“Oh, good. I’d hate to be out somewhere and not know the chemical symbol for rhodium.”
“Rh,” Sam said, using a small pair of scissors to snip through layers of wet plastic.
Lucy smiled. “How did you know that?”
“It’s located on your left breast.” Sam tossed the discarded plastic tape to the floor and examined the splint. “If you feel up to it, I’ll bring you downstairs for a change of scenery. We’ve got a big sofa, a flat-panel TV, and Renfield to keep you company.”
As she watched the daylight playing over his hair, Lucy was unnerved by the feeling that had swept over her, something beyond gratitude or mere physical attraction. Her pulse jumped in several places at once, and she found herself wanting, needing, impossible things.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.”
“No trouble.”
Slowly Lucy reached for his head, letting her fingers delve into the satisfying heavy locks of his hair. It felt unspeakably good to touch him. She wanted to explore him, learn every texture of him.
She thought that Sam would object. Instead he went still, his head bent. Stroking her way down to the solid nape of his neck, she heard his breath fracture.
“It is trouble,” Lucy said gently. “Isn’t it?”
Sam looked up at her then, his lashes half lowered over unearthly blue, his features taut. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was suspended in their shared gaze, between them, filling their lungs with every breath.
Definitely trouble. The kind that had nothing to do with splints or bandages or sickroom care.
Sam shook his head as if to clear it, and reached for the covers. “I’ll let you rest for a few minutes, while I—”
In a headlong moment, Lucy curled her arm around his neck and brought her mouth to his. It was crazy, reckless, and she didn’t care. Sam took all of a half second to respond, his mouth fastening to hers, a faint groan coming from his throat.
He had kissed her before, but this was something different. This was a waking dream of kissing, a feeling of tumbling with nothing to catch her. Her eyes closed against the view through the windows, the blue ocean, the white sun. Sam’s arms went around her back, supporting her, while his lips caught hers at varying angles and absorbed the small sounds that climbed in her throat. She went weak, molding to his chest, unable to get close enough. Dragging his mouth from hers, Sam kissed her neck, using his tongue and the edges of his teeth as he worked his way to her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her skin. “Lucy, I’m not—”
She searched blindly for his mouth, rubbing her parted lips across his shaven jaw until Sam shuddered and kissed her again. His mouth became roughly coaxing, searching deeper until Lucy gripped the back of his shirt in shaking handfuls.
One of his hands pushed beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers cool and textured against the burning skin of her side. Her breasts ached beneath the loose garment, the tips tightening in anticipation of his touch. She groped for his hand, urging it upward. “Please—”
“No. God, Lucy—” He broke off with a quiet curse and tugged the shirt back into place. Forcing himself to let go of her, he scrubbed both his hands over his face as if awakening from a deep sleep. As Lucy reached for him again, he caught her wrists reflexively and kept them manacled in his hands.
Sam kept his face averted, his throat rippling with hard swallows. “Do something,” he muttered. “Or I’ll…”
Lucy’s eyes went round as she realized he was fighting for control. “What … do you want me to do?”
When Sam could bring himself to answer, a wry note had entered his voice. “Some distraction would be nice.”
Lucy looked down at the periodic table that covered the front of her shirt. “Where is glass?” she asked, trying to read the chemical elements upside down.
“Not on the periodic table. Glass is a compound. It’s mostly silica, which is … crap, I can’t think straight. It’s SiO2. Here…” He touched the Si, which happened to be located high on the right side of her chest. “And here.” The pad of his thumb brushed the O on her left side, close to the tip of her breast.
“Glass also has sodium carbonate,” she said.
“I think that’s…” Sam paused, struggling to concentrate. “… Na2CO3.” He studied the front of the shirt and shook his head. “I can’t show you sodium carbonate. Dangerous territory.”
“What about calcium oxide?”
His gaze scanned the shirt until he found it. He shook his head. “I’d have you on your back in about five seconds.”
