A Match Made in Texas. Arlene James

than for any other reason, he broke the silence.

      “Aaron explain about the press?”

      “He said you’re hiding from them.”

      “I’m not hiding!” Stephen frowned at the notion. “I’m keeping a low profile.”

      “Ah.”

      “It’s necessary,” he grumbled defensively, rubbing his right hand over his prickly jaw and chin and wishing he could shave. “You wouldn’t understand.”

      “No, I guess not.”

      Something about those softly spoken words irritated him, and he barked at her. “Your aunts swore they would protect my privacy, and I made a hefty contribution to some single parents’ charity to guarantee it.”

      She gave him a look, the kind she might give a little boy who stretched the truth. It made his cheeks and throat heat. He mentally winced at the thought of the curse words that he’d spewed earlier.

      “My aunts never swear,” she told him with the absolute authority of one who would know. “But if they said they would protect your privacy, then they will. And any donation you may have made to one of their charities has nothing to do with it. Trust me. They may have promised, but they didn’t swear.”

      “What’s the difference?” he wanted to know, sounding grumpy even to his own ears.

      “‘But I tell you,’” she quoted softly, “‘Do not swear at all: either by heaven, for it is God’s throne; or by the earth, for it is His footstool; or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the Great King.’”

      Stephen gaped at her. Had she just quoted the Bible to him?

      “It’s from Matthew, chapter five, verses thirty-four and thirty-five.”

      She had quoted the Bible to him!

      “So what are you,” he demanded, scowling, “some kind of religious nut?”

      Folding her small, delicate hands, she regarded him serenely. “Yes, I suppose you could say that, if ‘religious nut’ is code for Christian.”

      Realizing that he’d insulted her, he deepened his frown, muttering, “No offense.”

      “None taken,” she replied lightly, smiling that smile again.

      He had the distinct impression that she felt sorry for him and that it had nothing to do with his physical condition.

      “Guess your aunts are religious, too?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      Disconcerted, he said nothing more on the subject, just lay there frowning at her. What on earth, he wondered sourly, had he gotten himself into now?

      Aaron had touted Chatam House as a bona fide mansion, a posh throwback to an age of bygone opulence, owned and maintained by three dotty old maids with more money than sense, a trio of do-gooders so far out of the loop that they wouldn’t know a juicy news item if it bit them. He had seemed right on the money, going by yesterday’s brief impressions. In truth, Stephen had been so exhausted and in such pain from the nearly fifty-mile trip from the Dallas hospital down to the smaller city of Buffalo Creek in Aaron’s luxury sedan that he’d barely registered the old ladies’ names or faces. Before making the laborious climb up the curving staircase behind Chester, their balding butler, they had informed him that he was to be installed in the “small suite,” so called because the sitting room was the smallest in the house.

      Stephen supposed Chatam House was opulent enough, provided one admired antiques and crystal chandeliers, but he missed his own place and especially his spacious private bath, complete with sauna, walk-in shower, television and music system. This room didn’t even have a closet, for pity’s sake, just an enormous antique wardrobe, not that he had many clothes with him, just baggy shorts and sweatpants and cutup T-shirts to accommodate his injuries. Now he learned that he’d landed smack-dab in the middle of a pack of “godsdienstige ijveraars,” as his stepfather would say, otherwise known as “religious zealots.”

      Stephen had been acquainted with other Christians, of course, his American grandmother, for one. She’d died after his parents had divorced when he was eight and his mother had taken him back to Holland with her to live. Some of his friends back in Groningen, where they had lived with his mother’s parents before her remarriage, had been professing Christians, but they’d never talked about it much. Even some of the guys on the hockey team were Christians, but none of them had ever gone so far as to quote the Bible to him! The most any of them had done was invite him to church, though he’d never gone.

      He had enough problems now without finding that he’d landed in the midst of a bunch of religious eccentrics. In fact, he’d say that the very last thing he needed right now was to land in the midst of a bunch of religious eccentrics.

      The thing was, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Any hotel large enough to accommodate his needs would also leave him open to the sharp eyes of the press. He had considered convalescing at Aaron’s house, but that, too, was under constant surveillance by the local sportswriters. Plus, Stephen couldn’t quite bring himself to impose on the newlyweds. Chatam House had seemed like the answer, with Buffalo Creek being close enough to allow Aaron easy access but far enough from the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex area to keep the press off his scent.

      At this point, his only hope was that the press would not make a big deal of the circumstances of the accident that had knocked him out of the playoffs so that management of the Blades hockey team would not feel duty-bound to activate the good conduct clause of his contract and cut him from the team.

      That alone would keep him where he was here in Chatam House, godsdienstige ijveraars or not.

      Chapter Two

      Kaylie Chatam walked around the bed and gathered up the other pillow, saying, “You’ll need to sit up a bit in order to eat.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Stephen muttered on a sigh, grateful for something to think about besides his predicament. He began struggling up onto his right elbow again.

      Kaylie swiftly moved back around the bed, her flats slapping lightly against the gleaming hardwood floor. She reached his side and wedged the pillow beneath his head and shoulders, but it still wasn’t enough to allow him to eat without decorating himself with his food.

      “Let me help you move up on the pillows a little more.”

      Leaning across him, she slid her hands into the crevices between his torso and arms. He was surprised at the wiry strength that allowed her to actually be of help. After he got settled again, she briskly straightened his T-shirt so that it didn’t bind his shoulders and neck. Next, she spread the towel across his chest. Embarrassed by his helplessness, Stephen mumbled, “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      Her soft, rather husky voice sent an odd shiver through him.

      “Would you like for me to examine your incisions?”

      He shook his head, his right hand going to the spot on his right side where they’d opened him up. “The doctor took a look last night. Said everything seemed fine.”

      Nodding, she seemed to cast about the room for something more to do. Stephen’s gaze followed her.

      Despite the lack of certain amenities, he decided that this was really a very elegant room. The cool creams and warm golds, set against a milky brown background, showed off the expensive antiques, rich brocades and matching stripes to perfection.

      From where he lay, he could look straight through the open doorway to the gracefully proportioned, brown velvet sofa, placed squarely in the center of a large, truly beautiful cream-on-gold rug positioned in front of an ornate plastered fireplace. He recalled an armchair upholstered in striped satin and a writing desk of some sort, as well as crystal lamps and gold-framed paintings.

      It was all a little Victorian for his personal taste,