Rainshadow Road

Fourteen

Voices floated into the bedroom.

“… I want Lucy to use my pink bathroom,” Holly insisted. “It’s prettier than yours.”

“It is,” came Sam’s reply. “But Lucy needs a walk-in shower stall. She can’t climb in and out of the tub.”

“Can she still see my bathroom? And my room?”

“Yeah, you can give her the official tour later. For now, put your socks on. You’re going to be late for school.”

Lucy breathed in an elusive scent from the pillow, like leaves and new rain and newly cut cedar. It was Sam’s smell, so appealing that she hunted for it shamelessly, digging her head deep into the warm down.

She had a vague memory of waking in pain in the middle of the night. Of Sam coming to her like a shadow. He had given her pills and a glass of water, sliding his arm behind her back as she took the medicine. She had awakened another time, groggily aware of him replacing the cold gel packs around her leg, and she had told him that it wasn’t necessary to keep getting up for her, he should get some rest.

“Quiet,” he had murmured, straightening the covers around her. “Everything’s okay.”

As the morning brightened, Lucy lay quietly and listened to the muffled sounds of voices, breakfast, a phone ringing, a house-wide hunt for a missing homework folder and field-trip permission slip. Eventually a car rolled along the drive.

Footsteps ascended the stairs. There was a tap at the door, and Sam ducked his head in. “How are you doing?” The sound of his morning-roughened baritone chased pleasantly across her ears.

“I’m a little sore.”

“Probably a lot sore.” Sam came into the room, carrying a breakfast tray. The sight of him scruffy and sexy, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a white tee, drew a rampant flush to the surface of her skin. “It’s time for another pill, but you should eat first. How does an egg and toast sound?”

“Great.”

“After that you can take a shower.”

Lucy’s color deepened further, her pulse turning hectic. She wanted a shower badly, but in light of her physical condition, it was obvious that she was going to need a lot of help. “How exactly would that work?” she managed to ask.

Sam set the tray on the bed and helped Lucy to sit up. He propped an extra pillow behind her as he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a walk-in shower. You can sit on a plastic stool and wash with a handheld spray. I’ll have to help you in and out, but you can do most of it yourself.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “That sounds good.” She picked up a piece of lightly buttered toast and began to spread jam on it. “Why do you have a handheld shower spray?”

One of his brows arched. “Something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. It’s just the kind of thing I would expect an old person to have, not a guy your age.”

“I have hard-to-reach places,” Sam said in a deadpan tone. After he saw the smile tugging at her lips, he said, “Also, we wash Renfield in there.”

Sam went to shower and shave while she ate. He returned wearing a pair of raggedy-looking jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed SCHRЦDINGER’S CAT IS ALIVE.

“What does that mean?” Lucy asked, reading the shirt.

“It’s a principle in quantum theory.” Sam set a plastic bag of supplies on the floor, and lifted the bed tray away from Lucy’s lap. “Schrцdinger was a scientist who used the example of a cat placed in a box with a radioactive source and a flask of poison, to demonstrate how an observation affects an outcome.”

“What happens to the cat?”

“Do you like cats?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t want me to tell you about the theorem.”

She made a face. “Don’t you have any optimistic T-shirts?”

“This one is optimistic,” Sam said. “I just can’t tell you why, or you’ll bitch about the cat.”

Lucy chuckled. But as Sam approached the bed and reached for the covers, she fell silent and shrank back, her heart lurching into overdrive.

Sam let go of the bed linens at once, his expression carefully neutral. He studied her, his gaze alighting on her tightly crossed arms. “Before we do this,” he said quietly, “let’s deal with the elephant in the room.”

“Who’s the elephant?” Lucy asked warily.

“No one’s the elephant. The elephant is the fact it’s surprisingly awkward to help a woman take a shower when I haven’t had sex with her first.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you just to make the shower easier,” Lucy said.

That drew a brief grin from him. “Don’t take it personally, but you’re wearing a hospital garment printed with little yellow ducks, and you’re also bandaged and bruised. So you’re not doing a thing for my libido. You’re also on drugs, which leaves you unable to make decisions on your own behalf. All of which means there is absolutely no chance that I’m going to make any moves on you.” He paused. “Does that make you feel better?”

“Yes, but…” Lucy’s cheeks burned. “While you’re helping me, you’re probably going to get an eyeful.”

