Hot to the Touch

by Jennifer Greene

  She shook her head. “Hey! That’s fighting really dirty.”

  “We have to fight dirty, Phoebe. Fox is in real trouble. He was doing fine for a couple days after you left, most of the week, in fact. But now I don’t think he’s slept a wink in the past forty-eight hours. If you’d just known him before this all happened—Fergus was always full of the devil, never sat still a minute in his life. He was interested in everything, active in sports and hobbies and the community. And kids. God, he loves kids. You can’t even imagine how good he is with kids. So to see him sitting in that dark room, doing nothing, not wanting to do anything—”

  “Come on, Ben. If you brothers are close and he won’t listen to you, why on earth would you think I could do anything? I can’t just go over there and bully him—”

  “You did before.”

  “He had such a bad headache before that he’d have let in the devil if it could have helped him.”

  “We tried the devil. We’ve tried everything. You’re the only one who even dented that pain of his.” Ben cleared his throat. “Harry said you had to wash your hair.”

  She knew that tone. It was one of those male “I’ll be understanding about this ridiculous female thinking” tone.

  “Harry also mentioned that possibly you might want a year’s worth of free dinners. And I was thinking—I don’t know where you live—but I told you I was the builder in the clan. I never met a woman who didn’t want her kitchen redone—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. This is ridiculous.”

  “And while I was fixing your kitchen, you could eat at Harry’s restaurant—”

  “Stop! I don’t want to hear another word!”

  “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  Three

  F ox closed his eyes and stood absolutely still under the pelting-hot shower spray.

  Maybe he’d given up sleeping and eating and couldn’t get his life back for love or money. But nothing kept him from showering once a day and sometimes twice.

  Even after all these weeks, parts kept coming out of him. The doctors claimed that’s how it was with dirty bombs. Something new needled to the surface of his skin every once in a while. In the beginning he’d been horrified, but now he found it amazing—if not downright funny—what terrorists chose to put in dirty bombs. Bits of plastic. Hairpins. Parts of paper clips. Anything. Everything.

  Some of the parts hurt. Some didn’t. Some scarred. Some didn’t. Mostly Fox was grateful that nothing had hit his face or eyes—or the cargo below his waist, not that he anticipated having sex again in this century. You had to give a damn about someone to get it up. He didn’t. Still, it mattered fiercely to him that his equipment still functioned normally. Go figure.

  His obsession with showers, though, had evolved from a terror of infection. He didn’t fear dying, but damn, he couldn’t face the risk of another hospital stay if any more sores got infected.

  When the water turned cool, he flicked off the faucets and reached blind for the towel. He moved carefully, because sometimes his left leg gave out. Technically the broken wrist and thigh bone were both healed, but something inside still wasn’t totally kosher, because one minute he could be standing or walking, and the next his left leg would give out.

  Tonight that wasn’t a problem—but apparently the fates couldn’t let him get off scot-free.

  The first step out of the shower, he found himself teetering like an old man, dizzy and disoriented. The same child’s face swam in front of his eyes, drifting in the foggy steam of the bathroom—real, then not real, clear, then not clear. Sometimes the boy turned into one of the students he’d had; sometimes it was the boy in the dusty yellow alley on the other side of the world. He leaned against the glass shower doors and tried taking a long, slow breath, then another.

  A headache was coming. A headache always followed one of the flashbacks to the kid. If he ever got his sense of humor back, he’d think it was funny for a guy, who used to dare anything in life, to be this scared of a headache. Of course, that was then and this was now. Before the pain attacked, he had to get himself out of the bathroom and settled somewhere safer.

  Abruptly he heard something…the sound of a door opening? Either he imagined the sound—which would hardly be headline news—or it was Harry, coming to restock the refrigerator with another set of dinners he couldn’t eat. Whatever. He leaned over, hands on his knees, waiting for the soupy feeling to pass. Beads of water started drying on his bare skin, chilling him. His hair dripped. The towel…it seemed he’d dropped the towel. He’d get it. In a minute.

