She made her voice cool. “It doesn’t matter. Where’s your phone?” But when she took her first step toward what appeared to be a kitchen, her knee buckled. She caught herself with a quick palm to the edge of the couch.
Harry saw and shook his head even as he closed the distance. She felt a strong arm encircle her waist and help her back onto the couch.
He sat at her side, not looking at her. “You don’t have to answer.”
His profile was dominated by his wide lips, turned down slightly in the corner, as if with cruelty. Or sadness.
She found herself wanting to answer him. “My mother. We never got along.” Ginnie put her teeth together against telling him more.
It would take too long to explain how she never felt good enough for her mother, a woman to whom the word “motherly” was a pejorative. The woman was colder and more brittle than ever now that she’d husband-hunted the rich Vernon Greenwalt.
One thing probably summed it up, though. “When I left my ex—the stalker one—my mom took his side.” Ginnie shrugged, made her voice light. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
Ginnie heard the conviction in his voice. She wondered at it.
He unscrewed the top off the antibiotic ointment with a sharp twist. “Someone you counted on let you down. Someone who shouldn’t have.” His brows knit together, and his mouth was a hard slash. She stared at him. If her little summary caused such a response, how would Harry react if she told him what Rick had done to her?
“You talk about it as if you have some experience there,” she said, watching him carefully.
His control was superb. Not even a twitch. He smoothly changed the subject. “So, what brings you to Oregon?” But at the same time he grasped her arm tightly, holding it immobile while he applied the ointment. Though he gripped her firmly, his fingers where he touched her wound were gentle.
She felt trapped. Her impulse was to flee, and yet his delicate, sure touch made her want to arch her body toward him. She itched to bare more skin for him to heal.
Disconcerting.
Yanking her arm back, readying herself to make her escape, she failed to notice Harry was beginning to rise from the sofa himself. He held her a beat too long. Off balance, he fell on top of her.
Fortunately, his quick reflexes prevented him from crushing her.
He held himself just above her with his arms, as if doing a strange sofa-pushup. His warm breath tickled her face. Like in her basement.
His chest just touched hers. The space between them suddenly felt electrified. Ginnie forgot all about her superficial wounds as her hand rose to his shoulders, his neck, his face, as if the part of her body had a mind of its own. It wasn’t the only part. She arched into him, hissing with pleasure as her nipples rubbed against his broad chest.
She fingered his stubble. Fascinated with the way his quickening delicious breath and his warmth made her feel, she stroked his rough skin.
His eyes closed, then opened in a long blink.
Then he kissed her.
Chapter Two
His kiss claimed her in a way that drove all other thoughts from her mind. Sensual lips teased her own, then firmly parted them. It felt powerful, yet skillful, with gentle rhythmic moves that made her want to give in to any desire he might have.
He bent his arms, which made his body, so large and strong, close the distance between them. The glide of his clothes against hers, his scent, his touch all conspired to excite her. He tasted of good coffee plus his own unique flavor, making her hungry for more.
She let her arms encircle his neck, encouraging him. Her body strained to be closer to his, to feel the full length of his pressed against the full length of hers. Her fingertips dug into his back with an urgency that surprised her.
He flinched, letting his breath out in a quick hiss. “Easy, there.”
She snatched her hands back. “Sorry.” Her face heated with something less enjoyable than lust. “Muscular fingers.”
He grinned, and she lost her sense of embarrassment in marveling at the way the smile transformed his face. It was those even white teeth, the sexy five o’clock shadow, the sparkling dark blue eyes and that mischievous expression.
She had the impression he rarely smiled.
“That sounds scary…and maybe also a bit promising,” he said, kissing her fingers. “But the problem isn’t that.” She felt distinctly let down when he moved away, pushing himself to a standing position once more. He turned.
Her gaze went to the spot of wetness halfway down his sweater, above his shoulder blade. The material’s burgundy color had camouflaged the patch of blood.
“You’re bleeding!” She struggled to sit up.
He pushed her back into the sofa. “Didn’t I tell you to take it easy?” he chastised. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“You should’ve said something.”
