by Joyce Lamb
She stepped back, a hand up to ward him off. “Don’t.”
He froze. “All right.”
Bailey closed her eyes. Deep breaths. Happy thoughts. Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. The water caressing the beach on Sanibel Island while the sun warmed her skin. Austin’s smile like a burst of sunshine when he saw her.
She reminded herself that, yes, her apartment had been trashed, her belongings destroyed. Her laptop, with decades of digitized family photos, not to mention years of photos she’d taken for the newspaper, was gone. But no one had gotten hurt. That was the important thing. She’d learned to appreciate that more than once over the years, starting at seventeen with the loss of her mother to a stroke. Don’t go there.
Gradually, the emotion subsided, and she opened her eyes. “Weak moment passed.”
Cole nodded, though he looked a little pale. “It’s okay, you know.”
“What is?”
“To cry. I won’t think less of you.”
“You can’t think less of me, can you?” She said it more sharply than she’d intended and felt like a jerk when his jaw tightened and he turned his attention to her closet.
“Anything in here you need?”
She nudged by him, relieved to see most of what she put on hangers still hanging, though what had been folded on the shelves—shorts and the few sweaters and sweatshirts she owned for the cool Florida nights in winter—had met the same fate as the clothing in her dresser. She gathered two pairs of jeans off of hangers, then bent to scoop a pair of khaki shorts off the closet floor.
Pain ripped through her side, and her knees instantly buckled. Cole caught her arm.
“Whoops,” he said, his tone casual as he calmly supported her without trying to move her or make her straighten.
Bailey, her head down, fought off the stars that danced before her eyes. “That was stupid,” she wheezed.
“Undoubtedly.”
She panted like a pregnant woman enduring a contraction. “God, it hurts.”
“Told you you’d want that pain medication.”
“You don’t have to gloat.”
“Just stating a fact.”
“Well, here’s a fact, I’m going to be sick.”
She expected him to do the guy thing and back off in abject horror. But he slipped an arm around her waist, steering clear of her injured side, ducked his head under her arm and quickly half-carried, half-walked her into the bathroom. With his support, she lowered herself to her knees in front of the toilet. He scooped her hair back from her face just in time.
When it was over, she sat back on her heels, eyes closed, perspiration cold and damp on her skin. Could this day get any more humiliating?
She heard running water, sensed Cole kneeling beside her but kept her eyes shut.
A cool cloth stroked over her temple and down the side of her face. The tenderness of the gesture struck her as far too intimate. Fingers trembling, she took the light purple washcloth from him.
“Put it on the back of your neck.”
She followed the suggestion and sighed because it felt so good. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He stayed where he was, showing no signs of budging. “You might have ripped out some stitches.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.”
“We should make sure.”
What was it with him and this “we” business? Just because he’d helped her didn’t make them BFFs. “I can do it,” she said.
“If you faint again, I’m hauling you back to the hospital, and I got the impression you didn’t like it there.”
“Oh, and the hospital is one of your favorite hangouts?”
“It sure doesn’t freak me out as much as it does you.”
She leaned her head back against the wall and swallowed. And she’d thought she’d hidden her anxiety so well. “I don’t have the energy for this.”
“Then let me check you out, so we can move on.”
“Fine.” She scooted down against the wall and drew up the hem of her scrubs top.
“Damn,” he breathed.
Her heart tripped at the consternation in his tone. “What?”
“You’re bleeding again.”
“Great.”
He bent over her, fingers gentle as he peeled back the tape along one edge of the three-inch-square gauze. His thick dark hair was in need of a comb, though she wondered if tidying it up would take away his boyish charm. God, he smelled good, too. Like … like a sunshiny breeze on a bright white sail boat.
He raised his head and gave her a comforting smile that made a dimple appear in his right cheek. “Looks like the stitches are intact.”
She’d never noticed that dimple before and wondered at the sudden catch in her breath. It wasn’t that adorable.
“I’m going to have to replace the bandage,” he said. “Let me run down to the SUV and get the supplies the nurse gave us. I’ll be just a minute. You’ll be okay?”
He was being so nice, so unlike anything she had expected from him. “I don’t imagine I’ll be doing cartwheels while you’re gone, but I’m sure I’ll manage to keep breathing.”
Grinning, he got to his feet. “If you do get the urge to do cartwheels, try not to rip out your stitches.”
Alone, she buried her face in the wet washcloth to soak up the hot tears springing to her eyes. She tried not to think about everything she’d lost between her stolen camera bag and missing MacBook. She’d have to replace so much. Credit cards. Driver’s license. Insurance cards. Car keys. House keys. At least she had an external hard drive with backups of most of her MacBook files, but—
Cole returned, his face flushed and his breathing heavy, as if he’d raced to the SUV and back up the stairs at top speed. Kneeling beside her, he dumped the contents of the white plastic bag and went to work ripping open a small, square packet that contained an alcohol-soaked swab of cotton.
