"Lie still," Steve ordered, holding her down by putting one hand in the middle of her chest when she tried to sit up.
"You're drowning me," she complained, struggling against his hold. "Let me up."
"All right. Take it easy." He took the wet towel from her head and dropped it on the floor. "Just lie still for another minute," he said, as he continued to move his hands over her head. "Tender?" he asked, when she flinched.
"A little."
"There's no bump but I think we should take you to the hospital to have a doctor look you over, just in case."
"No hospital," Willow insisted. "I'll be fine. Really. I've had much worse falls while riding," she reassured him. "Let me sit up."
He slipped his arm under her neck, carefully cradling her head against his shoulder. "Slowly," he murmured as he lifted her upright. "Okay?" he asked, his gaze on her face, watching for the slightest sign that she might be going to faint again.
"Okay," she agreed, with a tiny, careful nod, testing to see how her head felt.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," he ordered fiercely.
Her eyes widened at the vehemence in his tone. "I didn't exactly do it on purpose," she pointed out.
"Well, just don't do it again. You nearly scared the life out of me."
"Sorry," she murmured. "I'll try not to keel over in front of you again."
"See that you don't," he said, completely missing the wry edge to her tone as he stood and headed for his office door. "I'm going to go get your shoes. Don't move an inch until I get back."
Willow did as he ordered only because—she told herself—it was the prudent thing to do. While he was gone, she took the opportunity to tilt her head, carefully, from side to side and back and forth. There was a little light-headedness but as long as she didn't move too fast the dizziness didn't return. She'd probably have a whopper of a headache later but she'd live.
She was just about to stand up and test herself a little further, when Steve came back into the room with her shoes. Wisely, she stayed where she was, docilely allowing him to, once again, kneel at her feet while he buckled the scuffed T-straps on for her.
"Do you think you can stand up?" he asked when he finished.
"I think I can manage," she said dryly.
He helped her to her feet as if she were an invalid, holding on to her until it became apparent that she could, indeed, stand up under her own power. Leaving her alone by the sofa for a moment, he gathered up her jacket and purse, and then came back. "Let's get you to a hospital," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to lead her toward the door.
Willow stopped dead in her tracks. "No hospital. If I go to a hospital, they'll want to keep me overnight for observation. I'm not doing that."
"Damn it, Willow, you fainted."
"I didn't faint," she said, indignantly. "I got a little dizzy and you overreacted."
"You could have a concussion."
"I don't have a concussion," she assured him. "Trust me. I've had concussions before and I know what they feel like." She sighed with exasperation. It was nice to be coddled and fussed over. Very nice. But enough was enough; she'd told him before that she wasn't some fragile flower. "Look, Steve, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I'm fine. All I need is a hot shower, a little room service and a good night's sleep."
He considered that for a moment. "All right, fine," he agreed, and started her toward the door again. "I'll take you to my place. You can get everything you need there."
"Your place?" She felt a frisson of... something... slither down her spine, despite the fact that she was in no condition to deal with it at the moment. "Why your place? What's wrong with my hotel room?"
"You'd be alone in your hotel room. What if you fainted in the shower?" he challenged her. "What if you're wrong and you do have a concussion?" What if the person who tried to run you down decides to try something else? "You need someone around to check on you every couple of hours throughout the night. It's either me or the doctors over at the UCLA Med Center," he said, a look of bulldog stubbornness on his handsome face. "Take your pick."
Willow made a split-second executive decision. "Okay, we'll go to your place."
* * *
Steve's place turned out to be a far cry from what Willow expected. Instead of some dinky efficiency apartment in one of the apartment buildings near his office, he drove her to an isolated house in the Santa Monica foothills, just off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. It wasn't much to look at from the outside: simple, rugged, unprepossessing, with thick adobe walls and a low, red-tiled roof. The landscaping had been left mostly to Mother Nature, sweet-smelling wild grasses, chaparral, and native scrub had been deliberately left to mix with the cultivated greenery around the house, the boundaries of the garden areas marked by meandering borders of large rocks.
It reminded Willow a little of where she had grown up. Not the vegetation, exactly—there was more pine and evergreen on Blackberry Meadows' isolated mountain acreage—but the feeling. Rural and a little bit wild. Her town house in Portland was in the heart of the city, convenient to everything, and she liked it well enough. But, sometimes, she missed the peaceful solitude of a setting like this.
As she stepped out of the car, Willow heard a coyote howl, off in the distance. She glanced toward the sound, and then up at Steve. "But you're so close to the city," she said, amazed.
"I know. Isn't it great?" He grinned, showing his dimple. "I get deer out here, too. And raccoons and owls. And there's a pair of red-tailed hawks that hunt for their breakfast from that stand of trees every morning." He pointed to a small copse of eucalyptus, their silvery green leaves rustling in a light evening breeze. "Come on inside," he said, guiding her up the path to the front door, "and let's get you settled in."
The inside of the house was an even bigger surprise than the outside had been. It seemed, at first, to be one big open space, with a high, beamed ceiling, bare wood floor, acres of windows that let in the pink glow of the setting sun and a huge fireplace at one end. But a closer look revealed that it was divided into cooking, dining, and living spaces by two tiled counters and the clever arrangement of furniture and area rugs.