His face was grave, but amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Lucy sighed heavily. “I guess there’s no alternative.” She pushed back the covers and tried to sit up.

Sam came to her immediately, fitting his arm behind her back. “No, let me do the work. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t take it easy. I’m going to help you to the edge of the bed. All you have to do is sit up and let your legs hang over—yes, like that.” His breath stopped abruptly as Lucy grappled with the hem of the hospital garment, which had ridden high on her hip. “Okay.” He started breathing again. “We’re not supposed to take the splint off. But the nurse said to wrap it in plastic when you shower, to keep it from getting wet.” He reached for the bag of supplies and pulled out a bulky roller of nonadhesive clear wrap affixed to a metal handle.

Lucy waited quietly while Sam proceeded to wrap her entire lower leg. His touch was deft and careful, but the occasional brush of his fingertips at her knee or behind her calf sent ticklish sensations along her skin. His head was bent over her, his hair rich and dark. Surreptitiously she leaned forward to catch the scent that rose from the back of his neck, a summery smell, like sun and mown grass.

When the leg was covered to Sam’s satisfaction, he looked up from his kneeling position on the floor. “How does it feel? Too tight?”

“It’s perfect.” Lucy noticed that his color had heightened, the high crests of his cheeks burnished beneath the rosewood tan. And he wasn’t breathing well. “You said I wasn’t doing anything for your libido.”

Sam tried to look penitent. “Sorry. But wrapping you in mover’s tape is the most fun I’ve had since college.” As he stood and picked Lucy up, she clung to him automatically, her pulse quickening at the feel of his easy strength.

“Do you need to … calm down?” she asked delicately.

Sam shook his head, rueful amusement flickering in his eyes. “Let’s just assume this is my default mode during showertime. Don’t worry—I still won’t make any moves on you.”

“I’m not worried. I just don’t want you to drop me.”

“Sexual arousal doesn’t rob me of physical strength,” he informed her. “Brainpower, yes. But I don’t need that to help you shower.”

Lucy smiled uncertainly and held on to his sturdy shoulders as he carried her into the bathroom. “You’re in good shape.”

“It’s the vineyard. Everything’s organic, which requires extra handwork—cultivating and hoeing—instead of using pesticides. Saves the expense of a gym membership.”

He was nervous again, talking a little too fast. Which Lucy found interesting. So far in her acquaintance with Sam, he had seemed completely self-possessed. She would have thought that he would handle a situation like this with aplomb. Instead, he seemed almost as rattled by their enforced intimacy as she was.

The bathroom had been decorated in a clean and uncluttered style, with ivory tile and mahogany cabinetry, and a big framed mirror over a pedestal sink. After lowering Lucy to the plastic stool in the shower stall, Sam showed her how to turn the shower control handles. “Once I clear out of here,” he said, giving her the handheld sprayer, “just toss the robe and gown out of the stall and turn on the water. Take as long as you want. I’ll be waiting on the other side of the door. If you have any problem, you need anything, just give a shout.”

“Thanks.”

The accumulated soreness from the accident caused Lucy to grimace and groan as she maneuvered on the stool and tossed the robe to the floor beyond the shower. She turned on the water, adjusted the heat, and directed the spray over her body. “Ow,” she said, as her cuts and scrapes started to sting. “Ow, ow…”

“How’s it going?” she heard Sam ask from the other side of the door.

“It hurts and feels good at the same time.”

“Need help?”

“No, thanks.”

It required a great deal of maneuvering to soap and rinse herself. Eventually Lucy discovered that the project of washing her hair was too much to contend with. “Sam,” she said in frustration.

“Yeah?”

“I do need help.”

“With what?”

“My hair. I can’t wash it by myself. Would you mind coming in here?”

There was a long hesitation. “You can’t do it by yourself?”

“No. I can’t reach the shampoo bottle, and my right arm is aching, and it’s hard to wash all this hair with only one hand.” As she spoke, Lucy turned off the water and dropped the sprayer to the floor. Painfully she pulled the towel around herself.

“Okay,” she heard him say. “I’m coming in.”

As Sam entered the bathroom, he looked like a man who had just been called for jury duty. Stepping into the open shower stall, he picked up the sprayer. He fumbled with it, adjusting the pressure and temperature. Lucy couldn’t help noticing that his breathing had changed again, and she said, “With the echo in here, you sound like Darth Vader.”

