“I can see that. Thank you for trying to cheer me up with this thoughtful gift, Clancey, but—”
“Well, I don’t seem to have any ordinary straws. If you’d rather, I can pour the coffee into a glass. I think you might manage that better. Except the glass would get awfully hot.”
“Oh, leave the straw,” he said with disgust. “I’ll drink with my eyes closed.”
Clancey tried to hide her smile. “What kind of little boy were you, anyway, if you didn’t get enthused about frogs and turtles and things like that?”
“Well, I never had a particular fascination with their insides. I suppose you did?”
“Hated them. I almost flunked biology because we had to dissect frogs. I couldn’t even learn to fish because I couldn’t stand the smell of worms.”
“It breaks my heart to interrupt this fascinating reminiscence, but I don’t suppose you know if there’s anything fit to watch on television at the moment?”
“Not offhand.” She poked through the basket beside her favorite chair and handed him the remote control, then watched in dismay as he stabbed ineffectually at the tiny buttons with his thumb. She took the gadget back and turned the television on. “Football? News? Opera?”
“Anything will do, as long as it’s not a documentary about turtles, frogs or worms.” He wasn’t watching, anyway; he’d let his head fall back against the couch cushions again.
Clancey smiled a little. At least his mind wasn’t completely on his fingers anymore.
When she brought dinner in a little later, he’d managed to change the channel, and a promotion was airing for a television movie. “Oh, I want to see that one,” Clancey said as she arranged a plate on the small table for him. “When does it come on?”
“Ten minutes. You have perfect timing.” He eyed the steaming plate of chicken, rice and vegetables with a mixture of hunger and apprehension, then sighed and balanced a fork between thumb and pinkie finger and stabbed a bite-sized chunk. It was slow going, but he managed.
Clancey watched in sympathy. “You aren’t going to be lifting weights for a while, are you?” she murmured, and pulled her chair around at a more comfortable angle.
The movie was well under way when he laid his fork down with a sigh.
“Finished?” Clancey asked.
He nodded. “That was good. And you were right. I was hungrier than I thought. If you’re anxious to get rid of me...”
“As a matter of fact, I’d rather not miss the end of the movie. I just wondered if you were ready for dessert.” She dug around in the basket beside her chair and came up with a candy bar. “Gourmet chocolate, from my secret stash.”
“Sounds good. But I don’t think I can unwrap it.”
Clancey moved over to the couch. She broke off a corner of the bar and put it on his tongue.
Indistinctly, Rowan said, “I’m pretty useless, aren’t I?” His hands lay palm up in his lap, motionless, as if it hurt to move them at all.
Perhaps I should have fed him, Clancey thought, just to save him the effort. “Oh, not useless, exactly,” she said lightly. “Just think. If I was into needlepoint, you could hold the skeins of yarn on your splints while I rewound them into balls. That’s an important contribution to society. Or—”
He made a face, and she giggled and put another chunk of chocolate into his mouth. He captured her fingertip as well, and worried it lightly between his teeth for a moment.
“Hey,” Clancey protested, “that’s not edible!”
The tip of his tongue fluttered against her nail and then slowly began to sample the soft pad at the end of her finger. The sensation was incredible — something like the tiny pin-prickles when blood circulation came back after a period of being cut off, but magnified a hundredfold. And it prickled not only through her finger, but shot up her arm and surged through her entire body....
It took a tremendous effort of will for Clancey to tug her fingertip away. Not because Rowan was holding it so tightly, for he wasn’t. The grip of his teeth had never been more than teasing. It was because something inside her didn’t want to sever that tenuous connection. Her hand was trembling a little as she broke off another piece of chocolate. This had to stop, she warned herself, and looked up at him very deliberately, intending to show she was completely unmoved by his antics.
The mischievous look died out of his eyes as she watched, and the quirky smile vanished from the corner of his mouth. He had a beautiful mouth, she thought. It was shaped just right.
He leaned forward a little and paused, just looking at her. That much again, and his lips would touch hers. Yes, he did have a beautiful mouth, not thick-lipped, not thin. And that smile... But of course, he wasn’t smiling at the moment; he was—
The telephone shrilled from the landing. Rowan jumped as if a siren had gone off in his ear, and Clancey put the candy bar hastily down and went to answer it, caught somewhere between irritation and relief at the interruption.
Eileen said, “Sorry to bother you, Clancey. But Hank phoned while you were out for lunch today, and I was so busy I forgot to write it down. He wanted you to call him back.”
“Hank?”
“Yes,” Eileen said impatiently. “You know, the faithful attorney who’s never in his life been called Hank the Hunk. What’s wrong with you tonight? Or is it bad timing? Did I interrupt a wrestling match on the couch?”
