an eyebrow and affect a cool hauteur that was poles apart from the wariness and tension she actually felt. “Then you have the advantage, Mr….?”
She wanted him to say it. She already knew what she was going to hear and that it was already compounding the mystery she’d let herself get caught up in, but she wanted the words to come from his own lips.
“Barnes,” he ground out. “Jay Barnes.”
CHAPTER THREE
Rachel stared, certain she’d misunderstood. When she’d first opened the door, she’d been shocked. She was just as shocked by not hearing him say, “Joe Becket.” Of course, if he had said it, it would have made things more bizarre and creepy than they already were. But it would also have given her the next piece of the puzzle—clarifying what, or rather, who Joe had meant when he’d warned her not to come back here. For an instant she’d believed she had her answer; instead she had a deeper mystery.
Joe Becket…Jay Barnes…J.B. What was going on?
“You going to stand there and let me bleed to death, or are you going to get out of my way?”
This time she almost welcomed Joe’s—Jay’s rudeness. It helped remind her that until she knew more, she couldn’t afford to let him see her confusion.
Hoping he didn’t sense her nervousness, too, she reached out again, waiting for him to give her his hand. “As I said, Mr. Barnes, I’m a doctor. By the looks of what you deem as ‘care,’ it would be in your best interest to let me help.”
He seemed on the verge of refusing—and not politely. Beneath his pronounced five o’clock shadow, the naturally taut muscles along his long jaw worked as he ground his teeth together; his midnight-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, not to mention disapproval.
Maybe he was one of those relics who believed women couldn’t be as good as men in any profession, let alone the sciences. She was used to their small-mindedness, and to the type who found her youth disconcerting.
But was that what she felt emanating from Jay Barnes? She didn’t think so. She had a hunch he would have been reluctant and rude no matter who was offering him help. It allowed her not to take his rejection personally. It also raised her initial question all over again: Why was he behaving this way?
As pain seemed to win out, he slowly extended his left hand toward her, while the look he shot her warned she better be all she’d advertised.
Rachel ignored that. “Come in here so I can work with better light,” she said, stepping back to make room for him.
Once again she sensed his unwillingness, an almost palpable sensation, but at least this time he didn’t take forever to make his decision. When he did step forward, she found herself with yet a new problem—she had to deal with the room itself.
Converted years ago from a closet, the bathroom was narrow and cramped, clearly a room designed for no more than one person at a time. Despite the decorating wisdom of crisp white walls and fixtures that helped add a slight sense of space, she had to work to close herself to a surge of claustrophobia.
Hoping he didn’t sense her uneasiness, she began unfolding the rag. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”
“Only when someone reminds me of it.”
She didn’t bother glancing up at him. Didn’t dare. “There are reasons for the question besides a concern for your comfort, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’d be fine if I hadn’t accidentally bumped it.”
As the final covering fell away and she saw the angry tear of flesh across the outer edge of his palm, Rachel winced inwardly before replying, “No, you wouldn’t. In another twelve to twenty-four hours infection would have set in. What’s more, a simple bandage won’t get it. You need stitches.”
“No stitches.”
Neanderthal, she thought, and shot back, “All right, have it your way. I’ll do what I can with a pressure bandage and an injection of—”
“You’re not giving me any shot, and I’m not paying for one.”
Exasperation won ground. “Who asked you to?”
“Don’t tell me you’d give me a freebie out of the goodness of your heart?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Uh-huh…that’s one way to stay broke.”
There was no admiration or approval in his voice, but there wasn’t any real scorn, either. Relieved, Rachel replied dryly, “It’s been pointed out to me before.”
She dropped the offensive rag into the plastic-lined wastebasket and examined the wound. On a small woman or child the cut would have been critical, but on a man of Jay Barnes’s tall if lanky size it was slightly less severe. Barely medium height herself, she could tuck herself comfortably under his sharp chin. Not that she had any desire to be there, she amended hastily. She’d just thought that if Joe had stood completely straight, he would be close to that height, too.
Disturbed by her wayward thoughts, she retrieved her bag. “How’d this happen?”
“Working.”
“From what I’ve seen of it, Mr. Beauchamp’s establishment is a disaster waiting to happen.” Rachel felt him stiffen and glanced up. His expression, if possible, turned more wary than before. Could he suspect her of spying on him? “It’s a small town,” she said, shrugging. “And you must have figured out by now that our landlady is something of a clearinghouse for all the gossip.”
“Don’t remind me.” Permanent frown lines bisected his straight, stark eyebrows. “So, she mentioned where I worked when she gave you the offical tour of this firetrap?”
His smooth delivery didn’t fool her. She could feel tension radiating from him in powerful waves. It made her own overworked nerves feel like gelatin in an earthquake. “She spoke about everyone.”
Rachel took a sample tube of antibacterial soap out of her bag. “It’s going to sting like crazy, but I need to get the grit washed out of there.” To fill the pulsating silence that followed, she said, “I understand you moved in only a short time before I did?”
He grunted from behind compressed lips.
“Well, that’s what Adorabella, Mrs. Levieux, told me. But I, um, I don’t quite remember where she said you were from?”
“Here and there.”
The response, through gritted teeth, could have been a reaction to her work, but Rachel had a hunch it was also a result of another kind of probing. “Really? I enjoy moving around myself. Ever been to Virginia?”
He shook his head.
“That’s where I’m from.”
“Good for you.”
Resemblance or no resemblance, no way he and Joe Becket could be the same man, Rachel thought, repressing a grimace at his continuing