  “Fergus?”

  It was Bear’s voice. Ben’s, not Harry’s. “In here.” Damn, he hoped his oldest brother wouldn’t stay long. Bear hovered over him like…well, like a bear. All fierce and protective. All angry at anyone and anything who’d hurt him. All willing to do anything to make it all better.

  Fox had told his brothers a dozen times that nothing was going to make this all better. The wounds’d heal. They were almost healed now. But whatever was broken inside him seemed like the old Humpty Dumpty story. Too many pieces. Not enough glue.

  “Fox?”

  He tried denying the dizziness, pushing past it, repeated, “In here.”

  The denial thing seemed to work. He forced himself to pluck the towel from the tiled floor and straighten before Bear saw him and got the idea again that he was too sick to live alone.

  “Hey, Fox, I brought…”

  Oops. He’d assumed it’d be his brother standing in the doorway, but his brother was six-three and a solid 220. The intruder had thick, straight, long red hair, almost as long as her waist. Small, classic features. Blue eyes that snapped with attitude, a few freckles on the bridge of a bitsy nose, pale eyebrows arched just so. And a soft, wide mouth.

  He remembered that soft, wide mouth. Actually, he remembered every detail of her features. It wasn’t that he wanted to remember her, but she was one of those rare women who no guy could possibly forget.

  God knew why. She was no angel. That was for damn sure.

  Even if her eyes and posture didn’t indicate excess attitude, she was wearing a red top again today—a red that screamed next to all that thick red hair. She must have bought the jeans in the boys section, because they bagged at the knees and drooped on her nonexistent butt. Then there were the boots—which were beyond-belief girl shoes and not real boots at all—three striped colors and a high heel. She’d kill herself if she walked far in them.

  He caught all of her in a glance. One glance—that no amount of dizziness seemed to blur.

  Obviously, finding him in the bathroom doorway had stalled her in midsprint. She’d apparently been heading for the living room, where she’d found him last time. Even if she’d guessed the location of the bathroom, she wouldn’t necessarily expect to find anyone standing there, naked as a jaybird.

  Her gaze met his, then dropped below his waist, then shot right back up to his eyes faster than lightning.

  “Aw, damn. Aw, shoot. Aw, beans,” Bear said behind him. “Phoebe, Fox, I’m sorry. Fox, I should have told you I was bringing Phoebe—I never heard the shower, just assumed you were in the living room—”

  Fox took his own sweet time, wrapping the towel around his waist. Hell, she’d already seen the main event, and there was no way to hide all the bites and gouges and scars with one lone towel anyway. Besides which, if he tried moving too fast he’d likely end up falling on his nose. “I’ll be darned. Did I forget calling for a physical therapist?”

  “Now, Fox, you know I brought her. And I told you before, she’s not like the other physical therapists you tried. She’s more a masseuse.”

  “Oh, yeah, now I remember that masseuse thing.” Fox met her eyes square. “It’s okay then, you can go home. That’s the one part on my body that I know is still working just fine.”

  She sighed, but instead of looking insulted—as he’d hoped—she seemed to look amused. “Sex’d probably be the best thing for you, but you’re out
of luck, I’ve had no training in that. For the record, I do have a PT license from Duke. And as far as body work, I’m licensed in Deep Tissue, Swedish, Shiatsu, Rolfing, Reflexology, PNF, and NautThai—”

  “PNF?”

  “Proprioceptive Neuromuscular Facilitation—”

  “Forget it. Let’s go back to why you’ve had no training in sex—”

  “You’re sure feeling peppier today,” she announced, which lifted his spirits like nothing else had in ages.

  The thing was—if he could fool her, he could fool his brothers. Down the pike, he might even be able to fool himself. In the meantime, she’d itched his curiosity. “Why in hell would you throw out a degree from Duke in physical therapy to do massage work?”

  “So I can get my hands on naked men. Why else?”

