Little Jeffrey’s hand seemed to summon her.
Before the man could object, she darted into the space where the first trunk had been. She grabbed Little Jeffrey’s meticulously crafted fingers and pulled him up, careful not to scrape his paint. Placing him safely to the side with one hand, she reached into the crack to see if any more marionettes needed rescuing. She saw none. Reaching, stretching her muscles until they ached, searching, she winced when thick trunk splinters drew blood. The block of concrete didn’t even budge.
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed by that,” her would-be rescuer said, stalking toward her. “Dumb luck. This house has always—”
Something crunched under his foot.
“No!” she shrieked, but it was too late.
He froze, looking down. “Uh oh.”
They both stared at the remains of Little Jeffrey.
He grimaced, lifted his foot. “Whoops.”
Her eyes were locked on her crushed marionette. “If it’s not too much trouble, take the closed trunk upstairs. Now, please.”
She raised her eyes to his. For a moment, he seemed about to apologize.
Then her house shifted with a deep groan. He moved fast, with more grace and speed than her old martial arts instructor, carrying the trunk before him up the stairs. After quickly filling her arms with as much as she could hold, she raced after him.
When she ascended to the hallway, she felt another bass thump beneath her feet, followed by a displacement of air that blew her hair sideways.
“Out. Now.”
This time she obeyed. She trod on his heels getting out the front door, down her porch steps and into the rain. He carried one trunk with difficulty.
He let it drop onto the sidewalk next to an Aston Martin. His, presumably.
She opened the wooden trunk, placed her own armload inside as gently as if it were roses inside a casket, then closed it before the rain could damage things more.
At the sound of wrenching wood and plaster, they both turned to stare at her home.
The steeply pitched roof sagged, opening a gaping dark canyon that bisected her kitchen. One wall tilted to an unlikely angle, jagged holes appearing where its double-hung window had torn free, one windowsill jutting up like a broken tooth. The chimney had vanished.
“Get in the car.”
She looked at him doubtfully, though the rain still pounded. The car would be welcome shelter.
He looked at her with exasperation. She began to think it was probably his usual expression. “I won’t hurt you.”
“How’d you get into my house?”
He jangled his keys in front of her, clearly impatient, and nodded to the car. “I’m getting in,” he announced. “You do what you want.”
So he was her landlord? He seemed far too arrogant, too handsome, rich and confident to be a mere landlord. It had been a woman who’d shown her the place and initiated the paperwork. And another woman who’d answered the phone when Ginnie had called for repairs—repairs she never got. Maybe this handsome man was those women’s boss at the company? Ginnie shrugged, opened the door, slid inside. “I’m ruining your seats.”
“Damn the seats.” He inserted a key into the ignition, turned it. He looked at her, then cranked up the car’s heat. “Are you okay?” The man touched her shoulder. “You look…”
Ginnie knew how she must look. Probably almost as good as she felt.
She peered out the side window. The rain had eased up. She focused on one of the small iron rings set in the sidewalk. The neighborhood was so old it used to accommodate horses. The house probably hadn’t been repaired since before the cars replaced the horses. She was lucky to be alive.
She waited until she felt capable of speech. Then she straightened her shoulders and extended her hand to him. He enclosed it with a warm grip that seemed to impart much-needed strength to her.
She felt an answering heat surge through her body that owed nothing to the car’s efficient heater. She smiled up at him. “You saved my life, I’m pretty sure. Thanks. My name’s Ginnie. Oh, I guess as the landlord, you knew my name already.”
She looked at him expectantly. He stared back. She could almost hear the click as her gaze locked with his. The spark of interest in his eyes warmed her. His grasp lingered too long.
She tilted her head, fascinated and feeling more than a little giddy. All the stress, she told herself. “You know…there’s an old Chinese proverb that says if you save a life, you’re linked to it forever.”
Harry stared at Ginnie. Linked to her life forever? Her direct gaze distracted him. What was she talking about, linked to her? Her tilted head gave her a severely flirtatious look, especially with her reddish-brown curls sticking wetly to her too-thin sweater. He glanced down her body, just long enough to verify her seductive shape. One of her shoes had come off.
Her hazel eyes glinted with humor.
She’d been joking about the linked-to-her-forever comment, of course.
He’d like to be linked to her, he suddenly realized with a surge of heat. Just not forever, and certainly not just by the hand.
He withdrew his hand, the air in the car chilly compared to her warm palm. “You’re welcome.” For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what to make of her. Or what to say. Unusual. She was a ditz, risking them both the way she had. She was also cute, distractingly so, actually, and he didn’t need that particular complication.
He glanced at her body, just to check.
She had “complication” written all over her.
“I believe my link with you ends…” He checked his platinum Rolex, waterproof thank God, “…right about now. Glad to have met you, Ginnie. Where can I drop you off? Do you want me to call someone for you?” Harry reached for his cell phone.
He almost made it. Her feather-light touch stopped him. “I don’t have anyone. No money. Nothing valuable except my puppets. And there’s an ex-fiancé who’s probably on his way back to stalk me some more since the rain let up. He was stomping around on my roof. I think he was trying to scare me.”
