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Her Fifth Husband?
Dixie Browning
I didn't care how many sizzling fantasies the mysterious man on my doorstep sparked. Whatever Jake Smith was offering, I didn't need it, didn't want it–knew better than to even think about it! Besides, if there's one thing I, Sasha Combs Cassidy Boone Lasiter, have learned after four marriages, it's that no good comes from romantic entanglements.Still, ladies, it would be a shame to let this dark-haired hunk go to waste. There must be a woman out there–other than me, of course!–who'd appreciate Jake's chiseled physique…and mind-blowing bedroom skills. Just because the sight of the tall, tough P.I. holding a little baby melted my heart and brought out my maternal longings, didn't make him a candidate for husband number five…did it?



Jake Gave Her A Look That Defied Interpretation.
Placing baby, cradle and all on the coffee table, he turned to where she stood surrounded by an assortment of baby gear, plus her usual clutter.
Sasha forgot to breathe. Was it only her imagination that made her feel as if every cell in her body turned his way, like a sunflower following the sun?
All it took was the slightest encouragement and she was off on another fantasy, inventing a happy ending that wasn’t going to happen.
Jake placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her into his arms. With her face against his hard, warm chest, she inhaled the scent that was pure Jake Smith.
“Fair warning. I’m about to kiss you,” he said calmly.
“Go ahead,” she said in a voice only an octave or so higher than normal. “I dare you.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another scintillating month of passionate reads. Silhouette Desire has a fabulous lineup of books, beginning with Society-Page Seduction by Maureen Child, the newest title in DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS. You’ll love the surprises this dynamic family has in store for you…and each other. And welcome back New York Times bestselling author Joan Hohl, who returns to Desire with the long-awaited A Man Apart, the story of Mitch Grainger—a man we guarantee won’t be alone for long!
The wonderful Dixie Browning concludes her DIVAS WHO DISH series with the highly provocative Her Fifth Husband? (Don’t you want to know what happened to grooms one through four?) Cait London is back with another title in her HEARTBREAKERS series, with Total Package. The wonderful Anna DePalo gives us an alpha male to die for, in Under the Tycoon’s Protection. And finally, we’re proud to introduce author Juliet Burns as she makes her publishing debut with High-Stakes Passion.
Here’s hoping you enjoy all that Silhouette Desire has to offer you…this month and all the months to come!
Best,


Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire

Her Fifth Husband?
Dixie Browning


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

DIXIE BROWNING
has won numerous awards for both her paintings and her romances. A former newspaper columnist, she has written more than one hundred category romances. Browning is a native of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, an area that continues to provide endless inspiration.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven

One
Stealing a few moments from the job, Sasha lay back on the chaise longue, closed her eyes against the late-afternoon sun and savored the warm sea breeze that fluttered her georgette camisole. She might not have a regular salary, much less benefits, but this beat a desk in a cramped, windowless cubicle all to pieces.
The sound of distant traffic merged with the nearby sound of the surf to become a soothing lullaby. “Five minutes,” she murmured.
Five minutes and then she would jump up, finish checking off her list, think of anything she might have forgotten and then stop by another client’s new office complex to see how long before she could get started there.
As an interior designer, her bread and butter consisted of professional suites—usually law, real estate or medical. Occasionally she did between-season patch jobs for rentals in the various beach communities along the northern Outer Banks, but her real love was having a brand new McMansion to do from scratch. Any budgetary limits only stimulated her creativity.
She sighed in contentment. When the soft southeast breeze blew her hair across her face, she smoothed it back, still without opening her eyes. If she had the energy she would take off her shoes, but that would require sitting up and bending over to unfasten the ankle straps. She should have worn mules.
“Vanity, thy name is Sasha,” she murmured. The trouble with pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled shoes was that they were so darned flattering she couldn’t not wear them, even knowing she’d be climbing up and down all these wretched stairs.
She actually owned a few pairs of flats, though she seldom wore them. At home she went barefoot and wore shapeless tents, but anytime she went out in public she took pains to look her best in case she ran into a potential client. Her friends, knowing her background, called it the Cinderella syndrome.
Sasha had never denied it. Underneath the careful makeup, the streaky cinnamon-tea hair and the fashionable outfits bought at end-of-the-year sales—not to mention the jewelry she adored—Sasha Combs Cassidy Boone Lasiter was still plain old Sally June Parrish, oldest daughter of a dirt-poor tobacco farmer turned preacher.
At times like this, she almost wished she didn’t give a damn. She wondered if Cinderella’s feet had hurt in those miserable-looking glass slippers.
“Relax, feet,” she murmured drowsily. “Once we get home you can let it all hang out, I promise.”
The sun felt marvelous now that it had lost most of its midday heat. A natural redhead—sort of—Sasha freckled whether or not she wore foundation with a serious SPF.
One more minute, she promised herself. After that she would go back inside and finish her check-off list. The cleaning crew had come and gone last week, but the place still reeked of cigarette smoke. Not only that but one of the bedspreads was rumpled, as if whoever had made it up had been interrupted before they could finish the job. King-size beds probably required a team to do the job right.
Housekeeping, however, was not her responsibility. She had listed the items that needed replacing. Chair cushions, flatware and a few dishes that had probably been taken out on the beach and lost, one chair with a broken leg, a stained lampshade and two leather-topped bar stools that looked as if they’d been used as targets in a game of darts. Normally the owners would have handled it, but according to Katie McIver, who managed several cottages in the area, the owner of Driftwinds had called at the last minute and asked her to find someone else to bring the cottage up to standard for the upcoming season.
Sasha had worked with Katie before. This was a peanuts job, but small jobs lead to larger ones and she was in no position to turn down any commission, no matter how small. In the case of the Jamison cottage, if the owners wanted their investment to pay off, Katie or someone needed to screen their clientele, if that was legally possible. The last tenants had waxed surfboards in one of the showers, leaving an unholy mess for the poor cleaning crew.
Sasha massaged her temples, taking care not to involve her long, acrylic nails. The headache that had been threatening all day was getting closer to a reality. She’d counted on a few minutes of complete relaxation to take care of it, but so far it wasn’t working.
One more minute, she promised herself. After that she would go back inside and finish making the rounds. She’d already noticed what looked like a red-wine stain on one of the bedspreads that the cleaners had missed. People who had everything—people who could afford to rent one of these million-dollar-plus rentals—too often valued nothing.
Think peaceful thoughts, she willed silently. Think of bittersweet chocolate melting on your tongue. Alan Jackson singing softly in your ear. Nordstrom’s and a no-limit charge card.
