hand between them. “Sam. Come away from the dark side.”
Sam blinked, the glazed blankness leaving his eyes. “I could dig up a clean T- shirt.”
With Sam’s help, Lucy wrapped her hair in a turban. He kept her steady, lightly gripping her hips as she balanced on one foot and brushed her teeth at the sink. When she was finished, he carried her to the bed, handed her a T-shirt, and turned his back tactfully as she put it on. The turban became dislodged, its weight tugging at her hair. Lucy pulled it away and finger-combed the damp tangled locks.
“What is this?” she asked, glancing at the squares and letters covering the front of the shirt.
“The periodic table of the elements.” Sam sank to his haunches to remove the covering from her splint.
“Oh, good. I’d hate to be out somewhere and not know the chemical symbol for rhodium.”
“Rh,” Sam said, using a small pair of scissors to snip through layers of wet plastic.
Lucy smiled. “How did you know that?”
“It’s located on your left breast.” Sam tossed the discarded plastic tape to the floor and examined the splint. “If you feel up to it, I’ll bring you downstairs for a change of scenery. We’ve got a big sofa, a flat-panel TV, and Renfield to keep you company.”
As she watched the daylight playing over his hair, Lucy was unnerved by the feeling that had swept over her, something beyond gratitude or mere physical attraction. Her pulse jumped in several places at once, and she found herself wanting, needing, impossible things.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.”
“No trouble.”
Slowly Lucy reached for his head, letting her fingers delve into the satisfying heavy locks of his hair. It felt unspeakably good to touch him. She wanted to explore him, learn every texture of him.
She thought that Sam would object. Instead he went still, his head bent. Stroking her way down to the solid nape of his neck, she heard his breath fracture.
“It is trouble,” Lucy said gently. “Isn’t it?”
Sam looked up at her then, his lashes half lowered over unearthly blue, his features taut. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was suspended in their shared gaze, between them, filling their lungs with every breath.
Definitely trouble. The kind that had nothing to do with splints or bandages or sickroom care.
Sam shook his head as if to clear it, and reached for the covers. “I’ll let you rest for a few minutes, while I—”
In a headlong moment, Lucy curled her arm around his neck and brought her mouth to his. It was crazy, reckless, and she didn’t care. Sam took all of a half second to respond, his mouth fastening to hers, a faint groan coming from his throat.
He had kissed her before, but this was something different. This was a waking dream of kissing, a feeling of tumbling with nothing to catch her. Her eyes closed against the view through the windows, the blue ocean, the white sun. Sam’s arms went around her back, supporting her, while his lips caught hers at varying angles and absorbed the small sounds that climbed in her throat. She went weak, molding to his chest, unable to get close enough. Dragging his mouth from hers, Sam kissed her neck, using his tongue and the edges of his teeth as he worked his way to her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her skin. “Lucy, I’m not—”
She searched blindly for his mouth, rubbing her parted lips across his shaven jaw until Sam shuddered and kissed her again. His mouth became roughly coaxing, searching deeper until Lucy gripped the back of his shirt in shaking handfuls.
One of his hands pushed beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers cool and textured against the burning skin of her side. Her breasts ached beneath the loose garment, the tips tightening in anticipation of his touch. She groped for his hand, urging it upward. “Please—”
“No. God, Lucy—” He broke off with a quiet curse and tugged the shirt back into place. Forcing himself to let go of her, he scrubbed both his hands over his face as if awakening from a deep sleep. As Lucy reached for him again, he caught her wrists reflexively and kept them manacled in his hands.
Sam kept his face averted, his throat rippling with hard swallows. “Do something,” he muttered. “Or I’ll…”
Lucy’s eyes went round as she realized he was fighting for control. “What … do you want me to do?”
When Sam could bring himself to answer, a wry note had entered his voice. “Some distraction would be nice.”
Lucy looked down at the periodic table that covered the front of her shirt. “Where is glass?” she asked, trying to read the chemical elements upside down.
“Not on the periodic table. Glass is a compound. It’s mostly silica, which is … crap, I can’t think straight. It’s SiO2. Here…” He touched the Si, which happened to be located high on the right side of her chest. “And here.” The pad of his thumb brushed the O on her left side, close to the tip of her breast.
“Glass also has sodium carbonate,” she said.
“I think that’s…” Sam paused, struggling to concentrate. “… Na2CO3.” He studied the front of the shirt and shook his head. “I can’t show you sodium carbonate. Dangerous territory.”
“What about calcium oxide?”
His gaze scanned the shirt until he found it. He shook his head. “I’d have you on your back in about five seconds.”
They both started at the harsh metallic ring of the doorbell, a Victorian hand-turn style.
Sam left the bed with a groan, moving slowly. “When I said I wasn’t going to make any moves on you—” He opened the door and stood at the threshold, pulling in a couple of deep breaths. “I was planning for it to be a reciprocal arrangement. From now on, hands off. Got it?”
“Yes, but how are you going to take care of me if—”
“Not my hands,” Sam said. “Yours.”
* * *
The doorbell rang a couple more times while Sam made his way downstairs. Heat and arousal played all through him, making it impossible to think straight. He wanted Lucy, wanted to take her slowly and stare into her eyes as he moved inside her, and make it last for
By the time Sam reached the front door, his temperature had cooled sufficiently to allow for clear thinking. He was confronted by his brother Alex, who looked more irate and underfed than usual, his frame rawboned beneath loose-fitting clothes. Clearly Alex was not blossoming in the aftermath of divorce.
“Why do you have the fucking doors locked?” Alex demanded.
“Hey, Al,” Sam said curtly, “it’s good to see you too. Where’s the key I gave you?”
“It’s on my other key chain. You knew I was coming over this morning—if you want free work done on your house, the least you can do is leave the door unlocked.”
“I’ve had a couple other things on my mind besides waiting for you to show up.”
Alex brushed by him, carrying a vintage metal toolbox. As usual, he headed straight for the kitchen, where he would pour himself a scalding cup of black coffee, down it without ceremony, and go to whatever part of the house he happened to be working on. So far he had refused to take any money for his labors, despite the fact that he could have gotten a fortune doing the same work for someone else. Alex was a