They both started at the harsh metallic ring of the doorbell, a Victorian hand-turn style.
Sam left the bed with a groan, moving slowly. “When I said I wasn’t going to make any moves on you—” He opened the door and stood at the threshold, pulling in a couple of deep breaths. “I was planning for it to be a reciprocal arrangement. From now on, hands off. Got it?”
“Yes, but how are you going to take care of me if—”
“Not my hands,” Sam said. “Yours.”
* * *
The doorbell rang a couple more times while Sam made his way downstairs. Heat and arousal played all through him, making it impossible to think straight. He wanted Lucy, wanted to take her slowly and stare into her eyes as he moved inside her, and make it last for hours.
By the time Sam reached the front door, his temperature had cooled sufficiently to allow for clear thinking. He was confronted by his brother Alex, who looked more irate and underfed than usual, his frame rawboned beneath loose-fitting clothes. Clearly Alex was not blossoming in the aftermath of divorce.
“Why do you have the fucking doors locked?” Alex demanded.
“Hey, Al,” Sam said curtly, “it’s good to see you too. Where’s the key I gave you?”
“It’s on my other key chain. You knew I was coming over this morning—if you want free work done on your house, the least you can do is leave the door unlocked.”
“I’ve had a couple other things on my mind besides waiting for you to show up.”
Alex brushed by him, carrying a vintage metal toolbox. As usual, he headed straight for the kitchen, where he would pour himself a scalding cup of black coffee, down it without ceremony, and go to whatever part of the house he happened to be working on. So far he had refused to take any money for his labors, despite the fact that he could have gotten a fortune doing the same work for someone else. Alex was a developer, but he had started as a carpenter, and the quality of his craftsmanship was impeccable.
Alex had spent hours on the house, skinning walls, repairing cracks in plaster, restoring wood molding, hardware, flooring. Sometimes he redid work that Mark or Sam had already finished, because no one could ever match his exacting standards. Exactly why Alex was so willing to expend so much of his energy on the house was something of a mystery to the other Nolans.
“I think it’s his idea of a relaxing hobby,” Mark had said.
“I’m all for it,” Sam had replied, “if only because he doesn’t drink while he works. This house may be the only thing keeping his liver from turning into Jell-O.”
Now, as he watched his younger brother cross through the hallway, Sam thought that the signs of stress and drinking were catching up with him. Alex’s ex-wife, Darcy, had never been what anyone would call a nurturing kind of woman, but at least she’d gotten him to take her out to eat a few nights a week. Sam wondered when Alex had last eaten a full meal.
“Al, why don’t you let me fry you a couple of eggs before you start working?”
“Not hungry. Just want coffee.”
“Okay.” Sam followed him. “By the way … I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the noise level down today. I’ve got a friend staying here, and she needs rest.”
“Tell her to take her hangover somewhere else. I have some trim work to do.”
“Do it later,” Sam said. “And it’s not a hangover. She was in an accident yesterday.”
r /> Before Alex could reply, the doorbell rang again.
“That’s probably one of her friends,” Sam muttered. “Try not to be a dick, Alex.”
Alex shot him a speaking glance and headed to the kitchen.
Shaking his head, Sam returned to the front door. The visitor turned out to be a curvy little blonde dressed in capris and flats, and a sleeveless button-down shirt knotted at the waist. With her buxom build, her big blue eyes, and her chin-length golden curls, she looked like an old-fashioned movie starlet, or maybe a Busby Berkeley showgirl.
“I’m Zoë Hoffman,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought some of Lucy’s things. Is it an okay time to visit? I could come back later—”
“Now’s a great time.” Sam smiled at her. “Come on in.”
Zoë carried a huge pan of muffins that sent out a warm sugared fragrance. As she came inside, she tripped over the threshold and Sam automatically reached out to steady her.
“I’m a klutz,” she announced cheerfully, a buttermilk-blond curl dangling over one eye.
“Thank God you didn’t lose your balance completely,” Sam said. “I’d hate to have to choose between saving you or the muffins.”