  He saw his brother making frantic hand-motion signs behind her back—Ben was acting increasingly weird. But Fergus couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  It wasn’t that she appealed to him exactly. She couldn’t, when no woman was yanking his chain these days—and the kind of woman who always appealed to him had boobs and a butt. She had neither, but damn. She was just so…zesty. Who’d have guessed she’d laugh when he tried to insult her?

  Obviously, he had to try harder to annoy her.

  “I’d think you could get your hands on a lot of naked men without having to bother guys who aren’t interested.”

  “You’re so right. Getting men naked is amazingly easy. On the other hand, easy guys never turned me on. I like a challenge.”

  “A challenge to you is barreling into a guy’s house who never asked you?”

  She should have bristled for that one at least. Defended herself. Fought back. Instead she just said, “Not usually. But I’m making an exception because you’re so darn adorable that I’d probably break all the rules to get my hands on you. What can I say? You really ring my chimes, cutie.”

  That was such an outright fib that she darn near rendered him speechless. His eyes narrowed. Nobody, but nobody, rendered him speechless. “You’re so full of bologna, I can’t believe it.”

  “What makes you think I’m full of bologna?”

  “Because you’re not remotely promiscuous.” God knew how such a personal comment flew out of his mouth, except it somehow bugged him, her talking about all those naked men. In spite of that luscious mouth and her wearing those absurdly sexy high boots, she just didn’t come across to him as easy—not any kind of easy. Beneath that whole frisky act, there was just something vulnerable about her.

  Once the comment came out of his mouth, though, he had no chance to take it back. Her hands immediately formed small fists and arched on her hips. “How do you know I’m not promiscuous?”

  “All right, all right, of course I don’t know it. I don’t know you from Adam. But twenty bucks on the table says you’ve been celibate for the last year.” There. It was gone faster than a flash, but for that quarter of a millisecond he caught something in her eyes. Never mind the big talk and the long, gorgeous hair and all that sensuality reeking from her. She had been celibate.

  “For all you know,” she said, “I’m happily married and have been having sex three times a day with my darling.”

  “Yeah? So, are you married?”

  She rolled her eyes with exasperation. “No, I’m not married—but for all you know I sleep with ten men a week—not that it matters either way. How on earth did we wander so far from the point? And the point, Fox, is whether you would or wouldn’t like another head rub. You’ve got another bad headache coming on, don’t you.”

  Hell. He not only had a bad headache coming on; the buildup felt like the mother of all earthquakes warming up in his skull. But for an instant he’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten his head, his injuries, his depression. That he was standing there naked except for a towel. That his brother was right behind her. That the life he’d once known seemed to have clicked its heels and taken off for Kansas, because he didn’t recognize himself or his life anymore.

  She’d distracted him. Something about her seemed to reach in him like no one else had in a blue moon—and it shook him up good. He dropped the teasing tone and said quietly, “You’re right. I’ve got another headache coming on. But I don’t need anyone’s help to handle it.” And without skipping a beat he turned to his brother. “Bear, leave her alone.”

  He wasn’t exactly sure where that directive came from, except that both his brothers seemed unusually taken with Phoebe—not that he cared. But he just kept getting some instinct that she wasn’t as tough and full of pepper as she let on. On that first night she’d said something like, “Fox, I’m nobody. Nobody you need to worry about”—as if she thought of herself as no one consequential—and it had gnawed in his memory ever since. How ridiculous was that?

  Hell, the thought that she needed protecting—that he could even consider himself a protector—boggled his mind. And his mind was already too damned shredded to need any more boggling.

  Without another word he stalked down the hall to his bedroom, where he firmly closed the door. There was no lock, but there didn’t need to be.

  No one called after him. No one tried to get in. He figured his rudeness got through…which was exactly what needed to happen. Fergus knew his brothers meant well. He knew his brothers were trying to help him—including their bringing in that little redhead.

  He didn’t mean to—or like—taking his surliness out on her, but something about Phoebe really bugged him. Really, really got to him. The problem was weird and unsettling…but not complicated.

