The Man She'll Marry Read online

  “I told her about the windows, so she knows you’ll be up there.”

  Even so, working in her bedroom seemed like a breach of privacy. “I’d like to ask her myself,” Nick said. If she ever got back. He glanced out at the wind-whipped ocean and its frothing waves. “You shouldn’t have let her go.”

  “What was I supposed to do, handcuff her and tie her to the dining room table?”

  An image of Cinnamon wearing skimpy lingerie, writhing seductively as she tried to work her way out of handcuffs filled his head. His body stirred, but he doubted Fran saw the scenario the same way he did. Shaking his head, he banished the fantasy. “You think she’ll make it back all right?”

  Looking thoughtful, Fran stood, and so did Nick. “I do, but if she’s not back in another ten minutes…”

  “I’ll go out and find her, then bawl her out for sticking to a schedule that makes no sense.”

  Fran’s mouth twitched. “I’d like to see that.”

  Chapter Five

  Freezing rain pummeled Cinnamon as she sprinted across the Oceanside’s driveway. Despite the micro-fiber jogging suit, gloves and socks she wore for warmth and water resistance, she was both wet and cold. And—thanks to soaked sneakers and slippery ground—suffering the dull ache that preceded shin splints. At least she’d finished the route she’d traced yesterday, driving the distance to make sure it was three miles.

  Worse than physical discomfort was the sight of Nick’s truck parked beside her car. After spending a restless night lusting over the man—feelings she intended to keep firmly in check—she wasn’t up to facing him today.

  She’d meant to get back, shower and leave before he showed up, but wouldn’t you know, he’d arrived much earlier today than yesterday. Apparently, the man didn’t have a regular schedule, but then, she knew that. Disapproval puffed from her lips in a cold cloud.

  And dread. No doubt with her wet hair and red face, she looked disastrous, even less put-together than the night they’d met. But there was nothing to be done about that now.

  Spent, gasping for breath, she was eager to reach the warmth of the house. She would simply rush upstairs and avoid Nick. Near the top of the outside steps she slipped on the slick surface, whacking her shin hard. Pain exploded in her lower leg.

  “Ow, ow!” she howled in panting gasps. Tears filled her vision. Crying wouldn’t help, and blinking furiously, she sank heavily onto the step, which was sheltered by the eaves. Teeth clenched, she gripped her thigh with the fingers of her soaked gloves, as if that would stem the agony. Of course it didn’t. Neither did the cold seeping into her behind.

  After a moment the pain subsided a little and she mustered the courage to examine the injury. First, though, she divested her icy hands of the gloves. Slowly and carefully—mustn’t touch the shin—she inched her pant leg upward with stiff fingers. Despite her care, cold water dribbled over the tender skin, stinging as it connected with the bloody, two-inch gash.

  Chilled and shivering, she moaned, the sound drowned out by the pounding rain. Blood trickled down her leg—better than the flood it might have been. Already the area around the cut was puffy and red, sure signs of the nasty bruise to come.

  Tremors shook her and her teeth chattered. Pain or not, she couldn’t sit here any longer or she’d freeze to death. She rolled her pant leg up to the knee. Clutching the railing, she hauled herself up. Dizzy from pain or maybe shock, she stood where she was and waited for her head to clear. Then, using the wood siding for support, she limped to the front door.

  Of course, it was locked. Fran had left the dining room sliding door unlocked, both for Nick and for her. But that was at a good fifteen feet away. Cold and hurting as she was, Cinnamon didn’t think she could make it that far.

  Nothing to do but ring the bell. Leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb, stifling the urge to scream, she waited.

  It seemed like forever before Nick opened the door.

  “About time you showed up.” His brow creased in an unfamiliar frown that turned his face stern and forbidding. “I was about to come looking for you to make sure you hadn’t fallen into a hole someplace. Here.” He thrust a bath towel at her.

  The last thing she wanted was a lecture, especially from Nick. The towel, however, was another matter. “You’re not the boss of me,” she snapped.

  As she snatched the towel, her weight shifted to the injured leg. Crying out in pain, she fell against the open door.

  Strong hands caught her, and the towel slipped from her grasp.

