Found In Lost Valley. Laurie Paige

in one smooth motion. She scrambled to a sitting position, pulling her sweater into place over her slacks, then stood, careful to set her feet on the carpet rather than his classy wing-tipped shoes, which, she now realized, were what had tripped her up.

      A fierce pain shot up her leg and she sat down abruptly in surprise at this additional indignity. This was not going to be her day.

      “What is it?” he asked, kicking the shoes aside and settling on his haunches in front of her. “Did you hurt yourself?”

      “My ankle, I think.” She thought of all the work that had to be done that morning.

      “Let me see.”

      She froze when he lifted her foot, removed her loafer and probed gently. His fingers were long and lean, the skin deeply tanned in contrast to her paleness. Heat swept up her leg to lodge in some turbulent place inside her.

      “I’m fine—ouch!” she said.

      “There’s swelling and bruising already starting along each side of the ankle bone,” he told her, examining the place again. “We need to ice it down before it gets worse.”

      “Oh, no, that’s okay. I don’t have time. I have to help Marta in the kitchen, with breakfast and all.”

      He shook his head. “You won’t be doing anything on this foot today, or for the week, probably. Maybe we should have Beau take an X ray. It could be fractured.”

      “It isn’t,” she insisted. “I can walk it off.”

      She pushed him away before she did something really stupid, like drag him back onto the bed and… Well, beyond that, she couldn’t think.

      He glanced up at that instant. His hair was mussed, and one stubborn curl fell over his forehead. She swallowed hard as she recalled a time when she’d caught those shiny strands in her fists and pulled his lips to hers.

      Her eyes locked with his. His bare chest moved against her knee as he inhaled sharply.

      She realized he must have seen the blatant hunger that had swept through her at his touch, and she quickly looked away. She wasn’t sure which pained her the most—the sprained ankle or the need that twisted her insides into knots.

      A door slammed in another part of the house.

      “Marta’s here,” Amelia said, relieved. “I have to go.”

      “Give me ten minutes,” he requested.

      When he grabbed his duffel and headed for the bathroom, she hobbled out of the suite and down the hall to the kitchen. Her ankle wasn’t so bad, she decided. She could handle standing on it.

      “What happened to you?” her helper asked, already mixing muffins to go in the oven.

      “Tripped,” Amelia reported wryly.

      “Huh, maybe you’d better take it easy today,” Marta suggested. “I can get the stuff on the buffet.”

      Amelia shook her head. Wonderful smells were coming from the oven, where cinnamon apples had baked to perfection. She’d put them in the night before and set the timer so they’d be ready that morning. She loved the way they scented the whole house and brought her guests hurrying to the great room to sample the simple but delicious fare.

      After making a cup of tea, she slipped on mitts and did fine getting the baking dish out of the oven. But when she turned and stepped forward, pain shot up her leg, so harsh she gasped aloud. Her ankle gave way.

      Hands closed over the mitts and steadied her until she could set the dish on the counter. “I told you to stay put,” Seth snapped, his dark eyes shooting sparks at her.

      “Seth Dalton?” Marta said, looking from him to the hallway behind him. There was only one bedroom in that wing of the house.

      “In the flesh,” he said in that same snarly tone. “Sit here,” he told Amelia, practically tossing her onto a stool and yanking off her shoe, only to throw it aside in one fluid motion. “Where’s some ice?”

      Marta pointed wordlessly.

      Grabbing a dish towel, he filled it with ice chips, then wrapped it around Amelia’s ankle, ending by tying another around the whole. “There,” he said.

      Amelia stared at her foot in consternation. “I can’t work with this on.”

      “Good. Because you’re not going to.”

      With that, he lifted her from the stool, carried her to the sofa in the great room, placed her on it, removed her other shoe and carefully propped both feet on a velvet pillow. He grabbed a chenille throw from the shorter divan, gave it a shake and settled it over her legs.

      After giving her a threatening scowl that told her she’d better stay put, he turned on the gas to start the logs in the large fireplace burning.

      “Anything else you need?” he demanded.

      She shook her head.

      “Breakfast,” Marta called out, observing all this from the kitchen doorway.

      He nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

      Feeling utterly stupid, Amelia stayed where she’d been plunked and wondered what she’d done to deserve this. Her ankle throbbed fiercely, the icy coldness added its own ache, and she felt really, really wretched.

      “Marta says you drink tea.”

      A cup was thrust under her nose. She took it, but not before giving the overbearing Samaritan a glare.

      He grinned and disappeared into the kitchen. For the next half hour, Amelia watched as he brought out trays filled with muffins and loaves of Marta’s special breads, as well as bowls of fruit and yogurt, jars of homemade jams and jellies and the baking dish filled with apples. Soon the sideboard, which she used to let her guests help themselves buffet-style, was filled. Coffee, tea and juice were placed on a granite-topped table close by.

      Right on time at six-thirty, breakfast was ready. Seth went into the kitchen and returned with a tray, which he placed across Amelia’s lap. The cook followed at his heels and gave Amelia a significant glance before handing him a second tray. Marta headed back to the kitchen while Seth hooked the rung of a chair with his foot and pulled it close to the sofa.

      “Ahh, delicious,” he said, using his fork to cut off a bite of baked apple, and eating it with relish. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, seeing her watching him.

      Amelia picked up her fork. “I usually just have fruit in the morning.”

      “You could stand to gain a pound or two,” he advised.

      Huh, that was easy for him to say. If he only knew how hard she worked to keep the weight off!

      But the scrambled eggs looked perfect, as did the sourdough English muffin, which Marta knew she loved. Not to mention the apple oozing with butter and sugar and cinnamon and sitting on a square of flaky crust. After the first bite, Amelia was lost. She cleaned up everything on the plate.

      Seth removed the tray and refilled the teacup without a word, although one black eyebrow did arch upward a bit in a superior male manner. He checked the amount of melting in the ice pack on her ankle, gave a grunt that she assumed meant it was okay, and left to assist Marta.

      For the next three hours, he kept the buffet supplied, her ankle iced and her cup full. Amelia hardly noticed the ache as guests came and went, all of them sympathetic over her fall, their curious glances going often to Seth as he returned to her side between every chore.

      When the meal was over and the nature lovers were out hiking in the blustery wind, since, fortunately, the rain had stopped, she dropped off to sleep, content for the moment.

      Shortly after noon, Beau Dalton entered the B and B, black doctor’s bag in hand. It didn’t take a lot of smarts for Amelia to know why he was there.

      “Ah, the patient,”