His response was a quick glance at her body and an ironically raised eyebrow.
She blushed, but used her recalcitrant-child voice on him. “You march upstairs and bring back some bandages. I’ll patch it up, if it’s patchable.”
“You’re kind of pushy, for an invalid.”
“Never mind, then. I’ll go get it.”
“A control freak, maybe.” He’d said it gently. But at her sharp inhale, he looked curiously at her. “Control enthusiast, then? No? Hey. Just teasing.”
“No. It’s okay. Control freak is just something my ex used to call me.”
“He did, huh?” Harry took a step from her. She thought he wasn’t aware of it—or of the impersonal mask that replaced his smile.
She missed his smile.
But Ginnie simply shrugged. “I have this bizarre belief that being in charge of your own life, being in control, is an admirable and necessary path to happiness. To self-knowledge.” She was psycho-babbling. Harry would tune her out any moment.
She peeked at him. He shook his head, but looked thoughtful.
Encouraged, she continued. “Rick said he didn’t agree with me either. But what he really meant was he wanted to be in control of me.” Ginnie didn’t tell Harry that she still missed Rick, despite his controlling ways. Or, at least, she missed the security of having someone take care of her, ensure she wouldn’t end up destitute, the way her mother always predicted she would. It was so much easier to have one’s life laid out rather than risking everything by striking off on one’s own.
But of course, Rick had gone too far.
And she’d been doing fairly well on her own. At least until her house collapsed.
“I came to Oregon to live in a cute little bungalow and join the puppet team at Helping Hand Theatre, but the group’s grant got pulled. And you saw what happened to the bungalow. I loved that house. It had so much character. I’m sorry, I’m completely talking too much, aren’t I? I’ll shut up if you get bandages.”
Harry looked ill. “I’ll go get those bandages.” He turned and marched up the stairs, holding his shoulders more stiffly than an injury would account for.
Ginnie watched him go, her mouth hanging open at his rudeness. She closed her mouth, then her eyes. “A deal’s a deal,” she muttered and sealed her lips over further words.
Harry closed the bathroom’s mirrored cabinet door and stared at his face framed by tastefully aged, antique gold-leaf edging. His complexion looked aged too, just not as tastefully. More pale than usual, deeper bags under his eyes than usual, darker scruff than usual, even illuminated by the flattering period-accurate yellow-frosted bathroom lights. Such touches abounded in his house, and why not? He had both money and an appreciation for fine things.
No one would guess he’d bypassed college, preferring to educate himself in the building trades while making the initial investments that would eventually turn into a multi-million-dollar real estate development firm.
Oh yes, he was rich. His lip curled, and so did the man’s in the mirror. Now he looked dangerous and a little cruel. It looked like
the expression in his photo Newsweek ran, minus the beard. Another few days would give him the beard back, if he wanted.
He’d been smart and he’d worked hard. He’d been generous. He’d made bequests to countless places. Including Helping Hands Theatre.
All his do-gooding had counted for squat when Jaye Rae tried to ruin him.
His beautiful ex-fiancée had nearly succeeded.
In one way, she had succeeded. She’d driven him into a solitary life.
To his surprise, he found seclusion suited him. He liked his old-fashioned house. It felt comfortable, like well-worn shoes. It felt safe.
Aside from the trips to his downtown office building to meet with the board members or more important clients, or to have long business lunches with Todd, his right-hand man, he lived a quiet life by choice.
Quiet, that was, until now.
A sound emerged from his mouth, part laughter, part groan. Ginnie kissed as if he were giving her much-needed oxygen: wanting it, demanding it, pulling at him until he’d just about ripped their clothes off and had at that tempting body of hers. What was it about her that made his brain fall out his ear? Her sensual abandon? Her big, sincere hazel eyes? That long, unruly hair he’d be willing to bet had never seen a hint of hairspray?
She had no idea she was kissing “Hairy Bear” Sharpe, tycoon and noted philanthropist. Or, did she? She didn’t seem to know it was his Sharpe Idea Foundation that had yanked donations from all his former recipients—ones like Helping Hand Theatre.