Here she was in a beachfront cottage—if a six-bedroom, seven-bath house complete with two hot tubs and a swimming pool could be called a cottage—and her blasted sinuses refused to allow her to enjoy it.
She was still attempting to talk herself into relaxing before her headache got any worse when a shadow passed over her. Without opening her eyes, she frowned. A shadow of what? According to Katie, this entire row of cottages was empty until Memorial Day weekend.
Opening her eyes, she blinked against the late-afternoon sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not even a vapor trail. Yet even with her eyes closed, she could’ve sworn a shadow had just passed over her.
Probably a pelican, she thought, and relaxed again. Sasha hadn’t grown up in this part of the state, but she did know that long before the developers had taken possession, these dunes had belonged to sea birds, sand fiddlers, a few hardy fishing families and a herd of wild ponies.
Sighing, she let her eyes drift shut again, conscious now of the reddish-brown color of sunlight seen through mauve-shadowed eyelids. She was almost asleep when it happened again. Reddish-brown briefly turned dull black and then back again. Warily, she opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked around.
Nothing moved. Not even a mosquito.
More curious than afraid, she tried an experiment, closing her eyes, she passed a hand over her face, just to be sure.
There it was again—that momentary darkening. Something had definitely blocked the sun for one split second. A fast-moving airplane? Flight-seeing tours were common in the area, but usually not until the season got underway. Besides, unless it was a glider, she would have heard it.
She struggled to sit up, because whatever it was, it wasn’t her imagination. There was simply nothing up there to cast a shadow. No birds, no planes—not even a flying superhero. Whatever it was that had passed between her and the sun was gone.
And dammit, so was any chance of relaxing.
She was still struggling to get up off the low chaise longue when she heard a soft thump and what sounded like a muffled exclamation. Pulses pounding, she glanced over her shoulder. Sunlight reflected off the sliding-glass doors behind her, blocking her view of the interior. Logic told her that no one inside could have cast a shadow over the outer deck, but logic was the first victim when a woman was truly spooked.
Had she locked the lower door when she’d let herself in? With her mind on so many things at once, details occasionally escaped her attention. Katie could have seen her car and dropped by to check on her progress. Maybe one of the cleaning crew had left something behind. Or maybe they hadn’t finished, which would explain the stained bedspread and the cigarette smell.
But that still wouldn’t explain a shadow crossing over the upper deck.
Gripping the sides of the low chaise, Sasha called out, “Dammit, who’s there?” Bracing her feet, she readied herself to dash inside and lock the sliding doors. “Listen, whoever you are, I’m tired, my feet hurt and I’ve got a killer headache. You don’t want to mess with me!”
Okay, so she’d been reading a lot of thrillers lately—crime was a sad fact of life, even here in an oceanfront paradise. Like most of the upscale cottages, Driftwinds had a state-of-the art security system.
Which she hadn’t bothered to re-arm….
Well, shoot. She had the instructions written down somewhere—what numbers to punch in and how long to wait and what to do next. But she hadn’t planned on being here long today, so it simply hadn’t seemed worth the effort.
Uneasiness gave way to alarm. Oh, God—what if she had to run for it? She wasn’t exactly one of the kick-ass heroines that were so popular now. As much as she abhorred exercise, she had to admit there were times when physical fitness came in handy.
Crossing to the nearby wooden rail, she peered down at the paved parking below. The only car there was her own red convertible.
So it wasn’t Katie, and it wasn’t one of the cleaning crew. Warily, she glanced over her shoulder toward the outside stairs, half expecting to see someone step out onto the upper deck. The lack of logic didn’t bother her—she’d figure out later how someone downstairs could cast a shadow upstairs.
What was it everyone said? Get real?
Real fact number one: a work crew armed with pneumatic hammers had invaded her skull.
Real fact number two: she’d just finished her period, so her hormones were probably involved, too. Which didn’t help matters.
Real fact number three: she had probably imagined the whole thing.
Sighing heavily—again—she turned to go inside. That’s when she saw the figure silhouetted against the sunset on the upper deck of the cottage next door. The cottage that was supposed to be empty.
They stared at each other across the fifty or so feet of beach sand that separated the two elaborate cottages. He was holding something in his hand—something that was aimed directly at her.
A gun?
She swallowed hard and forgot to breathe. It was impossible to tell what it was from this distance. The only gun she’d ever met up close and personal was the old .410 her father used to use for squirrel-and rabbit-hunting.
The thing she was staring at now was small and squarish. Actually, it looked more like some kind of a camera than a gun, but then, there were all sorts of weird weapons in use these days. Tapers—tasters—something like that.
Common sense—admittedly not her greatest strength—said that if he’d meant her any harm, he would have made his move when she’d been lying there half-asleep and helpless. He was probably just taking pictures for one of the rental agencies. She would never even have noticed him if his shadow hadn’t passed over her.
Against the low-angled sun, she couldn’t make out his features, but his silhouette indicated broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips before his body disappeared behind the deck railing. Before she could clamp down on it, her imagination supplied a few more details, and she turned away in disgust.
“It has to be these flaming hormones,” she muttered. For all she knew he could be an escaped prisoner who’d spent the winter hiding out in a closed cottage, which was a whole lot more comfortable than hiding out in the mountains like Eric whatsisname, that guy who had eluded the FBI for about a dozen years. Only now that the season was about to get underway, he had to get out and find another hiding place. As for those shoulders, he’d probably developed them busting rocks on a chain gang. Maybe that thing he was holding was one of those gizmos that broke glass or read the combination on a wall safe, or—
She simply had to stop reading so much romantic suspense!
What was that old saying about the better part of valor? In the stress of the moment it escaped her, but right now the better part of valor was slipping inside where she’d left her purse and dialing 911 on her cell phone, just in case. Like any sensible woman, which she devoutly hoped she was, but secretly suspected she wasn’t, Sasha had the emergency number on speed dial.
Pretending nonchalance, she crossed to the sliding doors, slipped inside and looked around frantically for her purse, breathlessly watching over her shoulder for someone to burst through the door.
“Hello? Yes, this is Sasha Lasiter. I’m at Driftwinds cottage in Kitty Hawk.” She gave the milepost and the street number—at least she remembered that much. “Look, there’s a man in the cottage next door that’s supposed to be closed, and either he’s pointing a weapon or taking pictures of me. Yes, I’m sure!” she replied indignantly when asked. “Well, whatever that thing is he’s holding, he was aiming it at me.”