"Did you do all this yourself?" she asked, wondering if there might have been a wife or live-in love somewhere in his past.
"I worked with the architect on the plans and picked out the furniture," he said, taking her purse and jacket from her to set them down on one of the counters. "But my sister Laurie helped me with the dishes and towels and all that decorating stuff." He waved a hand around, silently indicating the urns full of fragrant eucalyptus, the woven baskets that held magazines and kindling, the knitted throw over the back of a sofa, the tall wrought-iron candlesticks on the wooden dining table.
"It's really lovely. I'm impressed."
"It's comfortable," he allowed, watching her move around the main room of his house, wondering how she would feel about sharing it with him for the rest of their natural lives. He wanted to ask her right now. Wanted to tell her she could change anything she wanted. Wanted to tell her they'd sell it and start over if she didn't like it. Wanted... But it was too soon. Way too soon. They had other matters to settle first. "Do you want to eat first, or take that shower?" he asked instead.
"Shower," she said. "I had a cup of coffee and a piece of baklava at the Greek deli before—"
"Before some idiot driver almost ran you down," he finished for her, not wanting her to spend too much time dwelling on what had happened. It would be better for her, easier, if she didn't have to come face-to-face with the knowledge that what had happened probably hadn't been an accident.
"Let me show you where the shower is." He reached out to take her elbow, then remembered in time and took her by the hand, instead, linking his fingers with hers as he led her across the great room to one of the arched doorways opening off of it.
They walked down a short hall, then turned and entered a large airy bedroom done in desert shades of beige, brown, and dusty blue
. There was a king-size bed under a skylight, wide-paned glass doors leading to a lattice-covered deck, and an adobe fireplace in the corner. "You'll have to use my bathroom," he said, motioning toward the half-open door across the room. "It's the only one that's fully stocked."
"I don't want to put you out of your own bathroom," she said. "Just give me a bar of soap and a towel and point me to a guest bath. I'll be fine."
"You're not putting me out. All I have to do is dig up a clean pair of jeans and I'm set." Unable to resist, he lifted their clasped hands, turning them to place a kiss on the back of her wrist before he untangled his fingers from hers.
Willow felt a sudden attack of dizziness come over her that had nothing to do with the hit she'd taken to her head. She leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, watching as he moved to the tall bleached-wood dresser against the wall.
"I can offer you sweatpants and a T-shirt to put on after your shower," he said, pulling the items in question from a drawer as he spoke. "Or there's a robe hanging on the back of the door in the bathroom, if you'd rather wear that."
"Sweatpants and a T-shirt will be fine."
"Help yourself to anything you need in the bathroom. The new toothbrushes are on the top shelf of the linen closet. And there's aspirin in the medicine cabinet." He put the clothes in her hands. "I'd suggest you take a couple of them. If you're not aching yet, you will be. Almost getting run over will do that to you."
Oh, I'm aching, all right, Willow thought as she stood there, staring up at him. But it didn't have anything to do with nearly getting run over.
"Are you going to be all right in there by yourself?"
"What?" She blinked. "Oh, yes. Fine. I'll be fine."
"I'll be right outside the door." He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek, ostensibly brushing a stray hair out of her face. "Holler if you need me."
* * *
Holler if you need me.
And just what would he do if she did? Willow wondered. Come striding into the shower like a knight in shining armor and... and wash her back? She faltered a bit at the thought, nearly dropping the soap, wondering if she dared test him that far, wondering if... No, she was thinking crazy again; what was it about that man that made her want to listen to her hormones instead of her head? It was too soon for that kind of intimacy.
The same sound arguments that applied last night after his refusal had forced her to come to her senses still applied. For all the instant chemistry and surprising affinity of mind they seemed to share, she barely knew him. Even though she accepted the inevitability of an intimate relationship with him—because he was right, it was going to happen—two days' acquaintance wasn't long enough for a smart woman like her to risk sharing the secrets of her body with a man. Not to mention those of her heart and soul...
* * *
Steve stood outside the bathroom door with his fists clenched, listening to the sounds of the woman he wanted with every fiber of his being taking a shower in his bathroom. She was standing in his shower. Using his soap. Sliding his washcloth over the sleek, naked curves of her body.
He closed his eyes, imagining how it would be if he joined her in the shower, remembering the feel and taste of her breasts. The way her hips had moved in mindless need against his. The shuddering breaths and little gasping noises she made. The way her arms had clasped him and held him close, wanting him as much as he wanted her.
He lifted his hand, reaching for the doorknob, his whole body urging him to go in and take what he knew she would willingly give him. He would pull back the shower curtain and she would turn, not really startled to see him, expecting to see him, and she would lift her arms toward him, her eyes burning with passion and need and fierce feminine welcome.
He was so attuned to her responses, so sure of how she would react, that it was hard to remember he'd only known her for two days. Hard to remember that she was a client who'd come to him looking for help. Hard to remember she'd been battered and bruised and probably wasn't up to the sort of fast and furious sex he was aching to give her.
It was hard, period.