  All he had to do was stay away from her. Piece of cake.

  Phoebe barely glanced up at the rap on her door. Saturday mornings half the neighborhood popped over—a tradition she’d started when she first moved here, stemming from a trick her mom had taught her. She set a fresh-baked almond cinnamon coffee cake on the porch to cool.

  That was it. The whole trick. Even the meanest neighbor or the shyest stranger couldn’t seem to resist the smell. Which was all well and good, but usually the group waited until eight before showing up. Her hair was still down, her feet still bare, her terry cloth shorts and tee on the ragged side of decent, when Gary stuck his head in.

  “Hey, Phoebe.”

  “Hey, you. Mary still sleeping in?”

  “Yeah. It was the same when she was pregnant before. Sleeps like the dead.” He ambled over, plucked a fresh piece of coffee cake, no plate, no napkin, and then chose a place to sprawl. Her other neighbor, Fred, had already settled at the head of the table. Traditionally he galloped over with his walker at the first smell coming out of the oven.

  “You’re going to burn your fingers,” she warned Gary.

  “And this is news how?” The mutts immediately took root on laps—one on Fred’s, one on Gary’s.

  Phoebe poured the boys coffee, but then went back to the counter where she was slicing a grapefruit. Her cooking specialty was the almond cinnamon coffee cake—and not that she was bragging, but it was even better than her mother’s, and her mom’s was the best in the universe. Unfortunately and ironically, she seemed to be a grapefruit addict herself—for which the neighbors teased her mercilessly.

  The back door whooshed open again. “Hi, sweetie,” Barb greeted her. Within seconds she was battling with Gary for the coffee cake spatula. “Give it. My God, you guys already leveled a coffee cake on your own. How could you be so greedy?”

  Phoebe ignored the fight and concentrated on her grapefruit. Her neighbors, thank God, could take anyone’s mind off their troubles. It was the first time in days she hadn’t thought about Fergus.

  Barb seemed to relish the role of the neighborhood bawd. Even this early on a Saturday, she was wearing a low-dipping top, slick spandex pants, and a full arsenal of makeup. She’d been married to a plastic surgeon. It showed.

  “So what’s new around here?” Barbara won the coffee cake piece she wanted, sashayed over to the coffee and then went prowling down the hall carrying
her cup.

  “Nothing,” Phoebe answered.

  “Oh, yes, there is. I’ll find it. You’re always doing something new around here.” A moment later Barbara called back, “I’ll be damned. You cleaned.”

  “I did not.” Phoebe was offended she’d been accused of such a thing.

  “You did. There’s no dust.”

  She’d only cleaned because she was worried about that damned man. That wasn’t the same as compulsive cleaning, now, was it? It was just something to do at two in the morning when she was pacing around, fretting whether that rock-headed jerk was in pain and alone. Before she could invent a respectable reason for the lack of mess and dust, though, Barbara let out a shriek from far down the hall.

  “Oh, my God, what kind of gigantic construction project have you got going on in here?”

  “What, what?” That got both Fred and Gary out of their chairs, Fred leading the charge with his walker through the house.

  Phoebe sighed mightily and traipsed after them. It confounded her how such a private person—such as herself—could end up with such nosy neighbors. They seemed endlessly fascinated by everything she did to the house, partly because they thought she was unconventional and artistic.

  That was hooey. Reality was that she’d only bought the house because she couldn’t find a rental that worked for her setup, and the only house she could swing had to be a major fixer-upper. The location was unbeatable, three blocks off Main Street, so it was an easy walk for customers. The structure was a basic two-story saltbox built in the sixties. There were balconies on both floors and no termites—those were the positives.

  Then came the fixer-upper part. The windows hadn’t been caulked in a decade; the drive could have starred in a jungle movie, and the yard resembled a wildlife sanctuary. When she tried selling her neighbors the sanctuary theory, though, someone loaned her a lawn mower. Pretty clear what the neighborhood standard was, and weedy wasn’t it.