Maybe he was—maybe he wasn’t, but if she wanted help she needed to make out a worst-case scenario. “Look, I know—” She broke off in exasperation. “No, I am not in the hot tub! I am fully dressed, but I happened to be outside on the upper deck, and—” Impatiently, she explained what she was doing in an unoccupied cottage. “I don’t remember if I locked up behind me or not!” She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She listened as the flat voice gave instructions, then broke in and said, “Look, I am not about to take a chance on reaching my car and risk being mugged, so could you please send someone to check him out?”
Feeling discouraged, a little bit frightened and in no mood to finish what she’d started earlier, she refused to stay on the line. Instead, she headed for the kitchen and located a block of kitchen knives. Armed with a filet knife that she would never have the nerve to use, she made her way back upstairs and looked around for the most defensible place to wait. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told the dispatcher she was afraid to go outside. A friend of hers had recently been mugged in a parking lot not two miles from here. Her own car was parked close enough to the house so that she could probably unlock it with a remote, jump in and lock it again before anyone could grab her, only her remote didn’t work anymore—she wasn’t even sure it was still in her purse.
Besides, how safe was a convertible? The top was aluminum, not rag, but even if she got away, who was to say the creep wouldn’t follow her home?
Who would ever have thought that being an interior decorator at a beach resort could be a hazardous occupation?

“Hey, Jake. We just got a call from some lady that says you’re spooking her out.” The lanky deputy stepped onto the upper deck from the outside stairway.
“Hey, Mac. How’d you know it was me?”
“Call came from next door, but I saw your wheels parked outside, figured you’d know what was going down. You working?”
“I was. Sorry if I upset the lady. I yelled at her, but she’d already gone inside.”
“Oh, yeah—like yelling at a woman always sweetens ’em up. So, you want to tell me what you’re doing? She said you were either aiming a gun at her or taking her picture.”
“Pictures. Hell, Mac, you know I can’t tell you who I’m working for.” John Smith, otherwise known as Jake, squinted against the low-angled sun. “Divorce case. Woman thinks her husband’s got a little something going on the side. She wants some backup evidence before she files. I figured I’d check out their cottage first since it was empty. The guy’s pretty well known in the area, so I figured he wouldn’t risk being seen at a motel with another woman.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet. I just started today.”
The deputy nodded. Mac Scarborough had been three years ahead of Jake’s son, Tim, at Manteo High, but they’d known each other the way people in small towns did. Then, too, being in the security business, Jake knew most of the lawmen in the surrounding area.
“How’s Timmy? He gone over there yet?” the young deputy asked.
“Shipping out any day now.” Jake shook his head. “I don’t mind telling you, I wish he’d joined you guys instead of the army.”
“Yeah, well…wait a few weeks till the season cranks up. You’ll be glad he’s over there working on heavy equipment in a war zone instead of rounding up DUIs and busting up drug deals and trying to untangle pileups at every intersection between Oregon Inlet and the Currituck Bridge.” The deputy shook his head. “Ah, hell, man, I’m sorry.”
Jake ignored both the reminder of his loss and the apology. “You wouldn’t trade your job for one any place else in the world, and you know it.”
Grinning, the younger man removed his hat and raked his fingers through short, sun-bleached hair. “You got that right. I guess nothing goes on here on the Banks that don’t go on a whole lot more in the big cities. Leastwise, here we get to go surfing on our day off.” He replaced his hat, angling the brim just so. “Reckon I’d better go next door and let that poor lady know you’re one of the good guys.”
Knowing that whatever chance he’d had of collecting evidence was shot for the time being, Jake said, “Might as well, now that you’ve scared my red-feathered pigeon off.”
“Hey, at least I didn’t use my lights and siren.” Mac grinned and turned toward the outside stairway. “You take care now, Jake. Tell Timmy I said hey and don’t go upsetting any more ladies, y’ hear?”
Just then they heard a door slam. Mac hesitated, and then both men leaned over the rail in time to see the shapely redhead run that awkward way women did when they were wearing those ridiculous shoes. She unlocked the door to a fancy red convertible and climbed in, her miniskirt-covered hips being the last thing to disappear before she slammed the door, backed out of the driveway and scratched off down the beach road.
“Well, hell,” the deputy muttered.
“Guess that takes care of that,” Jake said.
He’d just have to try again tomorrow. Waste another day, probably. Common sense told him if anything was going on over there, as his client seemed to think, it would be during the day, not at night when lights might arouse curiosity in a supposedly empty cottage. The day wasn’t a total loss, though. The redheaded woman had obviously been waiting for someone.
He packed away his digital camera, shoved his sunglasses back on his face and jogged down the outside stairs, his mind on the comely redhead. Except for the hair, she reminded him of that classic poster of Marilyn Monroe, especially the ankles. A little shorter—maybe a little rounder. Whoever she was, she had what it took to tempt any man between the ages of can-do and can’t-do.
On the other hand, he mused as he climbed into his middle-aged, slightly rusty SUV, since she’d called the law, there was some room for doubt as to her identity. Would she have done that if she’d just stopped by for a little afternoon delight with Jamison?
Either way, pictures of the woman alone weren’t going to do Mrs. J. any good. He must’ve snapped off a dozen shots from different angles before she’d wakened up and caught him at it.
At age forty-one, Jake Smith, owner of a small security business, had allowed his PI license to go largely unused while he was single-handedly raising his son. A few years ago he’d taken a refresher course at Blackwater, one of the world’s best security training outfits, which happened to be just up the road in the next county. But as there was far less demand for private investigators than there was for security engineers, he’d concentrated on the latter. Even so, as a spook, even a slightly rusty one, he knew enough to take down the license number of any potential suspect.
Which he had—and which he should have asked Mac to run for him. They occasionally traded favors, JBS Securities and the sheriff’s department.
She’d cut over to the bypass and headed north. So did Jake, even though it was getting late and he lived in the opposite direction. On the way, he placed a call to his second-in-command. “Hack, I need some information quick. Red Lexus convertible, I make it about an oh-two model, vanity plate S-A-S-H-A.”
“Gimme a minute.” The nineteen-year old electronics whiz snapped his gum and ended the call.
Hack was as good as his word. By the time Jake reached the point of decision—whether to take a right and head toward Southern Shores and points north, or turn west, cross the Wright Memorial Bridge over Currituck Sound and go from there, he had an address.
Muddy Landing. Slapping his hand against the steering wheel, Jake didn’t even try to come up with a logical reason for what he was doing. There was a good barbecue place on the way, and he hadn’t taken time for lunch.
