he told it to calm down. He needed the blood equally distributed through his veins to make it up the last six flights of stairs.
When he dumped her just inside the stairwell door so she could fumble through her handbag for the key, his knees were trembling in a way that was hardly heroic. He hoped she didn’t notice how he staggered behind her down the dark hallway to her door. He’d hoped that when she opened it, the last rays of sunlight would come flooding through her apartment windows, but the room was in shadows. Once he made it inside, he knew he was washed up.
“That was so sweet of you,” she was saying, “to carry me the rest of the way. I’m all rested, and you have to be dead on your feet. Sit down, for heaven’s sake. I have to get out the candles first, but then would you like a drink?” Her voice faded. Drawers opened and closed. “Water, definitely, but I imagine you could use something stronger. I sure could. We have a pretty good selection. What’s your pleasure?”
He’d made it to a sofa he’d spotted in her flashlight beam, where he collapsed facedown with the word, “Scotch,” on his lips. It might be the last word he ever uttered. How ignominious.
BEARING A LIGHTED CANDLE, Blythe crept toward the sofa. When he was in range of the light, she simply had to stare at him for a while, at his broad shoulders in a black polo shirt, a tapered back, a narrow waist and a butt to die for—firm, contoured and thoroughly male. His long legs were encased in black jeans, his thigh muscles bulging against the fabric.
His thighs. She was going all tight just thinking about them wrapped around her. This idea of Candy’s hadn’t been such a bad one after all.
“How do you like your Scotch?” It came out like a moan.
It took him a long time to answer, and when he did, his words sounded as if they were smothered by goose down, which, in fact, they were. “Rocks.”
Candle in hand, Blythe scurried to the freezer, automatically pressed a glass to the ice-maker button and remembered nothing was working. She stuck her hand in the storage bin and pulled out slick, already melting cubes.
She was going to make it all up to him. No more guilt. Even though this was Candy’s idea, not hers, he’d gone through hell to get to her and she’d make sure he wasn’t sorry. She already knew she wouldn’t be. Any man who’d carry her up six flights of stairs had to be as sensitive as Candy had promised.
Forgetful, maybe. She was sure Candy had said he was coming at seven o’clock, and for him to get stuck in the elevator, it meant he’d arrived around four o’clock. But then, Candy was often careless about details.
The important thing was that he was here. They’d have a drink together, she’d give him a chance to rest and come up refreshed, and then they’d see what course nature took.
Who was she kidding? One look at his back and she was ready to go at it like bunnies. For mental health reasons only, of course. When she got a look at his front, she might become uncontrollably aggressive about getting this therapy.
Blythe paused on her way out of the kitchen. If he wanted to. If he found her desirable. That was still the big if. Even a sensitive man had to feel something before he could—well, could.
She put the tray of drinks on the coffee table and sat down on the floor right beside his face, or where his face would be if he ever came up for air, moving the candle as close to that spot as she could without setting her eyelashes on fire.
She gulped her water and gazed at him. Gosh, he had a beautiful profile. His hair was the very dark brown of good chocolate, the seventy percent kind, and his skin was a warm tan. She’d have to wait to see the eyes under those long dark lashes. They were probably brown. She had a preference for blue eyes, but she wasn’t going to cross him off on the basis of one little failure to meet specifications.
The distinctive scent of the Scotch seemed to rouse him. His head rolled toward her until at last she got the full impact of his strong, regular features—his straight, narrow nose and a mouth with a full, curved lower lip. Blythe felt her tongue curl in anticipation, and at that moment, his closest eye opened and squinted against the candlelight.
Miracle of miracles, his eyes were blue, a deep, dark, magnificent blue. At least one of them was. In due course, Blythe was sure she’d get a glimpse of the other one.
The closest eyebrow quirked up. “After all we’ve been through,” he said, sounding less breathless, “why do you look so surprised to see me? I mean, you made an offer, and under the circumstances, I’m damned glad I accepted.”
With a snap, Blythe brought her lower lip up to meet her upper one. The way he put it wasn’t quite the way it had happened. Candy had made the offer, but why quibble over details? Dear Candy, wise beyond her years, had been right. It was time to get over Thor—no, Sven—and the man to get her over Sven was lying right here in front of her, much too tired to be sent back down the stairs. He was trapped. She’d caught herself a live one.
Odd that Candy had called him “attractive,” not “the sexiest man alive,” and that she hadn’t mentioned his luscious baritone voice, which was making Blythe’s spinal column vibrate. But now that she’d met him, she realized it didn’t matter what his voice sounded like. When you had a body like that, a voice like his was just frosting on the beefcake.
The real question was: How had Candy let this one get away? More than that, why was she simply handing him over to Blythe? Now that was what you called a good friend.
Blythe smiled and moved a little closer. “I wasn’t actually expecting you to show up,” she admitted, feeling like a cartoon character with stars on springs popping out of her eyes. “Most men would have stood a woman up in these circumstances. Of course, there weren’t any circumstances when you got here.”
“I still would have shown up. I’m always at the right place at the right time. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, just like the postman. It’s part of my job.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Dependability is crucial in your profession.” She’d heard that people fell apart when their shrinks went on vacation. She wondered if he saw patients on Saturdays and Sundays. Maybe he could come to New York on weekends, or she could go to Boston.
Whoa. She was getting way ahead of herself. It was more likely that this would be a one-night stand, or rather a single therapy session to help her get over the disastrous effect Sven had had on her.
Maybe this sort of therapy was his specialty, which he used on all his female patients. An unexpected, uncalled-for bolt of jealousy made her scalp prickle.
“Take a sip of Scotch,” she said encouragingly. Time was passing. Since he seemed to have difficulty moving his head, she added, “Want a straw?” She held the candle even closer to his face, hoping she didn’t look too much like a witch trying to intimidate an agent of Satan, because he didn’t look at all like an agent of Satan, nor did she have any desire to intimidate him. Seduce him? That was something else altogether.
“No.” Two perfectly matched dark blue eyes glared at her as he righted himself on the sofa and reached for the glass. He downed it in one desperate gulp. “That’s the first liquid I’ve had since noon,” he said.
Blythe dashed for the kitchen to refill the glass. “How terrible. Here. Drink some more.” She sat down beside him on the sofa and watched him closely as he drank.
He took one sip, and his glare faded into a warm, soft glow. “Much better,” he said,