“Miss me while I was gone?” he asked as he dabbed at her stitches.
She sucked in air at the answering sting. “So much I cried into my washcloth.”
“I had a feeling. Almost done.”
She closed her eyes, willing him to hurry. Having him touch her like this was too personal. And tender. God, who knew this man would be so … sweet?
“What happened here?”
The tips of his fingers grazed the scar that was barely a year old, and her pulse stuttered, both at the question and the contact that felt like a caress. Heat began a slow climb up her neck. She prayed he wouldn’t notice that, too.
“An accident.” Her voice sounded strangled.
“Looks recent.”
“I learned the hard way that when you wave a red blanket in front of a bull, it charges.”
He grinned as he tore the wrapping from a square of gauze with adhesive edges. “You were gored by a bull.”
She shrugged. “Happens to the best of us.”
“Uh huh.” He bent forward to spread the gauze over her stitches and gently press its sticky edges against her skin.
“Don’t tell anybody, okay?”
“About the bull?” he asked.
“That I’m such a wimp.”
His gaze met hers, and his amusement faded. “You’re not a wimp, Bailey.” He touched her cheek, his palm warm against her skin as his fingers grazed the sensitive spot just under her earlobe. The kindness in his eyes lasted only a moment before a teasing glint appeared. “Wimps don’t usually survive being gored by bulls.”
While she tried not to laugh—it hurt, dang it—he straightened. “Take it easy while I gather some more things for you.” He turned to go.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Could you do a quick tour of the apartment and tell me if there’s an external hard drive lying around in one of the other rooms? Silver, about the size of a man’s wallet.”
“Sure.”
* * *
Cole returned to the bathroom to find that Bailey had inched
her way up the wall so that she was in more of a sitting position. One hand covered the clean white bandage he’d applied, as if to hold in pain. Her color had improved, but the glaze of exhaustion dulled her eyes. The clutch in his belly surprised him, and he glanced away from her, giving himself a second to swallow the lump in his throat.
Her bathroom was undeniably feminine but not in a frilly way. Red, purple and yellow tropical fish adorned the royal blue shower curtain. Tubes of moisturizing cream, plastic containers of vitamins and frosted-glass bottles of perfume scattered the vanity, as if she used each item then set it down wherever. The room smelled like her, fresh with just a hint of citrus.
Sexy.
He almost groaned aloud. He was such an idiot. He cleared his throat. “No sign of an external hard drive.”
She sagged as though he’d just told her the puppy didn’t make it.
“I take it it contained some important stuff.”
“Pictures. Videos.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Both. I’d salvaged hundreds of family photos after Hurricane Dennis flooded my storage unit. I had no choice but to get rid of them because of mold. So I scanned in everything. It took months—”
The crack in her voice gave away her mounting distress. He rubbed the back of his neck. “So this morning someone swiped your camera equipment, and now your Mac and external hard drive are missing, both of which hold a bunch of photos. Is it possible you’ve got an incriminating photo of someone? Perhaps you have a friend who wants to run for president and you have an old picture of him smoking a joint?”
“If that were the case, he—or she—wouldn’t have to break into my apartment to get it.”
She struggled to her feet, and he reached out a hand to help, but she ignored it. As she walked, albeit slowly, into the bedroom, he followed. “What about the camera that was swiped this morning? What was on the memory card?”
“Nothing. I’d just erased it to free up space for yet another round of spring breakers at the beach. You know how the paper loves to run hot bods above the fold.”
“What was on it before you erased it?”
“My last assignment was at McKays’ Tennis Center. They started a program for disabled kids.”
“What about before that?”
She rubbed at the center of her forehead. “I did a photo illustration for the Features section. About cheese fondue. Then I did the golf resort, and then I was off for two days.”
“And before the fondue?”
She thought a moment. “Early afternoon was my first round of spring breakers. This year’s fashions. I was going back today for a story about this year’s vices. Tattoos and body piercings are still in, by the way.”
“Where are those photos?”
“I downloaded them at work. Why?”
“Maybe you got a shot of someone’s kid being bad.”
“I don’t take pictures of anyone without their permission.”
“So maybe you caught somebody in the background without realizing it,” he said.
“Then why wouldn’t they just ask me for it? Why resort to assault and burglary?”
“If it was something really juicy, tipping off the newspaper would be stupid.”
“No one was doing anything over the top. Just having fun.”
“It probably doesn’t have anything to do with spring break. Or even any of your assignments. But getting mugged and having your apartment trashed the same day is too much of a coincidence. And we have to start somewhere.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, her fatigue palpable.
He decided not to push her for more information until she’d had a chance to rest. The shadows under her eyes and the lines of strain around her mouth worried him.
“We can talk about it more later.” He slid an arm around her waist for support. “First, let’s get you out of here.”
She didn’t argue.
Chapter 8
Bailey stood at the foot of the white wooden steps and stared up at them. “You didn’t say you live on the second floor.”