As for what he hoped to accomplish, that was another matter. The sexy little redhead might or might not have been waiting to meet Jamison, who might or might not have been delayed, scared off or otherwise held up. In an area where either of them might have been recognized, it stood to reason they wouldn’t risk meeting in a more public place, not when Jamison owned a big empty cottage with all the comforts of home.
On the other hand, the woman could have had legitimate business there. She might be a rental agent, or even a potential renter. Before he dumped the pictures he needed to find out whether or not she was involved. She was definitely tempting enough, especially compared to Jamison’s wife.
But no matter how great the temptation, carrying on an affair in a property you owned was pretty stupid.
He passed the barbecue place, inhaled deeply and promised himself to stop in on his way back. More an overgrown community than a town, Muddy Landing was small enough so that he had little trouble locating the address, even without the gizmo Hack had installed in the SUV.
Nice place, he thought as he pulled up two houses down on the other side of the street, although he wouldn’t have chosen to paint a house light purple—orchid or lavender, whatever the color was called—with dark green trim and a red car parked in the driveway. But what the hell, no one had ever accused him of having good taste.
Jake considered the best way to approach her. “You looked like a hot number, so I decided to follow you home,” probably wasn’t going to cut it. She’d slam the door and call the cops, same as she’d done before, and this time he couldn’t blame her.
On the way up the front walk, he tucked in his shirt-tail and ran a hand over his thick, dark hair. While he waited for someone to answer the doorbell, he took in the details of the well-kept two-story house. He liked the fact that not all the houses were the same style or color. From here he could see three whites, two yellows and a blue. When it came to color, the influence of the nearby beach had evidently spread inland. Over on the Banks, the county commissioners had actually considered limiting the colors a property owner could use. Talk about government running wild. At least on his own two properties in Manteo, some 40 odd miles south, he stuck to plain white, inside and out. Nobody could complain about that. He was in the process of having the duplex repainted and the roof re-shingled, partly because of storm damage, but mostly on account of it was long overdue.
He pressed the button again and was about to give it another try when the door opened. “Ma’am, my name’s Jake Smith and I—”
He got no further than that when a short creature with raccoon eyes growled at him. “Leave me alone, I don’t want any, I’m not interested, and I don’t do surveys.”
“Oh, hey—” Jake had the presence of mind to wedge his foot in the opening before she could slam the door shut. “I’m not—that is, I’ve got credentials.” When he reached for his wallet, she lunged and stomped on his foot. Pain streaked all the way up to his groin. “Legitimate business,” he grunted through the pain. Quickly, he flashed his PI license and the sheriff’s courtesy card he’d been given years ago, that had no official bearing, but hell, he’d have shown her his mama’s recipe for cornmeal dumplings if he thought it would help.
“Ma’am, I just wanted to apologize—to explain in case you were still worried.”
Was this even the same woman? Same height, same hair color, but instead of that hot little number she’d been wearing less than an hour ago—red miniskirt, thin flouncy top and a pair of sexy spike-heeled ankle-strap shoes—she was covered from the neck down with what looked like a deflated army tent. Her feet were bare, with red toenails and red places on the sides where those pointy-toed shoes had rubbed. As fetching as they were, shoes like that were a crime against nature.
He lifted his gaze to her face while his own throbbing foot held the door open. When a hint of some exotic fragrance drifted past, he inhaled it, eyes narrowing in appreciation.
“You’re dead meat,” she said flatly. “There’s a deputy living two doors away. All I have to do is call him.”
“You want to use my cell phone?” He made a motion as if to get it, although he’d left it in the truck.
She blinked and relaxed her death grip on the door. At least, her fingers were no longer white-tipped. Actually, they were red-tipped to match her toenails. “Just state your business and leave,” she said grimly. “I’ll give you thirty seconds and then I’m calling Darrell.”
He might have taken her more seriously if she didn’t have eye-makeup smeared halfway down her cheeks. At least he hoped that’s what the black and blue stains were, otherwise this might be a worst-case domestic situation. The hair that reminded him of the color of heartwood cedar was mashed flat on one side, standing up on the other. His wife used to call it bed-head.
Hell, maybe this was where she was meeting Jamison. Could they have got their signals crossed? That perfume she was wearing smelled like torrid sex in a tropical garden.
But then, why would she be dressed like this to meet a lover?
Not that even dressed in what looked like a Halloween costume gone wrong, she wouldn’t make any normal man think of tangled sheets and damp, silky skin.
“Would you please remove your foot?” she demanded.
Khaki-colored eyes. He could’ve sworn they were some shade of blue, but then, at any distance of more than a dozen feet, eye color was hard to discern. “Ms. Lasiter, I just wanted to reassure you that—”
The black-rimmed, khaki-colored eyes widened. “How did you know my name?”
Jake thought, I’m too old for this. No matter how good she looked under that disguise—no matter how good she smelled, it just wasn’t worth the wear and tear.
But she deserved an answer, and he’d come here expressly for that purpose. Among other things. “I’m in the security business and I was on a job I had to check out your license I’m sorry if I upset you I just wanted you to know you’re in no danger from me.” He said it all in a single gust of breath, hoping she wouldn’t finish breaking every bone in his foot. Now he knew how a fox felt when it was caught in a steel trap.
Jake Smith, Sasha thought. A variation of John Smith. Right. How likely was that? Staring through bleary eyes, she tried to convince herself that the man who called himself Jake Smith was on the level. Silhouetted against the sunset he’d been impressive enough. Up close and personal, he was—
Yes, well regardless of what he was, she didn’t need any. Didn’t need it, didn’t want it, knew better than even to think about it. By the time she’d got home her headache had grown to the four-alarm stage, which meant pills alone weren’t going to do much good. Nevertheless, she’d downed three with a swallow of milk from the carton. Then, not bothering to remove her makeup, she’d shed her clothes, pulled on her oldest, most comfortable caftan and fallen into bed with a package of frozen peas over her eyes.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I’ll probably be there again. I’m not finished with my job.”
Even in her semi-demented state, she couldn’t help but notice that he was sort of attractive, his tanned, irregular features bracketed by laugh lines and squint lines. Under a shadow of beard there was a shallow cleft on his square jaw. A few strands of gray in his dark hair. Obviously he’d reached the age where a man either started to fall apart or ripened into something truly special.
This one was ripe.
“Well, just so you know, neither am I,” she warned, belatedly coming to her senses. “Finished with my business, that is.”
He stepped back, freeing his foot. She didn’t wait for him to turn away before slamming the door.

Two
Distracted enough without trying to drive and eat at the same time, Jake ordered a barbecue plate to go and drove the rest of the way to Manteo, a distance of some forty miles, listening to a Molasses Creek CD and thinking about the unusual woman he’d just met.