The protectiveness and anger that flashed through him took him by surprise. Someone was stalking her? Unacceptable.
He stared at her, having trouble imagining her scared. She’d handled her home falling in pretty well, all things considered.
“There has to be someone. Everyone has someone.” Except him, but she didn’t need to know that. His solitude was by choice, and he certainly had the means to take care of himself. “Look, I have to drop you somewhere.”
“I heard Portland is a pretty good city for homeless people. Soup lines and shelters.” Ginnie smiled, an uncertain quirk of the lips. Her eyes sparkled. It had better not be tears.
She spoke of the city as if she was new to it. Maybe she truly didn’t have anyone.
His need to return to his isolation tugged at him. But he couldn’t move. Harry felt a stab of lust at the way her sweater tightened over her chest. It didn’t, however, keep him from noticing the unnatural brightness in her eyes, or the tremor in her voice. Or the way she leaned a little too heavily on her armrest. “I just don’t want to abandon my gear. The puppets,” she clarified in a pained, soft voice.
His heart thudded once, hard. She looked so hot, and so lost. And there was a stalker after her too? He glanced past her, at the house. The rental was demolished. Had it hurt her when it came down? He spoke gently. “Were you injured?”
She looked down for a few long moments, as if considering her physical state for the first time. She kicked off her remaining shoe. When she met his gaze again, her eyes showed no trace of tears.
“My knee’s weird.” He watched her bend her right leg. She flinched, then laughed, bewildered. “I don’t remember hurting it. I remember my arm being trapped, though. And then you slapping me.”
“I didn’t slap you. Well, okay, I did, but—”
“Slapped me awake. Lifted that beam like Superman. Saved my life.” She looked at him.
“
I’m not Superman.” Harry wasn’t at all comfortable with the way she was looking at him. “If you’re feeling better now…”
“I think I might be in shock. Look.” She lifted her arm, pulled back her sleeve to reveal an ugly red weal seeping droplets of blood. He could see the flesh around it darkening. She would have a hell of a bruise. Her fingers trembled slightly, as if she were cold.
Or in shock.
“I should take you to a hospital.”
“All I need’s some antibiotic ointment and a bandage.” She looked at him hopefully.
“I have some in my upstairs bathroom at home. I’ll have to check, but it’s been awhile since—” He cut himself off. He would accomplish nothing by telling her his life story. Or by describing the layout of his house. Or by taking her home. What the hell was he thinking?
Directing a pointed look at her, he asked, “Seriously. Is there someone I can call? I’ll be happy to phone your family. I can take you to them.”
She just looked at him with a strange, sad smile.
“A friend? A colleague?”
“There’s no one local. I know the telephone numbers to literally no one here. I just got a job a few days ago. I only moved from California last month. Well, there’s the property manager who rented me that house. But I don’t really want to talk to her right now.”
Harry gazed at the ruins of the house. “Can’t say I blame you.” The reminder of the irresponsible property manager he’d fired stirred feelings of guilt. He should’ve kept a better eye on the company. He’d spent too much time up there in that catbird seat. Too much time alone and aloof.
When he didn’t say anything else, she seemed to draw herself inward, contracting. The evidence of a protective shell surrounding such a forthright woman piqued his interest. She was a complex one, all right. And really cute. And no boyfriend. Not that it was relevant, of course.
She scooped up her single shoe. “If you don’t want to help me, I’ll manage.” She grabbed at the edge of the seat, as if lightheaded. “Whoa. Sparkles.”
He had a vivid mental image of her getting out of his car only to tumble right back down onto the sidewalk in a faint. Breaking her neck. Suing him. She might already have grounds for a lawsuit. He’d have to consult his legal department. He could afford it, of course, but didn’t enjoy being sued.
He really wouldn’t enjoy watching this woman crack her silly head open. With a curse, he revved the engine and whipped the steering wheel to the left in a tight and illegal U-turn. “My house is nearby. I’ll patch you up, then we’ll figure out where you’ll stay, and it won’t be with me.”
“My puppets!” Her hand clutched glass. “We can’t leave them there!”
“I’ll use the truck to pick them up. That wood trunk will fit on my porch. As I said, my house is nearby.”
“My hero,” Ginnie told him while still clutching her shoe. He could hear the smile in her voice.
He snorted his exasperation. She’d manipulated him as neatly as any scheming woman. She started by squeezing his nuts in her basement! And now this latest display of getting him to do what she wanted. He was beginning to remember why he’d chosen to remain alone and aloof.
At least her dangerous hands were occupied, now.
She sat as still and obedient as a schoolgirl.
He remembered how warm and right her body had felt in his arms.
Harry felt something in him loosen, even as new dread and misgivings raced up and down his spine, settling in his stomach. What was he doing, taking her home with him? For more than a year, his humble home’s secret location had kept him out of the prying public eye. He was bringing her to his only unviolated shield against the greedy world, and he was doing it because she’d played him like one of her puppets.
As soon as he patched her up, he was tossing her out on her dirt-streaked butt.
Her handsome rescuer helped her inside only to push her unceremoniously onto a couch. The moment her grimy hands touched the whisper-soft material covering it, she froze.
