‘Ellie, please.’ Maybe she’d misjudged him…

‘But not before you’ve got some strapping on your knee.’

‘There’s no time for that. I’ll sort it out when I get there,’ she assured him, lying through her teeth. ‘A lift is more than enough—’

‘I’ll do it now,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll take you to the local hospital and let them do it.’ He didn’t wait for her to choose, which suggested he was a fast learner, but put his arm around her waist. It must have been shock that stilled the ‘get lost; I’ll take a cab’ retort that flew to her lips, and made redundant his follow-up, ‘How will you beat off burglars and mow the lawn if you’re laid up with a crook knee?’

Pressed against the soft weave of his jacket, his arm supporting her, she felt the words still in her throat. This, she decided, must be what being swept off your feet must feel like.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is ridiculous.’

‘I agree. You should be lying down with a cold compress on your leg. Maybe if I tempted you with something from my extensive library of gothic novels you might think again?’

He could tempt her, full-stop, she thought, shocking herself, as she looked up at him. Despite the sense of humour shortfall and the high-level bossiness. She must be a lot shallower than she thought. For once, however, she managed to keep her thoughts to herself; maybe discretion, once admitted, seeped into the mind and took over.

‘Any other time.’ She sounded breathless. Totally pathetic…

‘It’s a one-time offer,’he said. Then, reluctantly, ‘Oh, well, it’s your knee—’

‘Right.’ She swallowed, gathered herself. ‘So leave me to worry about it. Let’s go.’

‘The accident, however, was partially my fault—’

‘Partially?’

He shrugged. She felt the movement, rather than saw it. ‘All right, I’ll take full responsibility. But I don’t suppose kicking your bike improved matters.’

Oh…rhubarb-and-custard! But of course he’d seen her childish outburst, or he wouldn’t be standing here now, with his arm around her waist.

‘And as your employer, however unwittingly…’ make that ‘unwillingly’ she thought ‘…at the moment of impact, I’m going to have to insist on some rudimentary precautions. Just in case you’re unable to work for weeks and decide to sue me.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous?’ There went the discretion, she thought, as he gave her a look that suggested it wasn’t him. ‘Really! I like living here.’ More importantly, ‘Lady Gabriella’ lived here; in fact she was doing a brilliant job of fixing the place up, if only on paper. Even she wasn’t mad enough to re-gild frames, actually plant the herb garden she’d planned, or paint the sagging summerhouse—another coat of paint would probably bring it tumbling down. ‘I love living in that ridiculous little turret.’

‘You do?’

He could have tried harder to disguise his regret.

‘I do.’ The house inspired her. ‘Why would I do anything to put that at risk?’ Then, in a moment of inspiration, ‘Besides, Adele is my employer, not you.’

‘Since I own the house, that’s debatable.’

‘I know nothing about that. My agreement is with her, so I couldn’t sue you, could I?’ His eyes narrowed, and it occurred to her that she might have accidentally hit on the perfect delaying tactic. ‘Maybe you should talk to her about it?’ she suggested.

‘I will.’

You can try, she thought. One of the reasons his sister had wanted someone responsible in the house was because she didn’t want to be bothered with long distance emergencies such as frozen pipes, or squatters, or tiles blowing off in a gale.

Didn’t want to be bothered full-stop. In fact she’d made it perfectly clear that she thought her brother should sell the place and buy something modern and easily run, like her.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that she’d imagined Dr Faulkner as some half-witted old bloke, lost in his books.

‘Look,’ she said, checking her watch, because it was so hard to think when she was looking at him, ‘if we don’t make a move right now, I’m going to be late.’

‘Then the sooner you stop arguing,’he said, ‘the better.’

With his arm about her waist she was very up-close-and-personal indeed, and his eyes warned her that she was testing his patience.

‘Who’s arguing?’ she asked. Not that he’d bothered to wait for her to humour him. Instead, with one arm he lifted her clear off the ground so that, dangling at his side, her only option was to fling her own arms around his neck and hang on as he carried her through the front door, down the hall and into the kitchen.

Maybe ‘swept off her feet’ was an exaggeration, but if he had done that it would have been hideously embarrassing. Far too reminiscent of being carried over the threshold.

Besides, it was a terrific neck.

Strong, with smooth skin and a soft mane of silky hair that brushed against her bare arm. He smelt good, too. Nothing fancy, just a tweedy, leathery, totally male smell. There was no doubt about it, the man was solid hero material. He just needed to lighten up, smile once in a while.

He lowered her onto a hard kitchen chair, held her there for a moment, presumably concerned that she might spring to her feet and make a bid for freedom.

He didn’t just have amazingly blue eyes, she realised, but seriously wonderful eyelashes, too.

‘First-aid kit?’ he prompted.

‘Umm?’ Then blushed furiously as she realised that it wasn’t him hanging on to her. On the contrary, she was the one with her arms still around his neck, clinging on like a limpet. ‘Oh. It’s under the sink,’ she said, using one of her arms to wave in that direction. ‘A red box with a white cross…’

She managed to keep her mouth tightly closed as he sorted through the contents, found a crêpe bandage. Watched curiously, but still in silence, as he fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, filled a bowl with it. Then he dropped in the bandage.

Oh, no…

‘You’re not coming near me with that!’

‘No?’ He poked at the bandage to make sure it was thoroughly soaked in the icy water, then glanced at her. ‘I thought you liked living here.’

She shouldn’t have told him that, she realised belatedly. Knowledge was power. If he knew how important it really was he could use it to make her do anything.

Okay, not anything…

Although, actually, if he smiled…

‘Can you get out of those jeans without help?’he asked.

What?

‘Or would you prefer me to cut up the leg?’ He held up a small pair of scissors and snipped graphically at the air with them.

‘Your choice,’ he prompted.

‘No!’It wasn’t just the fact that they were her favourite jeans that made her capitulate. Annoying as it was to have to admit it, she knew he was right. She’d never last five minutes in the scrum of a Chamber of Commerce reception without some kind of strapping on her knee. She wouldn’t be doing it at all if Sue hadn’t been desperate. It was her Writers’ Circle night, and she was going to miss the first half of the meeting.

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, snapping open the button at the waist, pausing for him to turn around, give her a little privacy in which to wriggle them over her bottom.

He just waited for her to get on with it, and maybe she was being unnecessarily coy. Once they were off, they were off…Her legs would be bare and, since she was wearing a crop top, her knickers were going to be on show.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved that she’d opted for comfortable, sensible white knickers, or sorry that she wasn’t wearing her barely there special occasion scarlet thong that might just have brought a blush to his cheeks and made him regret being quite so bossy.

She let her jeans crumple in a heap around her feet, but she didn’t dare kick them away and risk doing any more damage.

Apparently unmoved by the sight of her naked limbs, he eased them over her feet, tossed them over a nearby chair, and then lifted her injured leg, propping her foot against his leg while he prodded her knee, all the time watching her face to see if she flinched. But, given sufficient time to compose herself, she could keep a straight face, too. She needed it when, apparently satisfied that there was no serious damage, he used the icy bandage to bind her knee with deft efficiency.