Sasha Lasiter. It had a ring to it. He wondered if it was her real name. The first thing he’d noticed about her back at the Jamison cottage was her shape. That thing she’d been wearing when he’d tracked her down might have covered her curves, but he’d already seen ’em firsthand. The short skirt and that wispy thing she’d been wearing on top, while it was a lot more than most women wore at the beach, barely covered the essentials. His imagination had filled in the rest.
A guy didn’t see curves like that every day. Jake had heard about hourglass figures. Hers fit the description, with maybe twenty-minutes more sand in the bottom than in the top. The fact that those same generous curves extended all the way down to her ankles meant it was probably genetic and not silicon.
Damned fine genes, he mused.
The scent of barbecue drifted up to his nostrils as he crossed the Washington Baum Bridge over Roanoke Sound and headed home. He had a feeling that it might take more than ’cue and fries to satisfy him tonight. His sex life had died of neglect while he was single-handedly raising his son.
Almost as tall as he was, Jake’s wife Rosemary had been a local track star and dreamed of making the Olympic team. They’d gone to school together, K through twelve. In the tenth grade Jake had made up his mind to marry her. They’d eloped the week they’d graduated—by that time she had given up on her Olympic dreams. Neither of them had ever regretted it.
Seven years later Rosemary had been killed by a drunk driver at one of those intersections Mac had mentioned. Because of their son, Timmy, Jake had managed to hold it together—just barely. After a year or so of fighting the memories, he had rented out the house he and his wife had bought cheap, decorated on a shoestring and shared, and moved himself and his son into the other side of the duplex where his office was located.
God, how long ago had it been? Sometimes he had trouble visualizing her face. Looking at the pictures—which he hadn’t done lately—no longer seemed to help. Not that the styles back then had been all that different—blue jeans were blue jeans; shorts were shorts. But the goofy, self-conscious grins on their faces, especially after Timmy had been born seven-and-a-half months after they’d been married, were hard to relate to after all these years. There were pictures of the tree house he’d built when Timmy was six months old and of the rust bucket they’d bought as a second car and been so proud of.
Somewhere over the next dozen or so years, his memories had turned to memories of photographs instead of memories of the real thing.
“You’re getting old, man,” he muttered as he let himself into the empty duplex, dodging around a folded drop cloth and two ladders. Funny thing, though—he didn’t feel old. As tired as he was and as much as his right foot was starting to ache, he felt younger than he had in years.

Sasha woke when early sunlight slanted through the window across her pillow. Without opening her eyes she lay there for several minutes, thinking of yesterday and the color of light and shadow seen through closed eyes. Holding her breath, she waited to see if her headache was going to smite her again.
The word smite reminded her of her father, who had frequently smote with his fists, even after he’d gotten religion. It also reminded her that the church-sponsored box suppers would soon be starting up again, which steered her thoughts directly to the matchmaking game she and her friends had played for the past several years. Daisy had married and moved to Oklahoma. Marty had married, too, but still lived on Sugar Lane. Faylene, the maid they shared, was an invaluable member of the matchmakers, and the weekly box suppers were one of their favorite venues for getting two people together.
They still hadn’t found anyone for Lily, the CPA who had moved to Muddy Landing a few years ago. The yachtsman they’d tried last fall hadn’t worked out. He’d sailed away; she’d stayed put. Faylene, who cleaned for Lily, had mentioned the letters she got weekly from somewhere in California, that she always put away in a bedroom drawer instead of her desk.
Not that that meant anything, especially as Faye said the letters were written in pencil on lined paper. So maybe she had a child by a previous marriage. Or maybe a niece or nephew…
One who wrote once a week?
Sasha thought of her own nieces and nephews. She was lucky to see their signatures on the birthday and Christmas cards her sisters sent.
Rolling over onto her side, she thought about Jake Smith, wondering if he was married or otherwise involved. If not, they might want to add him to their list of candidates. Whatever else he was, he was definitely one studly hunk.
As random thoughts came and went—she was always at her most creative early in the morning—she made a mental note to check with Katie at Southern Dunes Property Management to see if there were any new cottages going up. Might as well get her bid in early.
Satisfied that her headache was gone, her sinuses no longer in rebellion, she sat up, did a few minimal exercises and headed for the shower.
Jake Smith had said he wasn’t finished with whatever it was he’d been doing in the cottage next door. Adjusting the water temperature, she wondered idly what he’d been doing when the deputy she’d called had showed up. She’d seen the two of them together just before she’d made a run for it. Whatever it was, he hadn’t been arrested, so it was probably nothing illegal, after all.
My mercy, that felt good! Hot water beat down on her shoulders, softening the muscles where stress always grabbed her. She could do with a good deep-tissue massage if she could ever find time.
He’d said he was in the security business. He’d probably been either installing a new system or repairing an old one, in which case he was probably one of those technical types who spoke a language she’d never even tried to master. She used a computer only because she had to, but she wouldn’t know a RAM from a nanny goat, a gig from a crab-net. She read instructions only when she was forced to and even then she rarely understood a word. When it came to disarming and re-arming the gizmos people used to protect their property, she usually managed to follow simple written instructions of the do-this-and-then-do-that variety, but occasionally she screwed up and had to call for help. Basically she was a big-picture woman in a small-picture world.
So he was a security man. Big deal. He and Lily would probably find loads of things in common to talk about in intricate detail.
Increasingly relaxed, Sasha worked coconut-scented, color-care shampoo through her thick, wavy hair. She was still toying with questions and answers concerning yesterday’s mini-adventure when she dried off, lotioned generously and dressed for work in a long skirt topped with a yellow T and a gauzy camisole. Her skirts were getting just a wee bit snug in the hips. Not in the waistbands—whenever she gained a pound, it went straight to her hips, never her waist or her boobs. If she’d been born a century earlier she’d have been right in style, complete with a built-in bustle.
Unfortunately, long, lean and selectively silicon-enhanced was today’s style. As she was none of the above, she was forced to make the best of what she had.
Which she did with—she hoped—style, taste and panache.
By the time she had breakfasted on a doughnut—just one, as she was dieting—and a homemade latte and gotten dressed, the temperature had climbed into the low seventies. As there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, she put down the top on the convertible that had been her thirty-fifth birthday gift to herself. Her foundation was a high SPF, but even so she tied on a wide-brimmed hat, letting the scarf-ends trail out behind her.
Hadn’t some famous actress died that way when her scarf got tangled around a wheel? She might not have a college degree, but she prided herself on having a wealth of trivia at her fingertips.
