Hands On (3 page)

She certainly wasn’t going to just lie back and relax. She scrubbed with an edge stretched from her still-damp sweater. “Blood stains are tough to get out.”

“Forget it. And stay there while I get the bandages.”

“If I’m obedient, do I get a doggie biscuit?” She looked up at him with all the charm she could muster. After all, her little injuries were in his hands. He was so cute, the way his brows knit together, half in puzzlement and half in exasperation.

No sense of humor.

She still liked him. After all, the first thing he’d done when they pulled into the impressively large Craftsman bungalow’s two-car garage was kill the Aston’s engine, instruct her not to move and immediately jump into a beat-up old truck to fetch her huge trunk full of puppets and equipment.

He was pretty bossy. A take-charge man, the very worst kind. Too bad he looked so incredible.

She looked instead at the ornate, leaded-glass front door, taking comfort that the trunk was sitting just on the other side, safe from the rain on the enormous wraparound porch. The man had good taste in houses. He had his priorities right. In fact, she liked his honest, gruff demeanor far better than Rick’s belligerent mannerisms. And far better than her mother’s sly machinations.

She shuddered, the old ache still big enough to seize her heart and squeeze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But his penetrating gaze made her feel oddly naked. So did his thoughtfulness. She struggled against believing it, but found herself responding to that masculine tone of caring.

She resisted, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”

She waited, then raised her eyebrows at his silence.

“You can call me Harry.” Then he was moving, disappearing up the stairs.

Ginnie finally leaned back into the sofa with a sigh.

Her gaze fell on the high ceiling, picture moldings bisecting the ivory color of the higher, curved section of wall and ceiling from the matte light moss of the lower living room walls. A lovely polished mahogany wood fireplace matched the original-looking woodwork and the heavy front door. Arched doorways and gleaming hardwood floors gave the large room an airy feel, warmed by new and antique furniture and area rugs in different, eye-grabbing textures and patterns. Even the doorknobs, Ginnie noticed, were made of the same original crystal as her rental’s had been, only his weren’t yellowed and chipped. And his leaded glass windows on the front of the house seemed in new condition as well, and perfectly in keeping with the architecture.

The only jarring note was one of the pictures on the wall. The gilt frame was elaborate, but the picture itself seemed oddly modern compared to the rest in the room.

Ginnie shrugged, then winced. Her scrape stung, as if to remind her not to get too comfortable.

What was she going to do now?

She’d flirted with Harry, finagled her way into his house. She knew herself well enough to know she was avoiding thinking about her situation, but it was time to start. If only he wasn’t so deliciously distracting. Sure, she was a woman in need, and he was her rescuer, but he clearly didn’t want her in his house. Or his life.

Despite what her libido was saying, she knew he probably wasn’t any better than Rick.

A sudden, overwhelming desire to leave swept through her. So what if she had nowhere to go, nobody she wanted to call. She would take care of herself. Hadn’t she always, in all the ways that counted?

She hissed with pain as she pushed off the couch, her bad leg almost buckling beneath her. She tested it; it held.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Her rescuer held the bandages and antibiotic ointment aimed at her as if they were a pair of pistols. His irritated frown seemed almost menacing.

“I, ah, just remembered. My mother.”

“You just remembered your mother?” His expression turned quizzical.

“I can call her. She’ll help me.”

Constance would too—after a few hours, or more likely days, of I-told-you-so, scorn and an enormous serving of guilt. Psychological poisoning was her specialty.

Ginnie trembled, exhaustion and dismay combining to make her feel slightly nauseated. Her mother, with her overly sweet advice and her tough-love insults, carved a little bit off Ginnie’s soul every time they spoke. Ginnie knew the woman couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault life had dealt her so many disappointments.

Ginnie just wished she didn’t feel like one of them.

“I can call her,” she repeated.

She could feel Harry’s intent gaze on her.

“What is it?” His voice had reverted to the low, molasses-coated tone that played so much havoc with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “You look…pale.”

“I look atrocious.” Why did he have to sound so concerned? It made her feel uncomfortable. Out of control. Nothing worse than feeling out of control.

He was too sexy for her own good, damn it.

Unlike her, with her distinctly unsexy skin itching from all the drying mud and insulation fibers from her basement. She had to look ragged as an unfinished marionette. Harry, on the other hand, looked strategically rumpled, as if he’d just stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for luxury vacation homes. It wasn’t fair.

“It was when you mentioned your mother.” His dark blue eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to call her? Why.”

A statement, not a question.

All her senses came alert. Harry was probing, looking for her weaknesses. Like Rick. Maybe.

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.