Secret Dad

And it was affecting him. A hot, heavy pulse was beginning to beat in his veins. Feeling like this just wasn’t right—not for her, the woman he’d idolized for years. Oh hell, face it. She was the woman he’d lusted after for years. The woman he’d never thought he would get anywhere near. And now—here he was. And she was taking off his pants.

“How’s your shirt?” she asked, shaking out the pants and laying them near the fireplace.

“Just a little wet around the edges,” he said quickly. “It’s okay.”

She touched it and gave him a scornful look. “Hand it over,” she said cheerfully, turning to stoke her little fire “We might as well try, at least, to keep you from catching pneumonia.”

He pulled the shirt over his head and handed it to her, grabbing a throw that lay along the back of the couch and covering his semi-naked body with it just as she turned back to him.

“Wait a minute,” she said, sliding in to sit on the coffee table where she could have easy access to him. “I want to have a look at that leg.”

“Hey, no—” he began, but her small hands were already pushing back the blanket and beginning to gently probe around the joint.

“I can’t take the place of a doctor,” she told him as she worked. “But I do know something about this.” She glanced up and met his startled gaze. “I volunteer at the local hospital one day a week,” she explained with a quick smile. “That’s where I’ve been getting my practice at disrobing men.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. There she was, her beautiful face clouded with intensity as she tested his leg, her gorgeous breasts moving in that flimsy blue halter top as she worked, her warm hands on his rough skin. A feeling very near despair came over him. He felt like a man drowning in pure gold. Too much of a good thing couldn’t help but bring on disaster. Could it?

“I’ve had a lot of experience with sprains and breaks,” she went on as she probed. “In the winter, we get a lot of skiers. And skiers get a lot of leg injuries.”

He was speechless. He felt almost mesmerized by her touch on his leg, and he stared at her, heart thumping. What had happened? Had his fall taken him through the looking glass? Was this heaven or something? Was this woman an angel?

No. No angel’s touch would have stirred his blood the way her hands did. He moved restlessly, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and forcing himself to keep his mind from straying into forbidden territory. You weren’t supposed to think about angels like that.

“No kidding,” he responded lamely at last. “A candy-striper, huh?”

She nodded, a small frown of concentration puckering her brow as she evaluated his condition. He took a deep breath and tried counting backwards from a hundred, but he kept losing his place. All he could think about was Charlie, volunteer health worker, rescuer of damaged hikers. Angel or no angel, the woman seemed to be trying out for sainthood. Next she was going to tell him that she went around every morning and let wolves and foxes out of traps. Fed the starving. Let the homeless live on her porch. It was a bit much. He wasn’t sure why, but he halfway resented her goodness.

Maybe it was because all this altruism didn’t fit with the image he’d had of her years ago. She’d been lovely and appealing—but just as self-centered and snooty as most of the well-bred and overindulged girls at the private school where he’d seen her. Something had changed her. Either that, or she was putting up a very convincing front.

“I don’t think anything is broken,” she told him, still at work with her strong slender fingers. “But your cartilage is shot, isn’t it? And your patella...”

“Ow,” he muttered, jerking away as her hand found a raw nerve. His movement displaced the blanket and it slipped down off his chest. She reached automatically to straighten it for him, and he reached at the same time. She would have beaten him to it, but something stopped her, shocked her for a moment. He saw the stunned look in her eyes and he knew what it was. The blanket had uncovered the huge, jagged scar on his chest. She’d seen it, and now she was going to draw away in horror. It happened every time.

He pulled the blanket up and then he waited for it, holding his breath, and the tension grew tight as a drum. He forced himself to look into her eyes. If he saw even a hint of pity there...

“I bet you’ll have plenty of stories to tell your grandchildren,” she said lightly, reaching to cover his scarred leg as well. “You certainly seem to carry around a lot of reminders of adventures past.”

He gazed at her in wonder as she rose above him. No one had ever come that close to saying exactly the right thing before.

She leaned over him, tucking in the blanket, and as she did, the halter top gapped again, showing everything but the very tips of her breasts, and her hair slid down like a fragrant veil, brushing his face, and the world seemed to be spinning out of control. Like a man in a dream, he reached out, acting on pure instinct, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. She was so soft, so light, and desire for her swept through him like a surge in the sea. She didn’t try to pull away. She looked startled, but not afraid. She stared into his gaze, her face only inches from his, and he searched her violet eyes, but he couldn’t read her real reaction. Still, he knew he could kiss her easily. It would take only a slight tug to pull her down on top of him and take her mouth with his. The urge to do it choked in his throat.

But he couldn’t. This wasn’t any woman he’d picked up in the forest on an afternoon’s walk. This was Charlyne Chandler, for God’s sake. What the hell did he think he was doing?