Just past the bridge over the Currituck Sound, she stopped at her favorite coffee shop and ordered a hammerhead to go. In case her headache threatened again—and even if it didn’t—she could do with the double shot of caffeine.
Several minutes later she pulled into the paved parking area beside the Jamison cottage. A single glance told her that the parking area next door was empty. She refused to admit to being disappointed. Judging from what she knew about men—and she could have written a book on the species—the studly security man was probably still in bed.
A morning person herself, Sasha had practically been forced to pry all four of her ex-husbands out of bed. Frank had been born lazy. Barry had worked nights, which gave him a legitimate reason, she admitted reluctantly. But Rusty had simply preferred to sleep late and play late, gambling and partying till all hours, usually without her.
As for Larry, her first husband, met and married in a mad, mad weekend the month before she’d turned nineteen, she couldn’t even remember what his excuse had been, unless it was because he knew it drove her crazy. Even as a child she’d been up with the sun, bursting with energy.
The truth was that not a single man she’d made the mistake of marrying had possessed anything resembling a work ethic. Even her father, redheaded, stern-faced Addler Parrish, had sold his tobacco farm and taken up preaching.
Not that he was very good at that, either. Everyone said old Ad was mean as a snake, and she could personally vouch for that. But at least the hours suited him better, giving him plenty of time to lay down the law to his family and punish anyone who broke his rules. Which Sasha had consistently done.
She’d been plain Sally June Parrish back then. Her overworked mother had lacked the strength to defend either herself or her children from her husband’s vicious tongue, much less from his belt and his fists. As soon as Sally June could escape she’d left home and found a job stocking and clerking in a furniture dealer’s showroom. Within a few years, she began taking night classes at the community college and attending the International Furniture Market in High Point with her employer.
By that time she’d been married to Larry Combs, a Jude Law lookalike who couldn’t manage to hang on to a job for more than a few months. He’d claimed to be overqualified. What he’d been was under-motivated. Larry had been the first. Her second husband had been even better-looking, and witty, besides.
Unfortunately, he’d also been a crook.
With two brief marriages behind her, she had left the Greensboro area and started her eastward migration, eventually leaving behind two more ex-husbands. None of her marriages had provided her with what she so desperately needed—a close and loving family. And none had lasted much longer than a year. By the time she’d moved to Muddy Landing and set herself up as an interior decorator, Sally June had become Sasha. She had stuck with her fourth husband’s name because it was easier than changing everything again.
Besides, it sounded good with Sasha.
She’d chosen Muddy Landing because at the time, property in Currituck County had been comparatively cheap. That was rapidly changing as more and more of it was developed, but the location was perfect, being little more than an hour from the Norfolk shopping area and less than half that from the Outer Banks where building was booming and decorating jobs were plentiful.
That had been eleven—no, nearly thirteen years ago. Once it gathered momentum, time seemed to fly. At the age of thirty-eight, thirty-five years of which she admitted to, Sasha was single for keeps. Each time she’d married she’d been certain she’d finally found her prince.
Instead she’d found another poor jerk who thought that learning to dress and speak well would alter who he was. Underneath the designer sportswear, the fancy colognes and the rip-off Rolexes, they’d all been every bit as insecure as she had once been, the difference being that they’d lacked her guts, her brutal self-honesty and her relentless drive to succeed.
She might joke with her friends about looking for number five, but before she would ever allow herself to get involved with another man, she would let her hair go natural, dump all her makeup in the North Landing River and turn her jewelry into fishing lures.
Parked in the shade of the Jamison cottage, she sat outside for a few minutes, savoring the perfect spring weather and the last of the double-strength coffee. She should be able to wind things up here in an hour, with some time to spare.
Opening the door, she swung her legs out and sat there for a moment, savoring the relative quiet of the early morning. A week from now, traffic would have doubled and most of the cottages would be filled, but for now the quiet cul-de-sac was almost like a private retreat.
Leaving the top down, she trudged up the first flight of outside stairs, unlocked the main door and disarmed the security system. The place still smelled of stale cigarette smoke, so she left the sliding glass doors open to air it out. Mosquitoes weren’t yet a problem as they’d had a record dry spring. On the next level up, she opened another door, drawing air from below.
At least she didn’t turn the air-conditioning full blast with all the doors and windows open the way too many thoughtless tenants did.
Humming under her breath, she began double-checking the list she’d made yesterday to make sure that everything that had been lost, stolen or damaged had been replaced. The new bar stools had been delivered. She checked that off her list. Climbing to the top level, she took a good look around to confirm that she hadn’t overlooked anything. Once she was done, she slid open the glass doors on the top floor and stepped out onto the sundeck, her favorite place of all. Ignoring the spectacular view of dunes and ocean, she glanced at the cottage next door.
Not that she’d expected to see him—the parking area next door was empty. Not that she even wanted to see him, but he’d said he wasn’t finished with whatever it was he was doing over there—installing, updating or repairing a security system.
She told herself she wasn’t disappointed, and really, she wasn’t. Not for herself. But for months now she and her friends had been looking for a candidate for Lily Sullivan, the beautiful blond CPA with the sad eyes who lived a few streets over from Marty’s house. So far as anyone knew—Faylene could find out more about a person from their garbage alone than any CIA agent—Lily had no social life at all.
The trouble was that there were so few available men around—certainly none who might interest a woman who was both attractive and intelligent. The best had already been taken; the rest were too old, too young, too dull or too dumb.
Ironically, over the past couple of years it had been Daisy and Marty, two of the original matchmakers, who had skimmed the cream off the top, with Daisy marrying Kell Magee when he’d come east to check out a relative, and Marty marrying the yummy carpenter she’d hired to renovate her house.
And she wasn’t envious, she really wasn’t! As she turned to go, one of her heels slipped between two boards. Flailing her arms for balance, she grabbed at the chaise longue, which slid away from her, throwing her even more off balance. Pain shot up her left leg. Trying to catch herself as she went down on her behind, she jammed her fingers on the sun-warped deck.
“Oh, help, oh, shoot, oh, damn, damn, damn!” She rocked back and forth, clutching her ankle with one hand and waving the other hand in the air, her shoe heel still trapped in the crack between boards.
Seeing that the pink suede covering the five-inch heel was ruined, she cried out in frustration as well as pain. She’d paid dearly for these shoes, knowing that nothing flattered a woman’s legs like a good pair of spike heels. Especially a woman who had stopped growing—at least vertically—in the fifth grade. Having been told at an early age that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, she’d gone out of her way to wear something pink on every possible occasion, even if it was only pink tourmaline jewelry.
