off her feet. With her dangling like a human necktie, he ran down the steps with her. She laughed, and the sound of it made him ridiculously happy. He thought of his nieces and the fun that they always had together. Those moments of uncomplicated joy were the closest he’d come to this feeling.
He kept right on going until they reached his truck.
“I shouldn’t let you drive me,” she said, “but my car’s still at the hotel.”
“Well, then,” he countered, settling her inside the cab, “good thing I happened along when I did.”
“You always seem to be around when I need you,” she remarked softly, stopping his heart inside his chest. He fought the crazy impulse to tell her that he would always be there for her, but of course, he could make no such promise so he said nothing all, reaching for her safety belt. She lightly slapped his hand, scolding dryly, “I’m not helpless.”
He backed off, mentally shaking his head at himself, and jogged around to slide behind the steering wheel. She could buckle her own safety belt, for pity’s sake. They were well on their way to the hotel before he trusted himself to speak.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“So-so. Lots of aches. You?”
He shrugged. “Had a good deal on my mind.”
“Oh. Your dad?”
“Partly.”
“How is he?”
Dale sighed. “Working on the payroll. We had office staff to do that, but we had to cut back.”
“Ah.”
“Better than having him in the field, I guess.”
She nodded. “I always find numbers soothing.”
“Really? I like working with numbers, too. That’s a big part of construction. It’s paperwork I can’t stand.”
She laughed. “I’m far better with paperwork than a measuring tape.”
“Yeah, I’d guess so.”
“To each his own, as they say.”
“Right,” he agreed. “We all have our contributions to make.”
Once they reached the hotel, she insisted on making it inside on her own. He watched her hobble along, following behind until he saw her safely ensconced behind her desk in her office. She gave him a knowing smile.
“You can go nursemaid your father now. I’ll be fine.”
He chuckled. “Actually, I need to work at Chatam House today if that’s okay.”
“No problem, but if you’re coming back around lunchtime,” she began su
ggestively, “I think Hilda could be persuaded to find something for us to eat.”
He grinned, ridiculously pleased. “See you then.”
Smiling, she shooed him away with a wave of her hand. He went out laughing, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay away for long, not until she felt fully recovered. And probably not even then.
* * *
Picnic basket in hand, Dale walked back into the hotel at fifteen minutes past eleven. Predictably, Hilda had leapt at the opportunity to provide them with a feast. Petra looked up from the calculator she was pecking numbers into and smiled.
“You’re early. I thought you would be Dexter coming back to harangue me about the lobby furniture. Again.”
The prissy decorator tended to flit around in his oversized shirts, funky shorts and flip-flops, but the guy had good taste. He could be exhausting, however, just through the sheer force of his personality.
Petra propped her swollen foot on the seat of a chair that someone had dragged up to the desk for her and applied an ice pack that Hilda had sent along, while Dale laid out the luncheon, complete with china plates and linen napkins. They ate and chatted, about the hotel mostly. Petra seemed bright and determined, but he could tell that she was flagging.
“Are you sure you’re not ready to go home now?” he asked as he packed up the remains of the meal.
“I’m fine here,” she assured him, but he noted the blue tinge under her eyes and determined to return shortly to check on her. He did so more than once, finding excuses to pop in every hour or so.
It made for an awkward day, running back and forth between Chatam House and the hotel, but by twenty minutes past three, Petra seemed so obviously exhausted that he scooped her up, giving her no chance to protest, and carried her out to the truck. She glared at him, grumbling that she was “not a baby” and “capable of making her own decisions.” He didn’t argue, but he did take her back to Chatam House, where she insisted on climbing the stairs on her own.
She managed well enough, with the aid of the crutch and the banister, until her cell phone rang. Leaning against the wall, she dug the tiny device out of a pocket and lifted it to her ear.
