handed him the paper, shot out a quick goodbye and was gone, swift as a frightened hare. Watching her move through the shade of bobbing palm fronds toward a bus stop, he shifted his weight to one leg and scratched his temple. Fourteen days and nights in China suddenly seemed like a very long time.
Walking to his car, Armand opened her note. He stopped in his tracks to read the message three times.
Give me some space!
His grin was slow. He’d give her two weeks. After that, he couldn’t promise anything.
CHAPTER TWO
TAMARA trudged in through her apartment’s paint-flaked doorway, holding her wrist, fighting tears of pain and frustration.
For six days she had rushed around at the salon, most of the time on her feet. She’d battled constant morning sickness and had graciously accepted the pitiful wage. But a collision with a fellow employee, which had left her wrist swollen and sore, was the final straw. After writing her resignation and a twenty-minute walk home, she was done in—too exhausted to think, too tired to care. An earthquake could shake the continent and she just might sleep through it.
Her purse dropped with a thud near the bedroom door. After kicking off her flats, she dug a bag of green peas from the ancient freezer and ripped the tea towel from its kitchen rack. With both wrapped around her throbbing wrist, she sank horizontally into the worn velour couch.
She was drifting when the phone buzzed.
Throwing her good hand over her eyes, she groaned. “Not interested. Go away.”
But it could be the employment agency. She might want to crash for a month, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Pushing up, she brushed the stack of overdue bills aside and rescued the side table handset.
Melanie’s voice chirped on the line. “Me and Kristen wondered how you were doing. It’s been over a week. Guess it’s finally sinking in, huh?”
Tamara wedged back into the lumpy cushions and stared at the ceiling. One benefit to being busy and exhausted— she hadn’t been able to mire herself in the depths of grief. Marc was gone; yes, it was sinking in, and she would miss him more than anyone could know. As head of her own company, she’d projected an outgoing personality, but at heart she was shy.
At twenty-six her natural bent was still to do it alone. But she’d felt so comfortable, so herself whenever she’d been with Marc. That was one of the reasons he’d been so special to her and why the baby would mean even more.
She patted the white cotton shirt where she imagined her secret bump had begun to grow. “Thanks for calling, Mel. I’m doing okay.” Her gaze slid to her university textbooks, stacked in a neat pile on the gray Formica table. She coiled one leg around the other, bare foot tucked behind the opposite jean-clad knee, and turned her back. She wasn’t ready to face that challenge just now.
“What about you guys?” she asked. “Keeping out of trouble?”
While Melanie summarized their week—a weepie movie, two new hairstyles—Tamara forced herself to thumb through the bills: a reminder utility notice threatening disconnection and a warning in ugly red letters announcing rent was two weeks late. She wondered how they evicted people these days. Would she be marched out by the scruff of her neck?
A booming rap on the door echoed through the room. Her breath caught and the bill crunched in her hand.
Melanie paused. “Something wrong?”
Stomach sinking, Tamara eased to her feet. “Just the door. I’ll call back.”
If this was the landlord ready to toss her out, no use delaying it. There were always the options of government benefits, or cheaper accommodation. She looked around the matchbox room. Was there anything cheaper than this?
The bell rang next, long and shrill. Ironing back frazzled wisps that escaped from her waist-length ponytail, Tamara moved one foot in front of the other. After touching the cross at her throat, she yanked on the handle and her heart exploded through her chest.
First thing she noticed was dark trousers sheathing long masculine legs like a work of art. Next, an open-necked business shirt, cuffs folded back on hard, bronzed forearms. Higher, stubble smudged a movie-star square jaw, while a lick of black hair hung over a widow’s peak. The gaze was blue, lazy and hypnotic.
Armand De Luca.
Partway recovered, she exhaled in a whoosh. “I thought you said two weeks.”
He hinted at a smile. “Turned into one.”
Still off balance, she rested a cheek against her fingers, which were curled around the door rim, and surrendered to the obvious. “Don’t tell me. You’ve already heard.”
His expression sharpened. “Let me guess. You’ve tossed in your salon receptionist towel.” His attention zeroed in on the wrapped bag of peas pinioned against her lower ribs and he frowned. “I can also see why.” Without invitation, he crossed the threshold and gingerly collected her injured hand.
Her first impulse was to twist away, tell him to keep his distance. She wasn’t at all certain she welcomed what his touch did to her—like being sucked in by the tow of a tidal wave. But she was so tired; avoiding his hands-on concern only seemed childish. Besides, his big tanned hand supporting her much smaller one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.
“I’d invite you in—” she watched him untangle the towel, then gently roll her wrist back and forth “—but you already are.”
His focus was on the swollen joint. “This looks bad.”
The hot pad of his index finger nudged the purple mark, which was turning greenish-yellow, and a searing pain lifted the hair on her scalp. Water flooding her eyes, she broke free of his hold and moved toward the couch, cradling her wrist like a baby.
Rubbing a set of knuckles over his sandpaper jaw, he followed. “That needs to be looked at.”
“It just needs rest.”
He took her in, from her muzzy ponytail to her naked toes, and sent a disapproving look that made her feel ten years old. “You need rest.”
Bingo! “You’re right. So if you don’t mind…” She made to crowd him back out the door, but she had more chance of moving Ayres Rock. For now, she was beaten.
She pasted on a plastic smile, not intending to hide her frustration. “So, what can I do for you today, Mr. De Luca?”
His voice deepened, part velvet, part growl. “It’s Armand. And you can come home with me.”
His statement pushed her back with the force of a shove. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words, and presence, affected her.
Her grin was haughty. “Persistence must be your middle name. ‘Come home with me,’ just like that.” She fell back into the couch. Her wrist screamed and she yelped at the pain.
His athletic frame folded down beside her. The ledge of his broad shoulders swung over and the room seemed to shrink. “Not