With trembling fingers, she managed to unbuckle the ankle strap, unwrap it and ease her foot from the arrow-shaped toe that looked so gorgeous she usually didn’t even notice the torture.
Oh, gross! Her ankle was already starting to look like an overstuffed sausage. Not only that, she had popped three fingernails and collected a handful of splinters that would probably give her blood poisoning. Didn’t they use arsenic to treat the lumber for these beach houses? Did that include the sundecks?
At least she managed to unfasten her gold ankle bracelet before it cut off circulation. Oh God, she was going to die right here on the top deck of an empty cottage. The sun would turn her red as a boiled crab. Her nose would blister, seagulls and ospreys would drop disgusting things on her body—
Her cell phone—she’d left it in her purse inside. If she could just get up she could use one of the plastic chairs as a walker and hop inside to call 911. Although after yesterday…
Maybe a different dispatcher would be on in the mornings.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaking trails of mascara through her blusher, dripping off her chin onto her Tilly MacIntire blouse. She unfastened her other shoe and tossed it aside. What good was one shoe when its mate was ruined? If it weren’t for the fact that nothing flattered a woman’s legs like putting them on a pedestal—and she was just vain enough to want every advantage she could possibly get—she’d burn the treacherous things the minute she got home.
But first she had to get there.
She was on her knees, trying to grab the leg of a chair and drag it closer when she heard someone step out onto the sundeck behind her.
“What the devil have you done to yourself?” a familiar voice boomed.
Startled, she twisted around and stared up at the voyeur—the man who had scared the wits out of her just yesterday.
Oh, please, her inner woman groaned, not like this!
“Help?” she said weakly.

By the time they were in Jake’s SUV on the way to the hospital in Nags Head, Sasha had set aside her misery to make three firm vows. First, no more five-inch heels—at least not when she was working. Second, starting now she would cut her carb count in half. No more Krispy Kremes, no more double lattes.
In other words, no more anything worth eating.
Jake had insisted on carrying her down the stairs. As her only option was bouncing on her butt all the way down, which would’ve left her rear end in the same shape as her right hand, she’d let him sweep her up into his arms. As if pain alone weren’t bad enough, the feel of being cradled against a hard, warm body had rattled her to the point that she hadn’t even argued.
She’d already forgotten the third vow, but it probably concerned steering clear of any man who could melt her resistance with no more than a growl, a glower and the way he smelled. Like soap, toothpaste and coffee, plus something earthy and essentially male.
Not to mention the fact that his touch alone was like poking her finger into a light socket.
She’d still been quivering inside when he’d settled her onto the passenger seat and arranged something to prop her foot on. He’d reached for the seatbelt and she’d brushed his hands away. “I can do it myself.”
“Then do it,” he’d snapped.
What the devil did he have to be angry about, she wondered, feeling sorry for herself and, oddly excited at the same time. She was the one with a broken ankle, not him. She was the one whose right hand was probably going to get infected and swell up and have to be amputated. Plus, she’d probably end up with blood poisoning. For all she knew she might be allergic to antibiotics. So she’d die of anaphylactic shock or whatever grisly symptoms that sort of allergy caused.
He drove fast, easing off each time he approached the stoplights so that he wouldn’t have to slam on the brakes if a light suddenly changed. Grudgingly, she appreciated it. Her ankle throbbed like a bad toothache, and she hated pain, purely hated it. Always had. A stoic, she was not.
“You all right?” he asked as they passed the Wright Brothers Memorial at Kill Devil Hill. At least he’d quit growling. In fact, he sounded almost concerned.
“No, I’m not all right, I hurt,” she snapped. Childish, but then, what did she have to lose that she hadn’t already lost? Her dignity?
Ha.
“We’ll be there in a few more minutes,” he said. “This time of year, you probably won’t have to wait. They’ll give you something for pain and then do X-rays, my guess.” He had propped her foot up on a plastic carton he’d padded with a folded shirt. She was cradling her splintery hand in her other hand on her lap. “What’s wrong, did you hurt your hand, too?” he asked.
Well, shoot. Now he even sounded sympathetic. She couldn’t handle sympathy. It had been in short supply back when she could have used it—back when she’d spent her lunch money on cheap makeup to conceal bruises inflicted by her father’s fists, only to have him accuse her of painting her face like a hussy. Which often as not earned her a few more bruises.
Jake pulled up in front of the beach hospital and said, “Wait while I go get a wheelchair.”
“Don’t be silly, I don’t need a wheelchair.” She had never even been to a hospital before, except as a visitor.
“Okay then, put your arm over my shoulder.” He leaned into the open door and eased his arm under her knees.
If she’d had a single rational thought in her head before, it was gone by the time he carried her inside. The man was definitely high-voltage.
“You’ll have to do the paper work,” he told her, “but I’ll see if I can’t speed up the process.”
Two women behind glass windows stared. Several people in the waiting room glanced up from their outdated People magazines.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put me down,” Sasha muttered. At this rate she wouldn’t even need a doctor’s help. Being this close to Jake Smith, whoever he was—whatever he was—was distracting enough that she hardly even noticed her throbbing ankle, much less her stinging hand.

Just under two hours later an orderly wheeled her out to the waiting room. Laying aside the newspaper he’d read without retaining a single word, Jake stood to meet her. “All done?” he asked. No cast, just a wrap job, which meant a bad sprain, not a break. “What’s with the hand?” Her right hand was bandaged, all but two fingers and her thumb.
“Splinters. I lost three fingernails, too.”
His eyes widened. “Good God, that’s awful!” he swallowed hard, fighting back nausea.
“I think another one’s loose and I just had them done last week. Now I’ll have to get the whole right hand done over.” Glancing over her shoulder, she thanked the orderly. “I can make it from here just fine,” she assured him with a smile that was undiminished by chewed-off lipstick and smeared mascara.
“It’s the rules, ma’am,” the orderly said, refusing to dump her out of the wheelchair.
Jake shook his head. He crossed to the double glass doors and held it wide. “Come on, don’t be so stubborn.”
Together, the two men eased her from the wheelchair onto the front seat. Jake slipped the orderly a few bucks—didn’t know if it was proper or not, but the kid was about Timmy’s age. Might even have been a classmate.
They drove several miles in silence except for a few heavy sighs coming from the passenger side. The first time they stopped for a red light, Jake tried to get a handle on how bad she was hurting. “We’ll stop by and get your prescription filled, then we’ll cut over to the beach road and put the top up on your car. It should be all right there for a few days until you can drive.”