Suspicion, second nature to him by now, flamed anew. Did Ginnie know? It seemed unlikely, but he’d been fooled before. She’d picked the wrong millionaire, if it was her strategy to tug on golden heartstrings.
One way to tell.
As he descended, he heard Ginnie’s voice. She was on his phone!
Harry grimaced. She’d told him there was no one she wanted to call. He was a little surprised at the way his heart plunged with disappointment. A woman being deceiving and sneaky was no more than expected, so why did he feel so let down?
He strode forward. “Okay, game’s up, get the hell off my phone and get out.”
Ginnie was listening intently and writing something down.
“Uh-huh. Five-four-two-four. Thank you very—hey!”
Harry ripped the phone from her grasp and placed into the receiver. “Out.”
Either she was an accomplished actress, or she was totally astonished. “What on earth? I didn’t think you’d mind if I used your phone to call information.”
“Information?” Harry watched her closely.
“Yes. To get the number for my property manager. She has my security deposit. They’d better give me my security deposit back. I’m going to need it. And hopefully they’ll help me get my things out. Do you have a problem with that?” Ginnie folded her arms and waited.
It could be verified. Harry swallowed. He’d made a mistake. The second in as many years, though by no means as severe as the first. Still, he’d screwed up. Ginnie certainly deserved her money back, and any help the company could provide. He’d see to it she got it, without blowing his own cover. “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood something. Feel free to use the phone as much as you like.”
“I’m done.”
Harry shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “So. You’re trying to get hold of your property manager?”
Ginnie nodded.
The silence stretched. “Please.” He gestured to the phone. When she didn’t immediately reach for it, he handed it to her. “Can I get you some water? Iced tea. Hot tea? Or red wine. I have an extraordinary Cab I’ve been wanting to open.” Harry blinked at Ginnie’s small smile. It made her beautiful.
He backed away. “Cabernet,” he clarified.
“Nothing right now.”
He would bring her some hot tea, or maybe soup. She was probably cold and damp, the way her long curls still clung to her shirt, which in turned clung to her skin so that he could see the outline of her bra. And her nipples. He’d give her something warm.
He’d like to warm her with a hug. A naked hug. He hung between her and his kitchen, oddly indecisive.
She dialed and spoke briefly. He gathered Ginnie had trouble reaching the property manager, which was no surprise since he’d fired the woman. Apparently the company’s party line was that she was taking a long vacation. However, the company was sending over an assistant immediately. Probably Lara, the one who’d tipped off Todd.
Harry nodded, approving, until Ginnie spoke to him. “I need your address.”
His mind whirled. Reveal his address and let Ginnie tell Lara too? But Lara didn’t need to know who he was either. Decided, he told her the address.
She hung up the phone. Still with that smile, she said, “Take off your sweater. Let’s go back to the sofa.”
Harry forgot about the hot tea and soup.
Her voice was soft, almost seductive.
He grasped the bottom edge of his sweater in one hand, pulled it smoothly over his head in a single movement. The pain caught him by surprise.
He’d forgotten about his wound.
At his muttered oath, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. Sit.”
“Bow wow,” he replied sourly. But he handed her the bandages and went to the sofa. He’d possibly made the wound worse. It twinged. He felt warmth trickle.
Ginnie would take care of him. She’d touch him and make it better. Nurse Ginnie. A distracting heat shot through his body. He shifted to conceal his burgeoning erection.
He removed his undershirt. Flirting was one thing, but he wouldn’t get involved, of course. He was just being a Good Samaritan. An injured Good Samaritan. When she was done patching him up, he’d fob her off on the assistant to that irresponsible property manager. Then Ginnie’d be out of his house and out of his hair. Things could return to normal.
But as soon as her warm fingers touched him, his desire returned. How could her fingertips be so gentle, so knowing? If she knew who he was, she’d be less gentle. “I guess I owe you an apology.”
Her fingers stopped, then started moving again. “You saved my life, remember? I guess you’re entitled to be a little cranky. Hold still,” she admonished when Harry made a convulsive movement. Cranky?
“I think you’ll live,” she declared, patting his bandage.