  “What happened to you?”

  She sighed, feeling ridiculous. “I slipped on the steps and banged up my shin. It’s nothing, really.” She tried to summon a smile of reassurance but couldn’t manage it through her chattering teeth.

  A worried look replaced Nick’s frown. “My God, you’re freezing to death.” He toed the towel out of the way, then kicked the door shut. “Give me that jacket and sit down,” he ordered, guiding her onto a nearby bench.

  Before she registered the words he deftly unzipped her windbreaker and peeled it off. The long-sleeved T-shirt underneath was nearly as wet.

  Nick glanced at her breasts. “Soaked clean through,” he muttered. He jerked his gaze upward, his eyes flashing both heat and anger. “What in hell were you thinking?”

  “I needed the exercise—”

  He swore. “What you need is a dose of common sense. And you, with all that education. You got a bathrobe in your room? Because you can’t stay in that shirt.” Face dark, he glanced at her sopped legs. “Or those pants.”

  The disapproving tone chafed. Cinnamon struggled to her feet—or tried.

  Nick gently but firmly pushed her back down.

  Who was this bossy male? She scowled up at him. “I want to take my shower now, so please—”

  “Stay put.” Snatching the towel from the floor, he draped it around her shoulders. A glance at her shin and he shook his head. “I don’t want you catching a cold and blaming me. I’ll be back with your robe.” He started up the stairs.

  No one had ever taken care of Cinnamon. For as long as she could remember, she’d looked after herself as well as her mother. Used to being in charge, she wasn’t sure she liked Nick in that role. “Once I shower and warm up I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Don’t move.”

  His gaze held her as sure as hands, and she nodded. “Okay.”

  The moment he disappeared she glanced at her chest. Wouldn’t you know, her sports bra did nothing to conceal her cold nipples poking against her wet shirt. That explained the hot look in Nick’s eyes.

  Mortified, she crossed her arms—since he was upstairs, a useless action. Well, he wouldn’t see anything else. Forget the robe and meekly sitting here. She’d dry off and head upstairs, even if she had to scoot on her behind to get there.

  CINNAMON TOWELED HER hair, then set to work removing her shoes and socks—a difficult task that took longer than she thought, given that they were wet, her shin ultrasensitive and her hands clumsy with cold. Unfortunately, before she peeled off the second sock, Nick was back with her robe, a formless, navy flannel knee-length thing she wore when nobody else was around. Too bad she hadn’t brought her sexy, peachcolored satin robe instead.

  Right. As if she’d wear that in front of Nick. Not that she wanted to model the shapeless robe for him, either.

  One hand hugging the now-damp towel to her chest, she used the other to grasp the back of the bench and stand. “I don’t need the robe. I’m going upstairs.”

  “Are you nuts?” His jaw tightened stubbornly. “First you change and warm up.”

  Dizzy with pain and too distraught to argue, she sank down, still hugging the towel to her breasts.

  “That’s better.”

  Nothing to do but change into the robe. Cinnamon held out her free hand. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

  “Wet as you are now? Uh-uh.” Holding the garment out of reach, he glanced at the towel. “Bett
er strip first.”

  What!? “Excuse me?”

  He released an exasperated breath. “I won’t look. Just get out of those clothes.” Slinging the robe over his shoulder, he eyed her.

  By his feet—planted firmly in front of her—and his stony expression, she knew he wouldn’t budge until she complied. “Turn around,” she said. Using the back of the bench for support, she pulled herself up.

  “I’m glad you finally came to your senses.” He turned his back to her. “I’ll toss this to you when you’re ready.”

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  “What for? I can’t see out of the back of my head.”

  “I don’t care. Close your eyes.”

  “Brother,” he grumbled, followed by a muttered string of words she couldn’t decipher. “All right, they’re closed.”

  “Thank you.” Acutely aware of his presence, she tugged the soaked shirt over her head. Her wet bra followed, and both dropped onto the bench. Leaning her shoulder against the wall, she attempted to tug her dripping pants over her hips with one hand. The wet microfiber clung stubbornly to her skin, and the movement caused her rolled-up pant leg to fall. The fabric brushed her shin, and excruciating pain spiked up her leg. A taut breath hissed from her lips.

