shoulder was the only place to rest her cheek. There, she could smell the summer-heated cotton of his shirt and something nutty and fresh and masculine that was probably shampoo or aftershave.
It was good, the male fragrance. It was familiar, heaven help her. It brought a tangle of powerful, seductive memories, yet still somehow steadied her senses so she kept breathing it, drawing it in through her nostrils in slow pulls of air, while her hair fell across her face and tickled her mouth. She wanted to ask Daniel if he could brush the hair away, but still didn’t trust herself to speak—let alone to make such an intimate request.
Touch my hair. Touch my face. You’ve done it before …
No.
Daniel Porter was carrying her in his arms like a knight rescuing a maiden and his strength and his movement felt so nourishing and good, yet he had no idea who she was.
By the time she was seated inside the patrol car, she felt weak with the aftermath of the short journey. She would have to see if Andy could find something stronger for the migraine pain. These over-the-counter pills were barely taking the edge off. She had to lean against the dash to anchor herself so that the whirling universe would slow down. Once more, her hair hung around her face, hiding skin that must be paper-white by this point. She couldn’t even speak enough right now to say, “I’m sorry.”
Daniel didn’t seem to need the apology. “It’s okay,” he said, just as if she had managed the words. “It’s fine. You’re not heavy.” The tone was friendly, professionally reassuring, with the same measured carefulness she still remembered so well.
As if words were too powerful, sometimes, and might detonate an emotional bomb blast if you spoke too many of them, or if you said the wrong ones.
“Just sit for a bit,” he continued. “I’ll open the windows so you have some air.” She heard the humming sound of the glass lowering in its frame. “Your keys are still in the ignition, right? Just nod.”
But with her throbbing head, speaking was easier than nodding. “Yes.”
“I’ll pull your car over, farther from the road.” He made a momentary pause, then added, “That’s why I thought I should stop and check on you, before, on my way through. Your car isn’t pulled off to a safe distance.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I understand that. It’s okay. It’s a quiet time of day.”
Daniel Porter left her, and she sat with closed eyes and her forehead against the dash and listened to the sound of her car being moved. He was back in a couple of minutes, putting her purse carefully into her lap through the open passenger window, below the stiff forward angle of her upper body, and guiding her hand to close around the keys he gave her. “Got them?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else you needed?” A pause. “I’m sorry, I should have asked before.”
“My bags are in the trunk.”
“Right, okay.”
“But they can stay there until Andy organizes to get my car to his place. Did you lock it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Thank you.”
Poor woman, Daniel thought, as he pulled onto the road. When he’d carried her, every step and every tiny movement he made had seemed to worsen her dizziness and pain, and she’d felt too light and limp in his arms, with her head pillowed on his shoulder like that.
He really would have preferred to take her direct to Mitchum Medical Center, but her brother was a doctor and hadn’t insisted on the need for urgent medical attention, so he deferred to the expert opinion.
Dr. McKinley’s house was only a mile or two from here, in the oldest part of the town, a street of grand old Victorians dating from when nearby marble quarries gave Radford a vibrant economy. The street had gone through a period of decline at one point, and Daniel vaguely remembered from early in his childhood that some of these places had been pretty run-down, divided into cheap apartments or lived in by families who couldn’t afford to keep them maintained.
They weren’t run-down anymore. He passed a bed-and-breakfast place, an architect’s office, an upscale hair and beauty salon, each with a professionally painted sign swinging on pieces of chain hanging from a wooden stand planted in the lawn.
Dr. McKinley’s wouldn’t have a sign. Which of the elegant houses was it? He had the number, but glanced sideways to see if his passenger might point it out.
She wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
She still had her head pressed onto the dash, with her forearms folded above. As he’d noted before, she looked too thin, as if she hadn’t been eating properly or as if she burned all her calories in stress. Suddenly there seemed something familiar about her. He couldn’t place it, but realized that he easily might have seen her up here before if coming to visit her brother was a regular thing.
No, he thought. It wasn’t that kind of familiarity. It had been triggered by seeing her beside him in the car, as if he’d had her as a passenger in his vehicle before.
He couldn’t think about it now … 2564 … 2570 … This was Dr. McKinley’s house right here, nicely done up but not too feminine or fancy. Cream and dark green paint, newly stained timber on the front porch.
He turned into the first of two driveways. “Do you have a key to your brother’s house?”
“No, but I know where he keeps one. Could you … get it for me?”
“If you tell me where it is.”
She described the location, somewhat less obvious than under the doormat or sitting on top of the frame. Fourth planter pot to the left of the driveway, under the dark gray rock. She waited in the car while he unlocked the front door—the big Victorian was divided into two apartments, and he guessed that Andy’s was 2572, not 2572A—then he had to come back to help her out. She clung to him and leaned on him as if he was the only fixed point in the whole universe, but at least she was walking on her own, this time.
Suddenly, holding her in his arms once again, recognition came. It elbowed its way past the changed hair color and style, the pale face beneath the large sunglasses, the weight loss, and came fully into focus.
It was Scarlett.
Scarlett Sharpe.
Shoot! Damn! It really was!
Scarlett Sharpe was Andy McKinley’s sister?
Daniel didn’t know if she had recognized him. He thought she was probably in such bad shape that she hadn’t. He must have said his name to Andy, but had she been listening? Had she made the connection? Did she remember? What had he said? Too much?
He felt a wash of anger and embarrassment and regret and yearning and vivid memory, as well as a sense of unfinished business. He fought to keep any of it from showing then realized that she wasn’t going to be picking up on those kinds of emotions, when she was struggling to take one step in front of another.
“I