Harry enjoyed the way she stilled when he pivoted to face her on the sofa, as if she were an animal scenting the presence of a predator. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“Are you going to do me now? The bandage,” she clarified, indicating the roll of gauze and tape with a grin. She tugged on the edge of the gauze to illustrate. Her eyes twinkled.
“Are you flirting with me, Ginnie?” He tried to sound disapproving, but failed miserably. He supposed the grin he felt spreading across his own face spoiled the effect.
She met his gaze boldly. “I suppose I am.”
Harry felt the connection between them solidify, a palpable and exhilarating sensation.
Whoa.
He stared at her, at her frank gaze, her alluring curves. Was she daring him?
Tempting.
He was balanced perfectly between devouring her whole and shoving her out the door. How did she do that? Manipulation, or natural allure? He was having trouble thinking, and that disturbed him to the point of falling back on his numbers.
Whenever he found himself upset or disgruntled, for any reason, he counted. Sometimes he added. Sometimes he did long division. Construction material measurement numbers, company bank account numbers, ledger numbers, it didn’t matter so long as it was just numbers marching through his head instead of whatever bothered him. Numbers didn’t change, unless he changed them. Numbers were reliable.
Unlike people.
He forced his hands to remain slow and methodical as he measured one length of gauze—eight inches of gauze, thirteen inches of tape—to wrap around Ginnie’s arm. He smoothed three lumps. He inhaled five times.
“You
’re good as new.” He cleared his throat. Twice. The way she was looking at him made his groin stir with pleasure.
“No, I’m really not,” Ginnie confessed. “I’m damaged and dirty and very, very bad.” Her gaze made him clench the seat cushion to either side of his legs to keep from taking her up on the challenge in her eyes.
A tattoo of knocks came from his front door.
He stood, both grateful for and furious at the distraction.
It was the property manager’s assistant. The young woman didn’t seem to recognize him, Harry saw with relief.
Ginnie welcomed her. “You must’ve absolutely raced across town! Thanks for showing up so quickly.”
“They paged me, and I was in the neighborhood. I’m Lara. Ms. Centa is away from the office. On business, she said, when I paged her.” Lara sounded skeptical. “Anyway. Your poor home! And poor you! We’ll get you sorted out.”
Lara’s long hair fell in exotic waves of a rich, dark auburn over proud shoulders and down her back. He noticed her perfect makeup, her tapered waist and tucked-and-belted striped shirt, and the fact that she had a perfect butt. An attractive young woman. But his was an impersonal observation, lacking heat.
He turned his attention to Ginnie. Heat hit him. Her pretty face had more color and an appealing hint of plumpness in all the right places: generously curved and parted lush lips, the dusky rose of her soft cheeks, the sweetly rounded chin. A curl of strawberry brown fell over her forehead. Her clothes were in charming disarray, and her hair untamed as it tumbled and twisted carelessly in gleaming red-brown locks around her neck and chest. She was light and rosy where Lara was dark and golden, and her uptilted breasts and curved hips seemed to call for his touch.
He felt jealous of Lara hugging Ginnie so casually.
He could see Ginnie’s bemusement as she returned the hug. “Wow, people are so friendly up here.” She proceeded to tell Lara the story of her rescue, puppets and all. Harry was absurdly gratified at the heroic role Ginnie gave him.
Until Lara spoke.
“How romantic!” Lara looked as if she wanted to hug Ginnie again. Then she saw Harry’s face. “Or maybe just lucky. Lucky someone was there at just the right time. Anyway.” She glanced from her to Harry, her eyes dancing with speculation and laughter. “Let me tell you the basic facts about how this will go forward. I’ll do my best to help out, take care of the paperwork and help you through this. It will be a little complicated, especially with Ms. Centa in hiding—I mean, away on business.” Lara made a face. “But the company wants to help you. I’ll dig up all your paperwork, help you get your deposit back plus a bit extra—a settlement, really, and it’s not ungenerous—and we’ll make your things as right as they can be as soon as possible. Here, let me share what I’ve got and show you what I’m planning to do.”
Hands On Page 3
