“Sorry.” Her hands fluttered. She had no idea where to put them. He was all around her. The only place to rest them was his shoulders, tangled in his hair, wrapped around his waist. Gripping his butt. Whoa.
He wore black cargo pants, covered with utilitarian pockets, all of which appeared to be in use. A gray T-shirt was stretched out across a broad, muscular chest. He smelled good, too. Like herbs. Rain on the earth, with faint accents of metal and woodsmoke and sea air.
“Here. Sit.” He pulled her until she stumbled down two steps, and coaxed her into sitting down on the top step. “Put your head down.”
She pressed her face against her knees as much to hide from those intense golden eyes as to recover from the head rush.
“How about you let me run you over to the emergency room?” he offered. “Your lips look kind of bluish.”
Lovely. So she looked like death, too. “No, thanks,” she mumbled.
“But he bashed your head against the wall.” He reached around and touched her head. The contact gave her a tingling shock.
She leaned away. His hand dropped. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She sneaked a quick peek at his tattoos as she struggled to her feet. On his neck was the swirling knotwork of a black Celtic cross. The one on his hand was a pair of crossed cutlasses. Pirate swords.
“OK, whatever,” he said. “Just go slow, OK?”
They stood there looking at each other until his brows knitted in a puzzled frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I, uh…” She floundered. “I guess I was just sort of surprised to find you still here, after Edgar left.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shook her head, embarrassed. “It seemed so improbable. A mysterious guy pops up at the eleventh hour, like Batman. He does his thing, saves the day, and whoosh, he disappears.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “But I haven’t done my thing yet.”
What was that supposed to mean? Mrs. Eisley was deaf, and the night was dark, and she was shaking so hard, she could barely stand.
He backed down two steps, hands lifted. “I don’t mean anything sinister. I just meant that I haven’t done the job you called me for yet.”
“Called you for…for what?” She was utterly lost.
“The locksmith. Remember? Your lockout?”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re the locksmith?”
“Yeah.” His sidelong glance was delicately cautious. “And, uh, exactly why is this so hard to believe?”
She looked over six feet and some odd inches of lethally gorgeous male. “I’ve never called a locksmith,” she babbled. “I expected someone with a potbelly and a bald spot. In a blue coverall. Named Irv. Or Mel.”
Smile lines crinkled around his stunning eyes. The topaz color was set off by inky lashes. “Sorry to disappoint you. My name’s Zan.”
He held out his hand, and she took it. His grip was warm and strong. “I see. Zan,” she repeated inanely. “What kind of name is that?”
“Alexander,” he said. “I was named for my dad. He was an Alex. I didn’t like being Alex Jr., so I bullied everybody into calling me Zan.”
She had no business being fluttery. He’d saved her from Edgar, and for that she was grateful, but he was still a black-leather-wearing über-alpha wolf, like all the bad news boyfriends in her checkered past.
He probably ate girls like her for breakfast. They all did. They all had. She had no intention of being eaten for breakfast, ever again.
Her naughty brain took that thought, twirled it around and had a party with it. She rummaged for her keys, remembered why he was there, and blushed. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m kind of rattled.”
“Of course you are.” The locksmith knelt, pulling a leather pouch from one of his pockets. He pulled out a couple of metal tools and gave her a quick, assessing glance. “You still look pretty wobbly.” He took her hand and placed it on his broad shoulder. “Lean on me.”
Her fingers dug into his shoulder through the thick leather. She hadn’t had anybody to lean on for so long.
She barely noticed what he did to her lock. It clicked open after a few seconds. He made a courtly gesture for her to enter. She lifted her hand away and walked in, wishing it had taken longer.
Seconds ticked by. She flipped the light on to break the spell. “Come on in.” Her voice was pitched way too high. “I hope a check is OK.”
“A check is fine.” He stepped into her kitchen, eyes scanning the place with discreet curiosity. Sheba padded daintily over to his feet, sniffed his boots, and began to weave sinuously around his ankles.
Abby was startled. Sheba despised strangers, and she clawed strips out of the hands of anyone presumptuous enough to pick her up.
The locksmith picked her up.
“Careful,” Abby warned. “She’s twitchy. Don’t let her scratch you.”
“Oh, she won’t. Cats love me.” He stroked Sheba’s downy back.
“Really?” she said wistfully. Her last would-be boyfriend had been violently allergic to Sheba. The affair had ended after that panicked trip to the emergency room. Cortisone shots really killed the mood.
“Never met a cat who didn’t.” Sheba purred and flung her head back over his wrist, baring her throat with sluttish kitty abandon.
Abby dragged her eyes away from the spectacle with some effort. “Thank you, by the way,” she said.
He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“No, not for the lockout. I meant for what you did with Edgar.”
He looked uncomfortable. “No big deal. Don’t thank me for that.”
“Too late,” she said. “Thanks anyway. It’s a huge big deal to me.”
He gave her a dismissive nod, followed by a long silence fraught with embarrassment. “I, uh, have to pay you,” she repeated.
“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing expertly behind Sheba’s ears.
“What’s your fee?” she asked. “And is a check OK?”
He looked faintly amused. “You asked me that before.”
Abby discreetly tugged her neckline higher. “Did you answer?”
“Yes.” His deep voice was as soft as silk. “I said a check is fine.”
She let out her breath slowly. “So what’s