“Oh, wait a minute—just hold on, I’m not leaving my car unattended.”
“You feel up to driving?” He looked pointedly at her ankle, which was once again propped on the padded carton.
“It’s not a stick shift.”
“Sasha—Ms. Lasiter—look at it from my perspective. If I dump you out in Kitty Hawk, I won’t sleep a wink wondering if you made it home all right. It’d be criminal negligence at the very least if anything happened to you.” They must’ve given her something for pain. From the way she was blinking her eyes, the lady was floating around in la-la land.
“I can call a taxi.”
“That won’t help you move your car. Look, I got you safely to the hospital, didn’t I? Don’t you trust me to get you home?”
Another milepost zipped past. He turned off onto the street that dead-ended at a row of oceanfront cottages that were identical but for color and the placement of a few exterior details. Driftwinds, where she’d left her car, was the next to last one on the cul-de-sac.
“You shouldn’t have to drive me all the way to Muddy Landing.”
She was softening, he could tell. Truth was, he didn’t know why he was going to all this trouble. He should be working on the Jamison case, especially since so far his stakeout had produced zilch.
“You like barbecue?” he asked, climbing back into the SUV after pulling her car into the paved space underneath the cottage, putting the top up and locking it.
Nice wheels. The lady had good taste. He handed her the keys and backed out onto the street.
“Who doesn’t?” She was picking at the bandage on her hand, and he reached over and covered both of hers with one of his.
“Leave it alone,” he said. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to pick at stuff like that?”
That warranted a fleeting smile. He had a feeling she was hurting more than she wanted to let on, even after whatever they’d given her at the hospital. Which was kind of surprising, because judging by her looks alone he’d have figured her for a complainer.
Not until some ten minutes later when he came out with two barbecue plates and climbed back under the wheel did it occur to Jake that either they were going to share a late lunch or he was going to eat his share cold somewhere else. “Should I have gotten some drinks to go with it?” he asked as they rolled onto the bridge over Currituck Sound.
“I’ve got iced tea,” she said, which pretty much answered the question.
“Tea’s good.” Jake pushed in a CD and whistled under his breath, keeping time with the music with his thumb tapping against the steering wheel.
With work piling up, his home and his office in a mess and the Jamison case going nowhere, he had no business being where he was, doing what he was doing. He’d never been the impulsive type.
On the other hand, when he started something, he always liked to carry it through. In his business, following procedure was the only way to get the job done.
Oh, yeah? And what have you started this time?

Three
Sasha desperately needed to reach her own front door unaided, if only to assert her independence, but after the first few steps she grudgingly accepted Jake’s help. This had definitely not been one of her better days. Awkwardly, she dug out her keys. He took them from her uninjured hand. “It’s the key with the fingernail polish,” she told him.
Independence could wait another few minutes.
Without releasing her, he managed to unlock the front door. “Want me to carry you over the threshold?”
Her look said it all. Over my dead body. Sprained, splintered and disheveled didn’t count.
Once inside, he steered her toward the three-cushion sofa. “First, let’s get you elevated. Then if you’ll point me to the kitchen, I’ll make you an ice pack.”
“How do you know what I need?”
This time it was his look that said it all. “Trust me, I’ve seen a sprain or two. Underneath that bandage you’re probably already turning purple.”
Sasha wanted to tell him to take his sympathy and his barbecue plate and go back to wherever he came from, because she didn’t need him.
Only she did. This was Faylene’s day to work for Lily, and Marty was just back from her honeymoon, still busy washing sand and salt out of her trousseau.
“The doctor called it a type-II sprain. He said something about torn ligaments, but I wasn’t really listening.” Admittedly, she had a few bad habits, one of them being deflecting bad news by concentrating on something else. In this case, she’d been focused on the possibility of insuring her more expensive shoes. “He mentioned ice. I think there’s a gel pack somewhere in the freezer, but I usually use frozen vegetables.”
“You do this often?”
While she gave him her patented supercilious look—naturally arched eyebrows tinted half a shade darker than her hair helped—he eased her down onto the sofa and gently lifted her legs up onto the cushions, which involved a lot more touching than she needed at the moment. Her skirt twisted around her hips and she tugged at it with her good hand, wishing she’d worn something longer. She had mini and maxi, nothing in between.
“Here, let’s lift your foot up and slide a pillow under your heel.” His voice was like blackstrap molasses—rich and sweet, but with a definite bite.
While she wondered where he came by his expertise, he slipped another pillow under her knee, which involved more touching. Considering she was still in appreciable pain, even after a dose of prescription-strength anti-inflammatory medication, she shouldn’t even have noticed. If she didn’t know better, she might think her whole body had been sensitized. The slightest brush with sumac and she broke out in a rash. The slightest brush of Jake Smith’s hands on her thigh or the back of her knee raised goose bumps in places he hadn’t even touched.
Granted, she’d been on a self-imposed diet these past few years, but she wasn’t that starved for masculine attention.
He stepped back and looked her over. “There, that better?”
Wordlessly, she nodded, feeling her cheeks burn. The curse of a redhead’s thin skin. “This is so embarrassing.”
“No need to be embarrassed, it could happen to anybody.”
If she read him right—and she was good at reading people—he might as well have added, Anybody crazy enough to wear skyscraper shoes lashed to her ankles. Was there such a thing as breakaway ankle straps?
“How’s the hand?” His were on his hips. Tanned, capable hands planted firmly on narrow masculine hips.
Just quit thinking what you’re thinking! “It’s fine.” She looked down at the fingers she’d jammed. Her newly exposed natural nails looked like naked little orphans.
“Sit tight, I’ll be back with your ice pack in a minute.”
“No hurry. I think I’ll get up and tap dance on the coffee table.”
He shot her a quick grin as he headed for the kitchen. Distracted, she almost forgot her misery. He had a nice smile. He had a really nice backside, which she noticed only because it was more or less at her eye level as he left the room. Strong legs, too—at least he hadn’t dropped her when he was carrying her down all those steps.
Not that she would have fallen too far, the way she’d clung to him with both arms.
“Peas or corn, either one will do fine,” she called after him.
“Got it.”
“You do this a lot?” he asked again a few moments later as he shaped a bag of frozen peas around her bandaged ankle. “Use ice packs, I mean.”
“Headaches,” she said, and then snapped her mouth shut. Just because he happened to be there when she’d needed a hand—just because he’d driven her to the hospital and waited for her, stopped at the drive-in window of the pharmacy while her prescription was being filled, taken care of her car for her and then driven her home after stopping to get barbecue—that didn’t mean he needed to know her entire life history.

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