“I can’t help it,” he said edgily. “With you sitting there all pink and steamy—”

“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him contritely. “I hope that being in default mode doesn’t hurt.”

“Not at the moment.” Sam’s hand slipped around the back of her head, cradling the shape of her skull. As she looked up into his blue-green eyes, he said, “It only hurts when I can’t do anything about it.”

The way he was holding her head, the rough-soft sound of his voice, caused a curl of responsive pleasure deep in her stomach. “You’re flirting with me,” she said.

“I take it back,” he said instantly.

“Too late.” She smiled as she closed her eyes and let him wash her hair.

It was heaven, sitting there while Sam worked the shampoo through her hair, his strong fingers rubbing her scalp. He took his time, careful not to let water or suds get into her eyes. The rosemary-mint scent of the shampoo filled the steamy air … that was what she’d smelled on him earlier, she realized. She breathed deeply and tilted her head back, relaxing.

Eventually Sam turned off the water and hung the sprayer in the wall holder. Lucy squeezed out the excess water from her hair with her hand. Her gaze traveled over Sam’s clothes, damp and water-blotched, his jeans sodden at the hems. “I got you wet,” she said apologetically.

Sam stared down at her, his gaze lingering at the place where the damp towel drooped low over her breasts. “I’ll live.”

“I have nothing to wear now.”

He continued to stare at her. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Do you have anything I could borrow?” At his lack of response, Lucy waved her hand between them. “Sam. Come away from the dark side.”

Sam blinked, the glazed blankness leaving his eyes. “I could dig up a clean T-shirt.”

With Sam’s help, Lucy wrapped her hair in a turban. He kept her steady, lightly gripping her hips as she balanced on one foot and brushed her teeth at the sink. When she was finished, he carried her to the bed, handed her a T-shirt, and turned his back tactfully as she put it on. The turban became dislodged, its weight tugging at her hair. Lucy pulled it away and finger-combed the damp tangled locks.

“What is this?” she asked, glancing at the squares and letters covering the front of the shirt.

“The periodic table of the elements.” Sam sank to his haunches to remove the covering from her splint.

“Oh, good. I’d hate to be out somewhere and not know the chemical symbol for rhodium.”

“Rh,” Sam said, using a small pair of scissors to snip through layers of wet plastic.

Lucy smiled. “How did you know that?”

“It’s located on your left breast.” Sam tossed the discarded plastic tape to the floor and examined the splint. “If you feel up to it, I’ll bring you downstairs for a change of scenery. We’ve got a big sofa, a flat-panel TV, and Renfield to keep you company.”

As she watched the daylight playing over his hair, Lucy was unnerved by the feeling that had swept over her, something beyond gratitude or mere physical attraction. Her pulse jumped in several places at once, and she found herself wanting, needing, impossible things.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.”

“No trouble.”

Slowly Lucy reached for his head, letting her fingers delve into the satisfying heavy locks of his hair. It felt unspeakably good to touch him. She wanted to explore him, learn every texture of him.

She thought that Sam would object. Instead he went still, his head bent. Stroking her way down to the solid nape of his neck, she heard his breath fracture.

“It is trouble,” Lucy said gently. “Isn’t it?”

Sam looked up at her then, his lashes half lowered over unearthly blue, his features taut. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was suspended in their shared gaze, between them, filling their lungs with every breath.

Definitely trouble. The kind that had nothing to do with splints or bandages or sickroom care.

Sam shook his head as if to clear it, and reached for the covers. “I’ll let you rest for a few minutes, while I—”

In a headlong moment, Lucy curled her arm around his neck and brought her mouth to his. It was crazy, reckless, and she didn’t care. Sam took all of a half second to respond, his mouth fastening to hers, a faint groan coming from his throat.

He had kissed her before, but this was something different. This was a waking dream of kissing, a feeling of tumbling with nothing to catch her. Her eyes closed against the view through the windows, the blue ocean, the white sun. Sam’s arms went around her back, supporting her, while his lips caught hers at varying angles and absorbed the small sounds that climbed in her throat. She went weak, molding to his chest, unable to get close enough. Dragging his mouth from hers, Sam kissed her neck, using his tongue and the edges of his teeth as he worked his way to her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her skin. “Lucy, I’m not—”

She searched blindly for his mouth, rubbing her parted lips across his shaven jaw until Sam shuddered and kissed her again. His mouth became roughly coaxing, searching deeper until Lucy gripped the back of his shirt in shaking handfuls.

