Dr. Dangerous. Kristi Gold

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СКАЧАТЬ pit full of vipers. But before the accident he’d never backed down to a challenge. Not true since the accident, though. Could he handle this one, especially with a woman who had sparked his interest, among other things? Did he really have a choice?

      “One more thing,” Nick said. “She told me that next time you can count on her to use putty to work your hand instead of the ball, since it doesn’t bounce. Any idea what that means?”

      Jared allowed his first real smile in weeks. “Yeah, it means I’ve probably met my match.”

      Two

      “Rural” was an understatement.

      Brooke climbed out of her car and trudged toward the door after driving an hour in the dark to reach her destination. She’d checked the address at the mailbox just to be sure she was in the right place. And she was, but the place wasn’t at all what she had envisioned—a small white house that could use a good coat of paint as best she could tell from the lone porch light. A simple dwelling to match the aged blue pickup that sat in the drive and the weathered plank porch beneath her feet.

      She’d imagined a grand home fit for a physician, not a cracker box dwelling that reminded her of her grandparent’s farm. Once again Dr. Jared Granger had surprised her, and she wondered what else might be in store for her this evening.

      But at least he had agreed to home therapy, something that both surprised and pleased her. And made her a tiny bit leery. Facing him in unfamiliar surroundings—his territory—caused her to question the wisdom of her offer. She certainly couldn’t worry about that now.

      Brooke bolstered her courage and rapped on the door, primed for whatever she would have to face. She waited for a time, glad the weather had turned warm again, although it still rained on and off. So typical of fall in Texas.

      She heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened to Dr. Jared Granger dressed in ragged T-shirt, faded jeans, his dark-blond hair mussed as if he’d just crawled out of bed.

      “You found me,” he said with more welcome in his tone than she’d expected. Or perhaps she was simply engaging in wishful thinking.

      “Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Kempner gives good directions.”

      He opened the squeaky screen and allowed her entry. Brooke stepped inside and found the place to be warm and dry—and a total disaster. Her gaze roamed around the small living room where she zeroed in on the coffee table cluttered with newspapers and an assortment of paper cups. A pair of discarded work boots sat near an opening at one end of the room, clothes tossed about as if a tornado had swept through the area. Several times. Quite a contrast to her immaculate apartment.

      Taking a few guarded steps, Brooke met his gaze and offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Well, this is certainly a comfortable home.”

      He shrugged. “Suits me fine.”

      She shifted her canvas bag from one arm to the other. “Where would you like me to set up?”

      “In here.” He leaned heavily on his crutch as he struggled toward the entrance that opened into the small kitchen.

      Brooke followed silently behind him, trying hard not to notice the tear beneath his back pocket where she caught a glimpse of flesh when he moved. No need to look there again, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

      Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.

      He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”

      She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”

      “Yeah. Somewhere.”

      He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother could witness this act. She’d faint.

      “Look,” Brooke said. “Find a chair, have a seat, and let me pick up some of this.”

      He pinned her with an irritated glare. “I didn’t hire you to be my maid.”

      “And I didn’t sign on to be one. But if we’re going to make any progress, I need some room. It’ll only take a minute if you’ll point me to the trash bags.”

      He indicated a cabinet underneath the sink. “Right there. If you insist.”

      “I insist.” Setting her tote bag on the hardwood floor, she made her way to the cabinet and opened the door to find an overflowing trashcan. “You’ve obviously given your housekeeper the year off.”

      “She’s at my house in town.”

      She regarded him over one shoulder. “You have a house in town? Then why aren’t you living there?”

      “I like it here. More secluded.”

      “You can say that again,” Brooke muttered as she bent over to tug a black bag from the cardboard dispenser. She turned to face him and shook the bag out, surprised to find an indescribable darkness in his normally light eyes. “Maybe you could get your housekeeper out here for some spring cleaning.”

      “It’s fall, and I don’t want her here.” His tone was harsh, and Brooke got the feeling he didn’t want her there, either. Back to square one.

      His resistance only fueled her tenacity. Made her want to try a little harder to gain his respect, or at least his cooperation. “Well, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can handle the trash.” Her mother fit the prima housekeeper role perfectly, and there was only room for one of those in the family. Neither she nor her sister, Michelle, had ever embraced domestic bliss. Right now she had little choice in the matter.

      Brooke stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wondered how long they’d been there. A long time from the looks of the caked-on food, at least since the accident. Turning back to the table, she began slipping cartons of every shape and size, paper cups, a few discarded newspapers and myriad pizza boxes, into the bag.

      After that was done, and she could actually see the scuffed wooden table, she gathered up her bag, took out her pen and forms to note his progress and sat facing him. “Have you started doing your home therapy as prescribed?”

      “Some.”

      She looked up from her charting. “Explain ‘some.’”

      He struggled to remove the splint, avoiding her gaze. “Once since last week.”

      She jotted the note and tamped down her frustration. “You might want to try at least once a day. Twice or three times would be better.”

      “Yeah, well, I don’t have the energy. By the time I get up in the morning, try to clean up, then get dressed, I’ve wasted half the damned day, and all I want to do is take a nap.”

      Little did he know, Brooke could relate to that. If she had a particularly rough asthma attack, her weakness sometimes slowed her to a snail’s pace.

      “Okay. Now let’s СКАЧАТЬ