  “Cinnamon?” Nick started to turn around.

  “Don’t you dare move, Nick Mahoney. I’m half-naked!”

  Uttering a strangled sound, he froze. “Are you or are you not all right?”

  He sounded angry, which puzzled her. “My pant leg brushed my shin, and it really hurt. And now,” she began shyly, “I’m afraid to take off my pants.”

  “I suppose you want me to do it,” he growled.

  The thought of Nick helping with something so intimate emptied her brain of a reply.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes.” He sounded even more exasperated. “But I won’t turn around till you put on your robe.” Raising his hand he lobbed it backward over his shoulder, right into her outstretched arm.

  “Thanks.” She slipped into the flannel robe and tied the sash. The fabric felt warm, soft and unbelievably sensual against her cold, sensitive nipples.

  “Safe to turn around now?”

  “Yes,” she said, hastily pulling the lapels together.

  Nick pivoted toward her. His dark eyes fell to her mouth, then dipped to her hand at the vee of her robe. Wordlessly, he hunkered down before her.

  Under different circumstances a man at her feet would have been romantic and suggestive. Wet, unwashed and probably reeking, her pants half down her hips, she was anything but attractive. No doubt Nick was wondering how he got stuck sharing yet another mortifying moment of her life.

  “Hold on to my shoulders,” he said.

  He was wearing a black T-shirt, not much protection against the dead of winter. Yet under her cold hands he felt warm. And solid, from hard, physical labor. Not much fat on this man.

  He reached for her waistband and started to tug down. Cinnamon tensed. “Be careful of my shin,” she warned.

  Hesitating, he glanced up at her, his face a mask of doubt. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Acutely embarrassed, she glanced at his fingers, hooked inside her waistband and bikini panties. “Um, I’ll keep my panties on.”

  “And here I thought I was about to get you totally naked.” For the first time, his mouth quirked, a cockeyed grin that softened the moment. “Ready?”

  Cinnamon nodded. For a big man he was surprisingly gentle. As he coaxed the reluctant fabric down her thighs and somehow cleared her injured shin his muscles bunched under her palms, and the clean smells of soap and man filled her senses.

  Despite her throbbing shin the rest of her jolted to life. Desire filled her, and she barely managed to keep from tangling her fingers through his thick, black hair, leaning down and kissing him.

  After what seemed like decades, the pants pooled at her feet. Tightening her grip on Nick’s shoulders she lifted her injured leg while he carefully tugged the pants over her heels and off.

  The hem of the robe fell into place. Gratitude didn’t come easily. “Thank you, Nick.” She bit her lip and sat down.

  “Anytime,” he quipped, still hunkered at her feet. “Now, let’s see that shin.” He cupped her foot in his warm, callused hands and raised her leg a fraction. “Ouch,” he said, frowning at the ugly wound. “You might have broken something, or maybe you need stitches.”

  He released her foot. Instantly, she missed his warmth.

  “I don’t think so,” Cinnamon said, hoping she was right. “The cut isn’t deep, and the rest is just a bad bruise.”

  “You should see a doctor,” Nick insisted.

  Which would put a bigger dent in her carefully planned day. She shook her head. “What I need is a shower, a cup of coffee and my laptop.”

  “Laptop?” He frowned. “I thought you looked for a job last night when you got home.”

  “I started.” She’d checked her e-mail, disappointed to discover not one reply from the host of colleagues she’d e-mailed. So she’d resent the messages, then, exhausted and discouraged, had collapsed in bed. “I planned on doing more today, and also browsing some of the shops.”

  “Plans change,” Nick said. “You can take that shower, but if you want coffee, you’ll drink it in the car. We’re going to Doc Bartlett’s.”

  Cinnamon rolled her eyes, which only tightened Nick’s determined expression.

  “If your Dr. Bartlett is like most doctors he’s probably booked weeks in advance,” she argued. “I can’t just barge in.”

  “You can at Doc’s. I’ll help you upstairs,” he said, gently pulling her to her feet. “While you clean up, I’ll make that appointment.”