One of his hands pushed beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers cool and textured against the burning skin of her side. Her breasts ached beneath the loose garment, the tips tightening in anticipation of his touch. She groped for his hand, urging it upward. “Please—”

“No. God, Lucy—” He broke off with a quiet curse and tugged the shirt back into place. Forcing himself to let go of her, he scrubbed both his hands over his face as if awakening from a deep sleep. As Lucy reached for him again, he caught her wrists reflexively and kept them manacled in his hands.

Sam kept his face averted, his throat rippling with hard swallows. “Do something,” he muttered. “Or I’ll…”

Lucy’s eyes went round as she realized he was fighting for control. “What … do you want me to do?”

When Sam could bring himself to answer, a wry note had entered his voice. “Some distraction would be nice.”

Lucy looked down at the periodic table that covered the front of her shirt. “Where is glass?” she asked, trying to read the chemical elements upside down.

“Not on the periodic table. Glass is a compound. It’s mostly silica, which is … crap, I can’t think straight. It’s SiO₂. Here…” He touched the Si, which happened to be located high on the right side of her chest. “And here.” The pad of his thumb brushed the O on her left side, close to the tip of her breast.

“Glass also has sodium carbonate,” she said.

“I think that’s…” Sam paused, struggling to concentrate. “… Na₂CO₃.” He studied the front of the shirt and shook his head. “I can’t show you sodium carbonate. Dangerous territory.”

“What about calcium oxide?”

His gaze scanned the shirt until he found it. He shook his head. “I’d have you on your back in about five seconds.”

They both started at the harsh metallic ring of the doorbell, a Victorian hand-turn style.

Sam left the bed with a groan, moving slowly. “When I said I wasn’t going to make any moves on you—” He opened the door and stood at the threshold, pulling in a couple of deep breaths. “I was planning for it to be a reciprocal arrangement. From now on, hands off. Got it?”

“Yes, but how are you going to take care of me if—”

“Not my hands,” Sam said. “Yours.”

* * *

The doorbell rang a couple more times while Sam made his way downstairs. Heat and arousal played all through him, making it impossible to think straight. He wanted Lucy, wanted to take her slowly and stare into her eyes as he moved inside her, and make it last for hours.

By the time Sam reached the front door, his temperature had cooled sufficiently to allow for clear thinking. He was confronted by his brother Alex, who looked more irate and underfed than usual, his frame rawboned beneath loose-fitting clothes. Clearly Alex was not blossoming in the aftermath of divorce.

“Why do you have the fucking doors locked?” Alex demanded.

“Hey, Al,” Sam said curtly, “it’s good to see you too. Where’s the key I gave you?”

“It’s on my other key chain. You knew I was coming over this morning—if you want free work done on your house, the least you can do is leave the door unlocked.”

“I’ve had a couple other things on my mind besides waiting for you to show up.”

Alex brushed by him, carrying a vintage metal toolbox. As usual, he headed straight for the kitchen, where he would pour himself a scalding cup of black coffee, down it without ceremony, and go to whatever part of the house he happened to be working on. So far he had refused to take any money for his labors, despite the fact that he could have gotten a fortune doing the same work for someone else. Alex was a developer, but he had started as a carpenter, and the quality of his craftsmanship was impeccable.

Alex had spent hours on the house, skinning walls, repairing cracks in plaster, restoring wood molding, hardware, flooring. Sometimes he redid work that Mark or Sam had already finished, because no one could ever match his exacting standards. Exactly why Alex was so willing to expend so much of his energy on the house was something of a mystery to the other Nolans.

“I think it’s his idea of a relaxing hobby,” Mark had said.

“I’m all for it,” Sam had replied, “if only because he doesn’t drink while he works. This house may be the only thing keeping his liver from turning into Jell-O.”

Now, as he watched his younger brother cross through the hallway, Sam thought that the signs of stress and drinking were catching up with him. Alex’s ex-wife, Darcy, had never been what anyone would call a nurturing kind of woman, but at least she’d gotten him to take her out to eat a few nights a week. Sam wondered when Alex had last eaten a full meal.

“Al, why don’t you let me fry you a couple of eggs before you start working?”

“Not hungry. Just want coffee.”

“Okay.” Sam followed him. “By the way … I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the noise level down today. I’ve got a friend staying here, and she needs rest.”