As a connoisseur of material, from the rarest European velvet stage curtains to regional tailored silks from India to clothe her marionettes, she knew shoddy from fine. The couch she sat on was the finest. Expensive. And cream-colored?
Too late. She brushed at dirt and blood streaks surreptitiously.
“Don’t bother.” Her landlord circled the metal-studded dark leather recliner diagonal from her, his eyes taking in every movement she made. “Lie back. Relax.” He looked anything but relaxed himself.
She certainly wasn’t going to just lie back and relax. She scrubbed with an edge stretched from her still-damp sweater. “Blood stains are tough to get out.”
“Forget it. And stay there while I get the bandages.”
“If I’m obedient, do I get a doggie biscuit?” She looked up at him with all the charm she could muster. After all, her little injuries were in his hands. He was so cute, the way his brows knit together, half in puzzlement and half in exasperation.
No sense of humor.
She still liked him. After all, the first thing he’d done when they pulled into the impressively large Craftsman bungalow’s two-car garage was kill the Aston’s engine, instruct her not to move and immediately jump into a beat-up old truck to fetch her huge trunk full of puppets and equipment.
He was pretty bossy. A take-charge man, the very worst kind. Too bad he looked so incredible.
She looked instead at the ornate, leaded-glass front door, taking comfort that the trunk was sitting just on the other side, safe from the rain on the enormous wraparound porch. The man had good taste in houses. He had his priorities right. In fact, she liked his honest, gruff demeanor far better than Rick’s belligerent mannerisms. And far better than her mother’s sly machinations.
She shuddered, the old ache still big enough to seize her heart and squeeze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But his penetrating gaze made her feel oddly naked. So did his thoughtfulness. She struggled against believing it, but found herself responding to that masculine tone of caring.
She resisted, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”
She waited, then raised her eyebrows at his silence.
“You can call me Harry.” Then he was moving, disappearing up the stairs.
Ginnie finally leaned back into the sofa with a sigh.
Her gaze fell on the high ceiling, picture moldings bisecting the ivory color of the higher, curved section of wall and ceiling from the matte light moss of the lower living room walls. A lovely polished mahogany wood fireplace matched the original-looking woodwork and the heavy front door. Arched doorways and gleaming hardwood floors gave the large room an airy feel, warmed by new and antique furniture and area rugs in different, eye-grabbing textures and patterns. Even the doorknobs, Ginnie noticed, were made of the same original crystal as her rental’s had been, only his weren’t yellowed and chipped. And his leaded glass windows on the front of the house seemed in new condition as well, and perfectly in keeping with the architecture.
The only jarring note was one of the pictures on the wall. The gilt frame was elaborate, but the picture itself seemed oddly modern compared to the rest in the room.
Ginnie shrugged, then winced. Her scrape stung, as if to remind her not to get too comfortable.
What was she going to do now?
She’d flirted with Harry, finagled her way into his house. She knew herself well enough to know she was avoiding thinking about her situation, but it was time to start. If only he wasn’t so deliciously distracting. Sure, she was a woman in need, and he was her rescuer, but he clearly didn’t want her in his house. Or his life.
Despite what her libido was saying, she knew he probably wasn’t any better than Rick.
A sudden, overwhelming desire to leave swept through her. So what if she had nowhere to go, nobody she wanted to call. She would take care of herself. Hadn’t she always, in all the way
s that counted?
She hissed with pain as she pushed off the couch, her bad leg almost buckling beneath her. She tested it; it held.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Her rescuer held the bandages and antibiotic ointment aimed at her as if they were a pair of pistols. His irritated frown seemed almost menacing.
“I, ah, just remembered. My mother.”
“You just remembered your mother?” His expression turned quizzical.
“I can call her. She’ll help me.”
Constance would too—after a few hours, or more likely days, of I-told-you-so, scorn and an enormous serving of guilt. Psychological poisoning was her specialty.
Ginnie trembled, exhaustion and dismay combining to make her feel slightly nauseated. Her mother, with her overly sweet advice and her tough-love insults, carved a little bit off Ginnie’s soul every time they spoke. Ginnie knew the woman couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault life had dealt her so many disappointments.
Ginnie just wished she didn’t feel like one of them.
“I can call her,” she repeated.
She could feel Harry’s intent gaze on her.
“What is it?” His voice had reverted to the low, molasses-coated tone that played so much havoc with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “You look…pale.”
“I look atrocious.” Why did he have to sound so concerned? It made her feel uncomfortable. Out of control. Nothing worse than feeling out of control.
He was too sexy for her own good, damn it.
Unlike her, with her distinctly unsexy skin itching from all the drying mud and insulation fibers from her basement. She had to look ragged as an unfinished marionette. Harry, on the other hand, looked strategically rumpled, as if he’d just stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for luxury vacation homes. It wasn’t fair.
“It was when you mentioned your mother.” His dark blue eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to call her? Why.”
A statement, not a question.
All her senses came alert. Harry was probing, looking for her weaknesses. Like Rick. Maybe.
Hands On Page 2