“Not at all.”
“I didn’t think it was likely.”
“Don’t gloat. How was your date with the mad driver from the supermarket?”
“Must you rub it in, Clancey?” There was a shiver in Eileen’s voice. “There would be a real demand for a gigolo service in this town. Somebody could make millions.”
“You, I suppose?” Clancey sounded amused.
“Don’t say it, I know what you’re thinking. Not if I can’t even find a man for myself. I’ll have to work on it.”
Clancey put the telephone down and went back to the living room. She was enjoying the movie much more than she would a chat with Hank, she told herself, and smothered the tiny twinge of conscience that said her enjoyment had nothing to do with the movie.
Besides, the call must be about her lease. She’d dropped off a copy at Hank’s office last week. And she could hardly talk to him about that with Rowan in the next room, could she?
Rowan’s feet were still on the floor, but the rest of him had crashed into a horizontal position. As she stood there looking down at him, he snuggled his cheek farther into the pillow she’d used last night.
“Great,” she muttered. “Still in his clothes, and still here. So much for taking him home.” She lifted his feet onto the couch, and he flung out a hand and uttered a pained moan in his sleep.
Well, perhaps it was better this way, Clancey decided. At least he wouldn’t wake up alone, needing something and with no way to get it. After all, the poor man couldn’t even get the top off the painkiller bottle without help.
He didn’t stir when she covered him with a blanket. He was more than just asleep, she thought; he was practically unconscious. He must have been holding himself upright through sheer willpower.
It was just as well that kiss had come to nothing. It was obvious the pain relievers had been kicking in just about then, and so he was hardly responsible for his actions.
And the landlord kissing the tenant would have been a complication neither of them needed. Or wanted, she reminded herself.
*****
Rowan roused a couple of times in the night for a drink of water, but he was been so groggy from the effect of the painkillers that Clancey wasn’t quite sure he even realized where he was. Toward morning, though, he fell into a sounder sleep, and by the time she got up for the day he was still out like a light.
She took a shower, letting the hot water pour over her neck, stiff from yet another night on the floor. “I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered as she tugged on a silky cream-colored sweater and heather tweed slacks and went back to the living
room.
What on earth was she to do with the man on her couch?
She stared down at him and debated the question. Even rumpled and displaying a definite morning-after stubble he didn’t look bad; still he was no sleeping beauty. Well, that eliminated one possible move; she wasn’t going to kiss him awake.
Somewhere there was an accounting firm that would be expecting him to come to work. Not that he’d be much use today, she was positive of that. Still, someone would need to know he wasn’t coming in, and if Rowan himself didn’t wake up soon, she supposed it would be up to her.
Eileen was already in the shop, with the money in the cash drawer, the lights on and the door open for business. She gave Clancey an appraising glance. “You look terrible. Are you certain you want to stick to the story that there was no wrestling match on the couch last night?”
“No. I mean, yes, I want to stick to my story.”
Eileen nodded wisely. “It happened on the floor, then?”
Clancey ignored her and reached for the telephone book. She found Rowan in the small print under Accountants, listed by just his name and a street address she vaguely recognized as being in the center of the professional district downtown.
She was dialing the telephone when Eileen said, “Dear heaven, what happened to you?”
The fascinated horror in the woman’s voice was its own explanation; Clancey needed no other warning. She turned around just as Rowan reached the bottom step. “Good,” she said. “I was just calling you in sick. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Rowan shrugged. “Go ahead. I sure don’t plan to go to work, and I’m certain everybody in the office would enjoy hearing your explanation.”
He was still pale, she thought, and rather weak. And very rumpled, after a night in his clothes. And with that dark stubble on his cheeks...
He looked wonderful, she concluded. It was something about the eyes. With those intense dark blue eyes fixed on her, everything else faded into obscurity.
“I wasn’t planning to explain, exactly,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to get in trouble with the boss for not even calling, so—”
The receiver clicked in her hand. “Martin and McKenna. This is Jean. May I help you?” said a soft voice in her ear.
He wasn’t an employee; he was a partner. Clancey supposed she should have anticipated that. She thrust the telephone at him.
Rowan grimaced and caught it between ear and shoulder. “I won’t be in today, Jean. What? No, nothing so pleasant. I was attacked by a vengeful window.”
Eileen’s eyes rounded.
“No, not widow,” he said patiently, “window. It slammed on my fingers.”
“Isn’t that just our luck?” Eileen asked under her breath. “The only good-looking guy who hangs around the neighborhood turns out to be a Peeping Tom.” Clancey glared at her, and Eileen asked practically, “Well? What other kind of man gets a window slammed on his hands?”