“Tell her to take her hangover somewhere else. I have some trim work to do.”

“Do it later,” Sam said. “And it’s not a hangover. She was in an accident yesterday.”

Before Alex could reply, the doorbell rang again.

“That’s probably one of her friends,” Sam muttered. “Try not to be a dick, Alex.”

Alex shot him a speaking glance and headed to the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Sam returned to the front door. The visitor turned out to be a curvy little blonde dressed in capris and flats, and a sleeveless button-down shirt knotted at the waist. With her buxom build, her big blue eyes, and her chin-length golden curls, she looked like an old-fashioned movie starlet, or maybe a Busby Berkeley showgirl.

“I’m Zoл Hoffman,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought some of Lucy’s things. Is it an okay time to visit? I could come back later—”

“Now’s a great time.” Sam smiled at her. “Come on in.”

Zoл carried a huge pan of muffins that sent out a warm sugared fragrance. As she came inside, she tripped over the threshold and Sam automatically reached out to steady her.

“I’m a klutz,” she announced cheerfully, a buttermilk-blond curl dangling over one eye.

“Thank God you didn’t lose your balance completely,” Sam said. “I’d hate to have to choose between saving you or the muffins.”

She handed him the muffin pan and followed him to the kitchen. “How is Lucy?”

“Better than I would have expected. She had a pretty good night, but she’s sore today. Still on pain meds.”

“You’re so nice to take care of her like this. Justine and I both appreciate it.”

Zoл carried her va-va-voom figure in an innately apologetic manner, shoulders down and slightly forward. She was perplexingly shy for a woman with such flagrant beauty at her disposal. Maybe that was the problem—Sam guessed that she’d had more than her share of heavy-handed overtures from the wrong kind of men.

They entered the spacious kitchen, with its enameled stove set in a cream-tiled alcove, glass-fronted cabinets, and black walnut flooring. Zoл’s marveling gaze swept from the high trussed ceilings to the huge soapstone farmhouse sink. But her eyes widened and her expression went blank as Alex turned from the coffeemaker to face them. Sam wondered what she would make of his brother, who resembled Satan with a hangover.

“Hello,” Zoл said in a subdued voice after Sam had introduced them. Alex responded with a surly nod. Neither of them made a move to shake hands. Zoл turned to Sam. “Do you happen to have a cake plate I could set these muffins on?”

“It’s in one of those cabinets near the Sub-Zero. Alex, would you help her out while I go upstairs to get Lucy?” Sam glanced at Zoл. “I’ll find out if she wants to sit in the living room down here, or visit with you upstairs.”

“Of course,” Zoл said, and went to the cabinets.

Alex strode to the doorway just as Sam reached it. He lowered his voice. “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to spend chitchatting with Betty Boop.”

From the way Zoл’s shoulders stiffened, Sam saw that she’d overheard the remark. “Al,” he said softly, “just help her find the damn plate.”

* * *

Zoл found the glass-domed plate in one of the cabinets, but it was too high for her to reach. She contemplated it with a frown, pushing back the curl that insisted on hanging over one eye. She was aware of Alex Nolan approaching her from behind, and a hot-and-cold chill went down her spine. “It’s up there,” she said, moving to the side.

He retrieved it easily, and set the plate and dome on the granite countertop. He was tall but rawboned, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. The suggestion of cruelty on his face did nothing to detract from his profligate handsomeness. Or maybe it wasn’t cruelty, but bitterness. It was a face that many women would find attractive, but it made Zoл nervous.

Of course, most men made her nervous.

Zoл thought that with the task done, Alex would leave the kitchen. She certainly hoped he would. Instead he stayed there with one hand braced on the countertop, his expensive watch gleaming in the light from the multipaned windows.

Trying to ignore him, Zoл set the glass plate beside the muffin pan. Carefully she extracted each muffin and set it on the plate. The scent of hot berries, white sugar, buttery streusel, rose in a melting-sweet updraft. She heard Alex draw in a deep breath, and another.

Darting a cautious glance at him, she noticed the dark half-moon indentations beneath a pair of vivid blue-green eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in months. “You can go now,” Zoл said. “You don’t have to stay and chitchat.”

Alex didn’t bother to apologize for his earlier rudeness. “What did you put in those?” He sounded accusatory, suspicious.

