she could deal with Nick in a manner that was both friendly and detached.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
You’re tired, that’s all. Weariness can do funny things to a person.
“Take a seat in the living room.”
He pointed at a small space to her right. White walls and a minimum of furniture offered a slightly neglected appearance—as if Nick spent as little time in his home as she did in her apartment in Chicago. It was a bachelor’s domain, dominated by a huge sound-and-television system, a battered recliner and a table piled high with medical journals. There were no telltale signs of a woman—no bric-a-brac, no photographs, no hint of lace or flowers.
Lucy couldn’t deny that his single status—if she’d guessed correctly—would make matters easier. She was about to infringe on Nick’s time in a completely overbearing way, and she didn’t need a jealous wife impatiently tapping her toe in the background.
Stepping into the sunken living room, Lucy turned to face Nick. Since he’d remained in the entry hall, she was forced to look up, up, before meeting his dark gaze.
“Nice place,” she said, even though the older home wasn’t at all what she’d expected from a successful surgeon. She had been so sure she’d find him living in a mansion above the Avenues, not a cul-de-sac near Westminster College.
“What are you doing here, Lucy?”
So much for chitchat.
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a sound, he held up one hand.
“No. Wait here. I need to get dressed first.”
Turning on his heel, he’d taken two of the carpeted steps before she asked, “Do you often answer the door in your bathrobe?”
Immediately, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. As he peered at her over the railing, a tingling awareness shot down her spine. She became uncomfortably conscious of the white terry cloth, which revealed part of his chest and the slick wetness of his skin. Nick’s body was more powerful than she remembered, the muscles sculpted and well defined—yet another reason for her to believe he was unmarried. In her experience, married men usually didn’t have much time to devote to a rigorous training schedule in a gym.
But that didn’t mean he was unattached. There might not be a Mrs. Hammond, but chances were that Nick was involved with someone.
“I was expecting a colleague from the hospital with some urgent reports.”
“I see.” But even though the explanation seemed reasonable, she wondered if he was telling the truth. Maybe Nick was giving her an excuse so that he wouldn’t have to admit he was waiting for someone else. Someone who wouldn’t mind being greeted in such a familiar manner.
She was tempted to blurt out her suspicions, but before she could say a thing, Nick climbed the rest of the stairs and disappeared from view.
“That went well,” she grumbled under her breath.
Removing her hands from her pockets, she wiped them down the legs of her jeans, damning the moisture that revealed her nervousness. Try as she might, she couldn’t push away the image of Nick standing in the stairwell, the overhead light bathing his skin in a layer of gold.
Pull yourself together, Lucy, she inwardly chided. She’d come to Nick to ask him for his help as a surgeon.
He could never be anything more to her than that.
NICK HAMMOND SLAMMED his bedroom door behind him, dropped the robe on the floor and cursed softly under his breath.
When he’d heard the doorbell through the drumming of the shower, Nick hadn’t dreamed that it would be anyone other than Max Garcia. Max was a fellow surgeon who’d wanted a second opinion on the results of some tests for a young patient. If Nick had even thought that Lucy might be waiting on his porch…
She was the last person Nick would’ve expected to see. Five years ago, he’d arrived at the Salt Lake City courthouse intent on marrying her. Lucy’s rejection had been an emotional blow. When he’d watched her disappear, he’d been so sure he’d never see her again.
Since then, he’d done his best to push the unpleasant episode into the vague corners of his memory—a task that had proved more difficult than he’d imagined. Within months of leaving him at the courthouse, Lucy had become one of the prime foreign correspondents with CNC. And for a news junkie like Nick, seeing her face on television had been inevitable.
But he’d never expected to find her here. In his own home.
Realizing that his thoughts were circling like a loop of bad audiotape, Nick dragged on underwear, a faded sweatshirt, jeans, socks and a pair of battered running shoes. Then, after raking his fingers through his short hair, he took a deep, calming breath.
Yes, he’d been stunned to see her, but the surprise was over. So there was no need for his body to maintain the tension it had adopted the moment he’d seen her cool green eyes and angular features. He wasn’t in love with Lucy anymore. In fact, he’d begun to wonder if he’d ever been in love with her. He’d been able to convince himself that his emotional involvement had been like too much wine—a brief, powerful intoxication that had worn off with time. So when his body had immediately slipped into the rush of attraction he’d once experienced in Lucy’s presence, he’d been momentarily taken aback. But he was in control of his thoughts and his emotions now.
Whipping open the door, he hurried down the staircase, only to stop halfway. Lucy stood in his living room, gazing out the window, obviously unaware of his arrival.
For a moment, he was struck by the droop of her shoulders and the protective way she hugged her arms to her chest. In the light streaming from the hall, she seemed pale and much too thin. Her green eyes dominated her face.
“You look like hell, Lucy.”
She started, and he watched as she donned an expression of hauteur.
“It’s nice to see you, too.”
He joined her in the living room. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
She shrugged. “I’m a reporter.”
“I know. I’ve seen you on television. You have a very impressive career.”
“As do you.”
Moving toward her, Nick had the distinct impression that his nearness bothered her. He sensed her tension as the space between them disappeared, but despite her discomfort, she held her ground.
Closer, Nick decided that she looked downright haggard. She was at least ten pounds underweight. Her skin was drawn tightly over her cheekbones, making her features seem that much more angular and exotic.
And vulnerable. Much too vulnerable for a thirty-six-year-old woman who had already been through more in her short career than others would be in a lifetime.
Shaking away the thought, Nick slid his hands into his pockets.
“Why are you here, Lucy?” he asked quietly.
Lucy