He dropped his hand, waiting silently, tensely, for the shower to stop. When it did, he lifted his fist and rapped sharply on the door. "Everything okay in there?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. "You still on your feet?"
"Don't come in!" she called, an edge of panicked excitement in her voice, and he knew she had been imagining things, too. "I'll be out as soon as I get dressed and dry my hair."
"Take your time," he said, his mind automatically forming a picture of her standing there, dripping water on his blue bathroom rug, one of his striped towels clutched to her breasts as she stared at the door. "I'll be in the kitchen, throwing some sandwiches together. They'll be ready whenever you are."
* * *
They sat across the dining table from each other, eating vegetable soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches. She had blow-dried her hair with his dryer, used the antiseptic spray she found in his medicine cabinet on her elbows and thigh, just to be on the safe side, and taken two aspirin as he had suggested to forestall the headache that hadn't yet developed. She felt clean and cozy, and ridiculously coddled, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and a pale blue T-shirt that hung halfway down her thighs.
"Okay," she said, waiting until he had taken a healthy bite of his cheese sandwich before she spoke. "Spill it."
Steve chewed and swallowed. "Spill what?" he asked, reaching for his iced tea to help wash the sandwich down.
"This house," she said, gesturing at the room with her soupspoon. "The office on Hollywood Boulevard. You've got to admit they don't go together."
"Why not?" he asked blandly.
"Don't give me that look," she said. "You know why not. Your office belongs to a semisuccessful P.I. who's just about managing to make ends meet. Your books, by the way, tell the same story. This place was built by someone with money." And taste, but she didn't tell him that. "Lots and lots of money. Either you've got a really successful—and, therefore, probably illegal—sideline going, or some rich Los Angeles socialite has you on retainer for something other than your skill as an investigator," she said with a sly grin, deliberately choosing the two possibilities that would be most likely to get a rise out of him.
He didn't take the bait. "Maybe I'm independently wealthy."
"Are you?"
"Would it make a difference if I was?"
"To what?" she said, puzzled by the question.
"To you."
"To me?" It took her a minute to understand what he was getting at. And then her eyes narrowed, snapping fire. She started to rise up out of her chair.
"Gotcha," he said, and grinned at her.
She gave him a mutinous glare and sat back down. "That wasn't funny," she said.
"Sure it was. You're just mad because I didn't react when you tried to insult me."
She ducked her head, hiding a grin as she bit into her sandwich. He was right, damn him. How had he learned to read her so well in just two short days? She swallowed her bite of sandwich. "So, are you really independently wealthy?"
"Yes, I really am."
She tilted her head, her eyes speculative as she stared at him across the table. "I don't see how," she said. "You're an abysmal businessman who hasn't got the slightest idea of how to keep a proper set of books."
"I have a trust fund," he said, not the least bit offended by what she obviously thought he would consider a major insult. "My sister Laurie manages it for me. She's an investment banker."
"You're kidding."
"No, really, she is."
Willow gave him a wry look, letting him know that she knew that he knew that hadn't been what she meant. "Where did a semisuccessful P.I. get a trust fund?"
"My mother's maiden name was Fallon. Her family used to own quite a lot of what was once arid farmland in the San Fernando Valley, way back before the Aqueduct was built in the early 1900s. Down through the years they've managed to hang on to most of it. Only now it's tr
act homes and shopping centers and light industry."
Willow was silent for a moment, considering that. She'd never heard of the Fallons but she knew what it meant to have owned land in the Valley before it became the home of some one-third of Los Angeles's entire population. And to still own it now.
"And your father's family? Did they give you a tidy little trust fund, too?"
"Mom married down," he said with a grin. "My dad is William S. Hart, the attorney."
She might not have heard of the Fallons but she knew who William S. Hart was. The famous civil rights lawyer had retired a few years ago, if she remembered rightly, after having made a name for himself as a fire-eater who often took on seemingly lost-cause cases that other lawyers saw no profit in.
"So that explains the house," Willow said, "but how do you explain the business you're in?"
"Does it need explaining?"
"Sure. I mean, with a background like that, why aren't you some high-priced lawyer with a Harvard degree and an office in Beverly Hills?"
"I was. The Harvard degree part," he said, amused by her thunderstruck expression. "Not the Beverly Hills part."
"What happened?"
"Lawyers have to play by the rules." He shrugged. "I like to do things my own way."
Willow didn't doubt that for a minute but there was more to it than that. A lot more. "And?" she prodded.
"And what?"
"That still doesn't explain why you do what you do, or why your office is located in a low-rent building on Hollywood Boulevard."
"I do what I do because I'm good at it, and I like it," he said, dismissively. "And my office is where it is because that's where most of my clients are."
Willow stared at him across the table, a considering look in her golden brown eyes. He could see the wheels turning as she tried to fit the pieces together. And then she pursed her lips and nodded, as if to herself, and her eyes widened. The look she gave him had him squirming in embarrassment.
"You're a big ol' fake," she said softly, as the truth dawned on her. "You're not a tough guy at all. You're a marshmallow underneath all those muscles. An idealist. A crusader."
Passion and Scandal Page 12