“It didn’t come up.” Cole kept his grip light at her elbow. He knew what she was thinking and was right there with her.
For the first time, he wished he’d bypassed the apartment on the top floor of this older house near downtown. But he’d loved the yard that was outlined by a white picket fence and shaded by a massive banyan tree and one tall palm. Plus, Lena, the elderly widow who lived downstairs, knocked a hundred bucks off his rent every month because he did odd jobs for her, such as cutting the grass and trimming the bushes, laden now with yellow flowers.
Of course, there was nothing he could do about the stairs now. A.J. had called Cole’s cell while they were at the pharmacy getting prescriptions filled. She was in St. Petersburg, covering a massive pileup caused by fog on the Sunshine Skyway bridge and was going to be working overnight. She’d offered to drop everything, but Bailey had insisted that she was fine and that wasn’t necessary. A few more calls to various other people had gone much the same way.
Cole admired the way Bailey put her friends’ minds at ease, but the woman could have admitted she needed some help. He wondered why that was so difficult for her.
Now, she was gazing up at him, her eyes dark with fatigue. “Maybe you could just take me to A.J.’s. I have a key.”
“But you’d be there alone.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Not if you have a bad reaction to the pain killers. That’s not fun.”
“You have experience with that, too?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“For the love of Pete.”
“Bailey—” He stopped, took a breath. Christ, she was stubborn. And her almost desperate determination to be rid of him bugged the crap out of him.
“What?”
He focused. “What?”
“You were going to say something.”
“You know what? I’ll carry you up.”
“No, you won’t.”
He grinned at her comically appalled expression. “Sure, I will. Why not?”
She backed away, hands raised. “Because. If you drop me, you’ll kill me. Both of us.”
He stalked her at the foot of the stairs, hoping that being playful would help her recognize the silliness of her anxiety. “Then I won’t drop you. Come on. You’re not chicken, are you?”
“Don’t even go there.”
“Don’t make me cluck.”
“God, I can’t stand it when grown men cluck.” She studied the rise of steps. “It’s a lot of stairs, Goodman.”
“Come on, Chase. Let’s go halfway. If I’m the least bit winded, we’ll turn back and I’ll drive you to a hotel.”
She laughed, a little breathless as he cornered her against the side of the house. “Wow. You’re confident.”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Under this shirt, I’m ripped, remember?”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and her jaw dropped just a fraction before she met his gaze. She swallowed, then smiled. “All right then. Let’s go.”
With a grin, he carefully swept her up and waited for her to catch her arms around his neck. Holding her so close, Cole got a whiff of perfume—something light, lemony. Feminine. As he mounted the steps he’d just a few weeks ago repainted white, he tried to think of something to say to steer his brain away from land littered with lust mines. One wrong step and kaboom. “You know, you wouldn’t be in this position if you’d been honest with your friends.”
She raised her head, which he thought might have been close to resting on his shoulder. “What?”
“You told them you were fine.”
“I am fine.”
“You need help, yet you told them all not to worry, that you’d figure something out.”
“Which is true.”
“You have a problem asking for what you need, don’t you?”
“Okay, how about this? I need
you to shut up and concentrate on what you’re doing.”
He laughed low in his chest. She stiffened against him, and he froze in midstep. “Am I hurting you?”
A blush spread up her neck into her cheeks. “No,” she said, her voice huskier than before.
He took two more steps and paused. “Well, what do you know? The halfway mark. Want to stop and check my heart rate?”
Laughing softly, she rested her fingertips against the side of his neck, her touch as gentle as a caress. Cole wondered whether she felt his pulse jump at the contact.
“Interesting,” she said.
“What?”
“You have a pulse.”
“You thought I was heartless?”
“I wondered.”
“You know, I might be ripped, but I’m not Superman. Shall I keep going or what?”
“Hmm, I don’t know.”
He groaned but figured he deserved the ribbing. If he had thought he could have done so without hurting her, he would have acted like he was about to drop her. Having her arms clamp around his neck as she held on for dear life would have been fun. He imagined she’d squeal like a girl.
Resigned to behaving, he carried her up the rest of the way and set her on her feet in front of his door.
He noticed her hand lingered briefly on his biceps, her fingers applying slight pressure, as if she surreptitiously checked out his muscle. Suppressing a grin, he slid the key into the lock and opened the door to his apartment.
With an exaggerated sweeping gesture, he said, “After you.”
* * *
Bailey stepped into his apartment, braced for a mess. He was a single guy who hadn’t expected a guest, and every unattached guy she’d ever known rushed to clean up when someone rapped on the door. There were exceptions, of course. Cole, as it turned out, was one of them. His apartment—the top floor of an older home that had at once struck her as sweet and charming—might have been cleaner and more organized than her own had been when she’d left it that morning.
“Do you have a maid?”
Cole chuckled. “A guy has a clean apartment and the only way you figure that’s possible is if there’s a maid?”