Zoл was so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “Blueberries. Help yourself, if you’d like one.”

He shook his head and reached for his coffee.

She couldn’t help but notice the tremor in his hand, the dark brew shivering in the porcelain cup. Instantly Zoл lowered her gaze. What would cause a man’s hand to shake like that? A nervous condition? Alcohol abuse? Somehow the sign of weakness in such a physically imposing person was infinitely more affecting than it would have been in someone of smaller stature.

Despite his irritable behavior, Zoл’s compassionate nature asserted itself. She had never been able to pass by a crying child, a hurt animal, a person who looked lonely or hungry, without trying to do something about it. Particularly a hungry person, because if there was one thing Zoл liked better than anything in the world, it was feeding people. She loved the obvious pleasure that people took in tasting something delicious, something carefully made and nourishing.

Wordlessly Zoл set a muffin on Alex’s saucer while the cup was still in his hand. She didn’t look at him, only continued to arrange the plate. Although it seemed very likely that he would throw the offering at her, or say something derogatory, he was silent.

Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw him pick up the muffin.

He left with a gruff murmur that she gathered was meant to be a good-bye.

* * *

Alex went out to the front porch, taking care to leave the front door unlocked. The muffin was cradled in his hand, the unbleached parchment liner slick with the residue of butter, the dome cobblestoned with streusel.

He sat on a cushioned wicker chair, hunching over the food as if someone were likely to rush forward and snatch it from him.

Lately he’d had a tough time eating. No appetite, no ability to be tempted, and when he did manage to take a bite and chew something, his throat clenched until it was difficult to swallow. He was always cold, desperate for the temporary heat of liquor, always needing more than his body would tolerate. Now that the divorce had gone through, there were plenty of women offering any kind of consolation he might want, and he couldn’t work up any interest in them.

He thought of the little blonde in the kitchen, almost comically beautiful, with her big eyes and perfect bow-shaped mouth … and beneath the tidily buttoned clothes, the voluptuous curves that approximated an amusement park ride. Not at all his taste.

As soon as he took a bite of the muffin, a saliva-spiking mixture of tartness and sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. The texture of it was dense and yet cakelike. He consumed it slowly, his entire being absorbed in the experience. It was the first time he’d been able to taste something, really experience a flavor, in months.

He finished it bite by disciplined bite, while a sense of relief flowed through him. The grooves of tension on his face eased. He would swear on his life that Zoл had put something in the muffins, something illegal, and he didn’t give a damn. It gave him a clean, good feeling … a feeling of sinking into a warm bath after a raw day. His hands had stopped shaking.

He sat still for a minute, testing the sensation, sensing that it would hold at least for a little while. Heading back into the house, he picked up his toolbox and slunk up the stairs toward the attic with catlike quietness. He was intent on keeping the good feeling, determined not to let anyone or anything interfere with it.

On the way up he passed by Sam, who was carrying a slender young brunette with big green eyes. She was swathed in a robe, one of her legs wrapped in a bulky splint. “Alex,” Sam said without stopping, “this is Lucy.”

“Hi,” Alex muttered, also not stopping, and he continued to the third-floor attic.

* * *

“Are you okay here?” Zoл asked Lucy, after Sam had left them alone to talk.

Lucy smiled. “I really am. As you can see…” She gestured to the gargantuan green velvet sofa, ice packs that Sam had settled around her leg, the cream-colored throw blanket tucked at her sides, and the tumbler of water he had set beside her. “I’m being very well taken care of.”

“Sam seems nice,” Zoл said, her blue eyes twinkling. “As nice as Justine said. I think he likes you.”

“Sam likes women,” Lucy replied wryly. “And yes, he’s a great guy.” She paused before adding diffidently, “You should go out with him.”

“Me?” Zoл shook her head and gave her a quizzical glance. “There’s something going on between you two.”

“There’s not. There won’t be. Sam’s very honest, Zoл, and he’s made it clear that he will never make a permanent commitment to a woman. And although it’s tempting to just let go and have fun with him…” Lucy hesitated and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s the worst kind of heartbreaker, Zoл. The kind that’s so appealing, you try to convince yourself that you could change him. And after everything I’ve been through … I’m not strong enough to be hurt again quite so soon.”

“I understand.” Zoл’s smile was warm and compassionate. “I think it’s very wise of you, Lucy. Sometimes giving up something you want is the very kindest thing you can do for yourself.”