Her Fifth Husband?. Dixie Browning

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.