Clancey retrieved the telephone from its precarious perch and hung it up. “Shall I drive you home?”
Rowan shook his head. “No. You’re busy, and I’ve got a little more flexibility this morning. I can manage.”
“But—”
“I won’t take any pain pills till I get home, all right? But you could start the car for me, Clancey. I’m not sure I can manage that bit.”
She didn’t argue about it. It was apparent that he couldn’t wait to get away —from the house, or from her, or both. And she certainly wasn’t going to beg him to stay. The last thing she wanted was to look as if she was turning into some sort of fool over Rowan McKenna.
Besides, he was clear-eyed this morning, and obviously in control of himself, so she didn’t argue. She helped him put on his coat and walked out to the street with him, unlocked his car and started the engine.
When it was running smoothly she stepped back out, and found to her surprise that he had moved just a little and was blocking the open door. His wrists were propped on the car roof so that his arms formed a sort of fence over her shoulders. She could retreat into the driver’s seat or she could stand there.
Of course, she could step on his toes. She had no doubt he’d move quickly enough, with that threat looming.
But before she could make up her mind, he said, “I didn’t thank you last night for taking care of me when I didn’t even realize I needed taking care of.” His voice was ever-so-slightly husky.
She shrugged uncomfortably. “Anyone would have done it.”
“No, most people would have given up and let me be stubborn even if it killed me. Thank you, Clancey.”
There was something in his voice that almost frightened her. She looked up just as he bent his head, and saw that his eyes had gone very dark.
He didn’t even have to be touching her, Clancey discovered, to send those prickles of anticipation racing through her. Prickles that stung and ached and paralyzed—
The truth was, she didn’t want to move away. She swallowed hard and her gaze dropped to that beautifully-shaped mouth of his, and her own lips softened and parted just a little.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he whispered, “but shaving was out of the question this morning.”
His lips touched hers softly, moving gently, clinging and caressing, until Clancey’s head was swimming and the blood was pounding in her ears, and rational thinking was only something vaguely remembered from long ago. When he released her she managed to say, in a sort of croak, “I don’t mind,” and only when she saw the green light of mischief rekindle in his eyes did she realize what an invitation it had been.
“I’ll remember that,” he promised, and stepped back to let her go.
Clancey fled toward the house. Rowan stood there for a moment longer, rubbing the back of his wrist thoughtfully against his stubbly chin, and then he drove away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She burst into the house and then deliberately slowed her pace and her breathing. If she didn’t get control of herself, she might as well take out an ad in the newspaper saying Rowan McKenna had kissed her, and she liked it.
And as for practically asking him to do it again — what an idiot she was. It had been a single, well-meant thank-you kiss, that was all. There was certainly nothing about it to cause heart palpitations; no wonder he’d been amused by her reaction. Maybe, if she was lucky, he wouldn’t come around anymore. That would solve several of her problems. In the meantime she was just glad there hadn’t been a hundred customers standing there to see her make a fool of herself.
But of course, there was Eileen. “All right, what gives?” she demanded the moment Clancey came back into sight. “At first I thought you whacked him for trying something, though I couldn’t imagine why you let him spend the night after that. Or perhaps the night together came first, and he did something to offend you this morning.”
“Eileen—”
The stream of speculation was not to be stopped. “But then how did his fingers get so neatly bandaged? If you were the cause of the injury, you must have had a reason, and I can’t imagine you turning around and playing Florence Nightingale to fix him up.”
“Eileen, it’s none of your business.”
“On the other hand, the way you called in sick for him certainly sounded as if you planned to take the day off and play house. And kissing him goodbye in the driveway like that—”
“I ought to have known you’d be watching,” Clancey groaned. “Do you always stare out the window?”
“Only when there aren’t any customers to attend to.”
“Then I’ll try to scare some up to keep you busy,” Clancey muttered and retreated to the stockroom, ostensibly to plot her advertising for the next few weeks.
And, although Rowan’s face kept intruding at odd intervals, the amazing thing was that she managed to keep her mind pretty much on business.
The trick was going to be balancing her prices just right in order to maximize both sales and profits through Christmas. That way she could cut down
the sheer volume to be moved in January, and still have money enough to get herself reestablished. It wouldn’t be easy, with the increased inventory she’d ordered when she leased the house....
Clancey closed her eyes in pain at the mere prospect of starting all over again. Sometimes she just wanted to crawl into the nearest closet and cry.
But that was a quitter’s attitude, and Clancey reminded herself briskly that she wasn’t a quitter. If she was, she’d have given up the idea of a store during her first year in business, and gone back to working for someone else. But she had survived those first lean years, and she would survive this, too. It was a bad roll of the dice, that was all. She’d just have to make the best of it.
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