  “If you must,” she conceded unhappily.

  His arm circled her waist and they started up the steps. She tried to hold herself aloof, but, cradled in his solid warmth, she quickly melted, leaning gratefully against him. Her head settled in the comfortable indentation where his arm and shoulder met, and she let out a sigh. Pain aside, she felt small and wonderfully coddled—a thought that stiffened her posture.

  As soon as she tensed, Nick stilled, chin angled and eyes on hers. “You okay? If not, I could carry you the rest of the way up.” One eyebrow raised, and the corner of his mouth quirked.

  Because the idea appealed to her, she frowned and tried to pull out of his grasp. “I don’t need your help.”

  His arm remained around her waist. “Too bad, because I’m not going away.”

  SQUINTING THROUGH GOLD-RIMMED bifocals and stroking his neatly trimmed, snow-white beard, Doc Bartlett silently considered the X-ray that hung on the wall of the exam room. Standing beside Cinnamon, who sat on the exam table with her legs outstretched, Nick, too, scrutinized the image. Not that he knew what he was looking at, other than her shin.

  He doubted she knew, either, though she studied the thing with the same intensity as Doc. But unlike the calm doctor, tension pinched her mouth, and fine lines creased the normally smooth place between her eyebrows. Even her hands looked anxious, pleating her skirt. Pain and nerves, Nick guessed. And maybe, owing to her above-the-knee skirt and bare legs, cold.

  Not the best way to dress in the winter, but better than cutting the leg off a pair of her expensive slacks or designer jeans. The skirt showed off her slim, shapely legs. That didn’t help her, but Nick appreciated the view—except for the angry-looking wound in the center of her right shin.

  The sight made his gut hurt. He wished he could comfort her, something he’d tried when Doc had cleaned the wound. Cinnamon had cried out and gripped Nick’s hand so hard, he’d winced. The minute Doc had finished, she’d let go and had balled her hands into white-knuckled fists, proving that he didn’t know beans about soothing her.

  Well, playing nursemaid never had been his strong suit and wasn’t his job. He was here because he’d had no choice but to bring her.

  Which was a load of crap. Truth was, he wanted to be here with her
, even if it meant spending a long time in Doc’s office.

  An hour and a half ago he would’ve denied that, honestly believing he’d conquered his attraction. But her accident had changed everything. The beautiful, competent Cinnamon Smith needed him, and the novelty of that had sucked the marrow right out of his resolve.

  The wet T-shirt under her worthless jacket hadn’t helped, either. One look at her taut nipples and he forgot that he shouldn’t want her. Then later, knowing she was topless under her robe and wearing only her panties had about killed him. And her hands grasping his shoulders and her warm breath brushing his face…Cold hands and all, who knew what a turn-on that would be?

  Then putting his hands on her hips and stripping off her pants, his face inches from the apex of her thighs—sweet torture.

  Dog that he was, he’d wanted her then, bloody shin and all. Unfortunately, over the past hour that hadn’t changed.

  He shook his head in self-disgust. Thank God, Cinnamon didn’t have a clue. She never would, either. From now on he’d keep his eyes above her shoulders, his hands to himself and his mind out of the gutter.

  Suddenly she looked at him, telegraphing unease in those big, cinnamon-color eyes. Forgetting his newly made resolve, he reached for her, just as Doc turned from the X-ray.

  Saved by the doctor’s attention, Nick jerked back. Eyes narrowed a fraction, Doc shot him a shrewd look, his white hair and beard making him look like Santa Claus, only without the belly and red suit.

  Nick didn’t want the old man getting ideas, so he crossed his arms and pasted a carefully neutral expression on is face. “What’s the verdict?”

  Doc smiled at both of them. “You’ll be pleased to know, nothing’s broken. No hairline fractures, either.”

  “That’s good news.” Cinnamon released a sigh of relief.

  So did Nick. She wouldn’t need a cast, and at last he could drive her back to the Oceanside. He’d help her get settled and then start on his chores. Which, since he had to leave early, he’d barely be able to start, much less finish.

  Holding her skirt in place with one hand Cinnamon scooted toward the end of the table, wincing as she moved.