She handed him the muffin pan and followed him to the kitchen. “How is Lucy?”
“Better than I would have expected. She had a pretty good night, but she’s sore today. Still on pain meds.”
“You’re so nice to take care of her like this. Justine and I both appreciate it.”
Zoë carried her va-va-voom figure in an innately apologetic manner, shoulders down and slightly forward. She was perplexingly shy for a woman with such flagrant beauty at her disposal. Maybe that was the problem—Sam guessed that she’d had more than her share of heavy-handed overtures from the wrong kind of men.
They entered the spacious kitchen, with its enameled stove set in a cream-tiled alcove, glass-fronted cabinets, and black walnut flooring. Zoë’s marveling gaze swept from the high trussed ceilings to the huge soapstone farmhouse sink. But her eyes widened and her expression went blank as Alex turned from the coffeemaker to face them. Sam wondered what she would make of his brother, who resembled Satan with a hangover.
“Hello,” Zoë said in a subdued voice after Sam had introduced them. Alex responded with a surly nod. Neither of them made a move to shake hands. Zoë turned to Sam. “Do you happen to have a cake plate I could set these muffins on?”
“It’s in one of those cabinets near the Sub-Zero. Alex, would you help her out while I go upstairs to get Lucy?” Sam glanced at Zoë. “I’ll find out if she wants to sit in the living room down here, or visit with you upstairs.”
“Of course,” Zoë said, and went to the cabinets.
Alex strode to the doorway just as Sam reached it. He lowered his voice. “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to spend chitchatting with Betty Boop.”
From the way Zoë’s shoulders stiffened, Sam saw that she’d overheard the remark. “Al,” he said softly, “just help her find the damn plate.”
* * *
Zoë found the glass-domed plate in one of the cabinets, but it was too high for her to reach. She contemplated it with a frown, pushing back the curl that insisted on hanging over one eye. She was aware of Alex Nolan approaching her from behind, and a hot-and-cold chill went down her spine. “It’s up there,” she said, moving to the side.
He retrieved it easily, and set the plate and dome on the granite countertop. He was tall but rawboned, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. The suggestion of cruelty on his face did nothing to detract from his profligate handsomeness. Or maybe it wasn’t cruelty, but bitterness. It was a face that many women would find attractive, but it made Zoë nervous.
Of course, most men made her nervous.
Zoë thought that with the task done, Alex would leave the kitchen. She certainly hoped he would. Instead he stayed there with one hand braced on the countertop, his expensive watch gleaming in the light from the multipaned windows.
Trying to ignore him, Zoë set the glass plate beside the muffin pan. Carefully she extracted each muffin and set it on the plate. The scent of hot berries, white sugar, buttery streusel, rose in a melting-sweet updraft. She heard Alex draw in a deep breath, and another.
Darting a cautious glance at him, she noticed the dark half-moon indentations beneath a pair of vivid blue-green eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in months. “You can go now,” Zoë said. “You don’t have to stay and chitchat.”
Alex didn’t bother to apologize for his earlier rudeness. “What did you put in those?” He sounded accusatory, suspicious.
Zoë was so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “Blueberries. Help yourself, if you’d like one.”
He shook his head and reached for his coffee.
She couldn’t help but notice the tremor in his hand, the dark brew shivering in the porcelain cup. Instantly Zoë lowered her gaze. What would cause a man’s hand to shake like that? A nervous condition? Alcohol abuse? Somehow the sign of weakness in such a physically imposing person was infinitely more affecting than it would have been in someone of smaller stature.
Despite his irritable behavior, Zoë’s compassionate nature asserted itself. She had never been able to pass by a crying child, a hurt animal, a person who looked lonely or hungry, without trying to do something about it. Particularly a hungry person, because if there was one thing Zoë liked better than anything in the world, it was feeding people. She loved the obvious pleasure that people took in tasting something delicious, something carefully made and nourishing.