He released her without saying a word, and she drew back slowly. Was that regret he caught in her gaze? Or maybe disgust? He couldn’t tell. And maybe he didn’t even want to know.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he told her softly as she sat back on the coffee table.

“Do what?” she asked, brushing the hair back away from her face.

He watched her with narrowed eyes. “When a man’s been out on the desert for a few days, you shouldn’t wave a glass of water in front of him unless you’re going to let him take a drink.” He winced once the words were out of his mouth. It had seemed like a good metaphor when he’d thought of it, but out loud, it sounded very silly. He looked at her, wondering what she thought.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then she burst into laughter, holding her arms in close and rocking with it. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

He shrugged, suppressing a smile himself. “I’m just warning you. A man can only take so much temptation.”

“You’re not a regular man,” she protested, rising from the table. “You’re a wounded man.”

“I’d have to be a dead man not to react to—”

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, not wanting him to describe what he was looking at. But she began to edge away from him. “Let me just slosh my way to my room and change into something else. Like a raincoat, maybe.” Turning, she left the room.

He lay back and berated himself. Well, that was just great. Now he’d offended her. He hadn’t meant to do that. He swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to end up on a woman’s couch today, but here he was. And the sooner he got out of here the better.

She was back in a moment, and he noticed she’d changed her clothes. The air had turned chilly, unfortunately, and she’d put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. There would be no more luscious vistas of smooth, clear skin, no more glimpses of cleavage. In a way, it was almost a relief. Maybe now the charged atmosphere would calm down a little.

She dropped to the floor in front of the embers that filled her fireplace and began to shove the glowing coals with a poker. He watched as she put on a log, stirred the ashes, and got a few flames to flicker at the wood. For just a moment he was tempted to give her advice on her technique, but he caught himself just in time.

But then he began to wonder—what was she doing here in these primitive surroundings? The Charlyne he remembered belonged in mansions, with graceful staircases climbing to the sky and gardeners trimming the roses and a woman who took your coat when you came in. This was a whole new side of her and he wondered where it had come from.

She went on talking, chatting about simple things, not expecting a response from him, and to his surprise, he was relaxing, feeling almost comfortable. She had a knack. He was soothed, just beginning to get sleepy, when there was a scratching sound, and a short bark from outside, and she rose with a smile.

“And now you’re about to meet the reason I don’t feel unsafe in this place,” she told him as she went toward the sound. “Here you go.” She threw open the door. “Meet Sabrina.”

Sabrina was a dark husky, big and furry and very, very curious. She knew Denver was there right away and raced to the couch, her nails scratching on the wood floor.

“Hold it, girl,” Charlie cried, coming after her quickly. “Sabrina has been known to take exception to some men who have been in this house,” she added, watching the dog and the man meet. “She’s never actually bitten anyone, but you never know.”

But the big dog didn’t hesitate. Rising up on her hind legs, she placed her paws right on Denver’s chest and began to sniff him all over. Charlie made a move as though to pull her back, but Denver reached up and gave her a rough caress, letting Charlie know he was perfectly willing to put up with Sabrina’s test. The dog let out a sharp bark, wagged her tail twice, and settled back down, almost seeming to give Charlie a nod as she went. Charlie laughed.

“You big old faker,” she told her pet, giving her a rub on the top of her head as she passed.

Denver watched her go. “Nice dog,” he said. “She’s got eyes like an old Indian sage. Like she’s carrying around the wisdom of the ages.”

Charlie shook her head. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s just a puppy at heart.” Moving quickly, she began picking things up, making small talk as she went.

He was hearing the sound of her voice more than the words. It was like music. She went into the kitchen and began fixing something. He assumed it was for dinner, though it was still early. He stared into the fire and listened to her talk. Her voice was quick, just like her hands. The sound she made was light and sunny, like the song a perfect stream sang as it danced over polished stones. He closed his eyes for a moment. He could almost taste her.

There was a clattering of pans and the sound of water running. Now she was humming a lively tune. He had an urge to see her and he hunched himself up higher against the arm of the couch so that he could look across the room and into the kitchen.

“Is it really that much fun to cook?” he asked her as the humming went on and on.

She glanced up, as though astonished he was still there. “You’d be surprised,” she said, laughing, her hair swinging about her shoulders.

“It does smell good,” he admitted.

“Do you like pot roast?”

Pot roast. How many years had it been since he’d had good old homemade pot roast? His diet over the last few years had tended toward hamburgers or a taco grabbed on the fly—that, or the native cuisine of whatever country he was working in. Pot roast took a long time. Mothers made pot roast. It was the sort of dinner that had love cooked right into it—along with Sunday afternoons and going to church with the family.