he knew he was taking a chance and unsure why he’d put himself in this position.
Wouldn’t Chief Barry just love to have him investigated for kidnapping or assault….
Taking off his own coat and hanging it on a hook, he found his testify-in-court suit still relatively dry and clean. His shoes were hopeless. “Take off your clothes down to your underwear,” he told her softly. “I’ll get you a robe.”
She stared down at her clothes as though she’d never seen them before.
“Okay, then,” he said, and unlocked the second door. Turning on all the lights as he went, he made his way quickly to his bedroom, the carpeted floor a welcome cushion under his sock-clad feet. He grabbed the raw silk robe his aunt had brought him back from Hong Kong a decade before and hurried back to the entry.
She was still standing where he’d left her. Her eyes were closed and she looked as if she’d fall down if he blew on her. His first thought was to call a doctor. He quickly dismissed that and comforted himself with the thought that she’d rally after a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.
“I’ll help you,” he told her.
That seemed to rouse her a little. A least she opened her eyes. In the bright light, her irises looked as blue as a summer sky and as guileless as a picnic. Again, he felt a surge of protective ardor that was totally out of place.
He unbuttoned her coat. Jake’s coat. Where did she get this awful garment? Under what circumstances did a burned-out boozehound give up his coat on an icy winter day? For money? This girl didn’t look like she had two coins to rub together. Out of some kind of loyalty or caring? Did Jake know this woman?
He removed his ruined hat from her head, peeled the wet coat from her body and deposited it on the tile floor. She stood facing him in a flannel shirt so dirty it was hard to tell its original color. Her pants were way too big and tied around her waist with a length of rope. The boots on her feet suddenly looked huge, like clown shoes. He knelt down and untied them, but it really wasn’t necessary. They slipped off in his hands and he found she was barefoot underneath. Her tanned feet were damn near frozen to the touch.
“You might want to take the rest of these wet things off,” he said, raising the robe between them as a privacy shield.
He heard nothing and ventured a peek. She stood there, swaying.
“All-righty then,” he said, and biting the figurative bullet, hoped a sense of modesty didn’t pay her a belated visit. Talking all the while about the virtue of hot water and soap, he unbuttoned her shirt and stripped the wet cloth away. He tried to do this without looking, but that proved impossible, especially after he caught a glimpse of what lay hidden under the shirt.
Black silk. A tiny glittering sea horse sewn on to a wisp of black lace.
It was like peeling an egg and finding a diamond instead of a yolk.
Though he tried not to notice, he was a man, after all, and he couldn’t help but take heed of the size and shape of her breasts. Not as large as Jessica’s, but firm looking and beautifully rounded, this woman’s breasts filled the cups of her bra with what appeared to be damn near perfection.
“Pretty underwear,” he said, hoping the comment might startle her into speech. More likely, it would earn him a slap across the face, a slap he deserved if his increasingly wayward thoughts were to be considered. She didn’t move.
That’s when he noticed her staring at the inside of her left arm. He followed her gaze and saw what so mesmerized her were several needle marks and surrounding bruises.
Damn.
Here he’d just about decided she wasn’t a druggie and, pow, proof. Would she start climbing the walls when her latest hit wore off? “Are you okay?” he demanded. “Talk to me.”
She stared at him and shook her head. Had she gone into some kind of shock induced by cold and stress?
“Say something,” he demanded.
“I’m…I’m cold,” she stammered, hugging herself. Her left shoulder was black and blue.
And then she began plucking at the snarl around her waist, trying to untie the rope, having no luck. She cast him a helpless look and so he tried to come to her aid, but in the end, it proved necessary to take out his pocket knife. Bypassing the knot, he hacked through the rope. The pants immediately slid over her slender hips, puddling on the floor at her feet.
Her panties matched her bra—bedecked with a dazzling sea horse, feminine, expensive, out of place. They, too, covered lovely mounds of flesh, as well as a trim stomach. Both her knees were red, but the right one sported a two-inch gash that looked relatively superficial. Additional bruises marred her thighs and legs.
As she held his hands for support and stepped out of her pants, he wondered again. Who was she? A coed gone astray? A working girl whose favorite john indulged his fantasies by dressing her in fancy lingerie and then pummeling her?
Awkwardly, he pulled the robe over her arms and tied the sash around her waist, studiously trying to ignore the feel of her cold but petal-soft skin. The ripe smell of the alley helped squash amorous thoughts. Supporting half her weight, they shuffled inside the apartment. He closed and locked the door behind them, still babbling like a demented man, covering his own apprehension with the sound of his voice.
“I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘the girl,’” he said. “It’s politically incorrect and after our recent familiarity, a little silly.”
No rise from her. No flicker of an eyebrow or curl of a lip. No indignant sneer, no anger. Nothing.
“How about I call you Grace?”
She stared at him, wrinkling her brow as though trying to think.
“Is that name okay with you?” he said, trying his best to force her to speak, concerned that she still could.
She mumbled something that sounded like yes and he let it be. Within minutes, he had her in the shower, underwear and all. He could almost see the hot spray coax her back to life. When she grabbed the soap from his hand, he knew it was time to step away and leave her alone.
“There’s shampoo on the shelf in there,” he told her.
She answered by handing him her underwear, which she’d wrung out.
As he dropped it in the sink, he heard a strangled cry coming from the shower, then another. Without thinking, he threw back the curtain.
“What is it…Grace? What’s wrong?”
Stark naked, she stared at him with wide eyes. Her mouth formed a perfect little O.
Even as he tried to reassure her that she was okay, that he’d leave the room or call for help, whatever she wanted, he couldn’t help but absorb the details of her body. And wow, what a body she had. Nipples like pink rose buds. Curvaceous waist and hips. Long, shapely legs. Lots of tanned skin, discreet areas of lily white.
The unexpected heat of desire knocked him on his heels. Good to know his ex-wife’s betrayal hadn’t killed every impulse in his body, but talk about poor timing. He tried to turn away, but the woman—Grace—ran shaky hands across her flat tummy