Wordlessly Zoë set a muffin on Alex’s saucer while the cup was still in his hand. She didn’t look at him, only continued to arrange the plate. Although it seemed very likely that he would throw the offering at her, or say something derogatory, he was silent.
Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw him pick up the muffin.
He left with a gruff murmur that she gathered was meant to be a good-bye.
* * *
Alex went out to the front porch, taking care to leave the front door unlocked. The muffin was cradled in his hand, the unbleached parchment liner slick with the residue of butter, the dome cobblestoned with streusel.
He sat on a cushioned wicker chair, hunching over the food as if someone were likely to rush forward and snatch it from him.
Lately he’d had a tough time eating. No appetite, no ability to be tempted, and when he did manage to take a bite and chew something, his throat clenched until it was difficult to swallow. He was always cold, desperate for the temporary heat of liquor, always needing more than his body would tolerate. Now that the divorce had gone through, there were plenty of women offering any kind of consolation he might want, and he couldn’t work up any interest in them.
He thought of the little blonde in the kitchen, almost comically beautiful, with her big eyes and perfect bow-shaped mouth … and beneath the tidily buttoned clothes, the voluptuous curves that approximated an amusement park ride. Not at all his taste.
As soon as he took a bite of the muffin, a saliva-spiking mixture of tartness and sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. The texture of it was dense and yet cakelike. He consumed it slowly, his entire being absorbed in the experience. It was the first time he’d been able to taste something, really experience a flavor, in months.
He finished it bite by disciplined bite, while a sense of relief flowed through him. The grooves of tension on his face eased. He would swear on his life that Zoë had put something in the muffins, something illegal, and he didn’t give a damn. It gave him a clean, good feeling … a feeling of sinking into a warm bath after a raw day. His hands had stopped shaking.
He sat still for a minute, testing the sensation, sensing that it would hold at least for a little while. Heading back into the house, he picked up his toolbox and slunk up the stairs toward the attic with catlike quietness. He was intent on keeping the good feeling, determined not to let anyone or anything interfere with it.
On
the way up he passed by Sam, who was carrying a slender young brunette with big green eyes. She was swathed in a robe, one of her legs wrapped in a bulky splint. “Alex,” Sam said without stopping, “this is Lucy.”
“Hi,” Alex muttered, also not stopping, and he continued to the third-floor attic.
* * *
“Are you okay here?” Zoë asked Lucy, after Sam had left them alone to talk.
Lucy smiled. “I really am. As you can see…” She gestured to the gargantuan green velvet sofa, ice packs that Sam had settled around her leg, the cream-colored throw blanket tucked at her sides, and the tumbler of water he had set beside her. “I’m being very well taken care of.”
“Sam seems nice,” Zoë said, her blue eyes twinkling. “As nice as Justine said. I think he likes you.”
“Sam likes women,” Lucy replied wryly. “And yes, he’s a great guy.” She paused before adding diffidently, “You should go out with him.”
“Me?” Zoë shook her head and gave her a quizzical glance. “There’s something going on between you two.”
“There’s not. There won’t be. Sam’s very honest, Zoë, and he’s made it clear that he will never make a permanent commitment to a woman. And although it’s tempting to just let go and have fun with him…” Lucy hesitated and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s the worst kind of heartbreaker, Zoë. The kind that’s so appealing, you try to convince yourself that you could change him. And after everything I’ve been through … I’m not strong enough to be hurt again quite so soon.”
“I understand.” Zoë’s smile was warm and compassionate. “I think it’s very wise of you, Lucy. Sometimes giving up something you want is the very kindest thing you can do for yourself.”
Fifteen
After Zoë’s visit, Lucy relaxed on the sofa with her cell phone and an electronic reading tablet. Sam had packed fresh ice bags around her leg and brought her a tumbler of cold water before heading outside to confer with his vineyard crew. They were busy removing leaves to expose developing grape clusters to the sun, and hand-tilling the ground with spades.