Starlight On Willow Lake. Сьюзен ВиггсЧитать онлайн книгу.
privacy issues. The victim doesn’t have to share the results of his panel if he doesn’t want to. Most people are pretty reasonable about it.” She bit her lip, deciding not to postulate what might happen if the guy never regained consciousness, or died. “The hospital will help us figure out if there’s a serious risk. You can also be tested every few months just to make sure you’re in the clear.”
“Lovely.”
“Hazard of the trade.”
“Not my trade,” he murmured.
She took hold of one hand at a time, inspecting every detail—nail beds, cuticles, palms, wrists. She could tell a lot about a person just by checking out his hands. Thick calluses meant manual labor, or hours at the gym, handling body-sculpting equipment. He didn’t have any calluses to speak of.
Ill-kept nails meant poor grooming. Bitten nails were a sign of issues.
His hands were well-shaped and well-groomed, no surprise. His skin was warm and damp, and he smelled heavenly. She turned his hands over in hers again. As a nurse, she did a lot of touching, but usually with more clinical detachment than she currently felt. Maybe it would seem more professional if he didn’t happen to be standing there in a towel. Smelling heavenly.
He wore no wedding ring, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that he wasn’t taken. She ran her fingers over a recently healed cut at the base of his thumb.
“Cut it on a beer stein,” he said.
Was he a wild party animal, smashing beer steins while drinking with his buddies? If that were the case, it would be easier to crush this funny feeling inside her. She pushed his hand aside and stepped back. “A beer stein. Like a pottery mug?”
He nodded. “This is probably going to sound weird to you, but my dad’s ashes were in the stein. My brother and sister and I were scattering them according to his wishes.”
“Where, out on the lake?”
“No. The three of us were on a mountain in New Zealand. It’s kind of a long story.”
“New Zealand. Wow, that’s a long way to go for...” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry about your dad.” Then she turned his hands over in hers and was surprised to discover he was trembling. Delayed reaction to the emergency? She looked up and studied his eyes, her gaze flicking to the faint crescent scar. “Hey, are you feeling all right?” she asked.
He flexed his hands, giving hers a brief squeeze. “Yes, sure.”
The hesitation in his voice snagged her attention. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m not good with stuff like this. Traumatic injuries and blood. I’m fine now.” He looked down at their joined hands, then gently let go. “Thanks for asking.”
There was a spot of blood on the side of his neck. “Hold still, you missed something,” she said, dabbing at it with the corner of a towel. She stood close enough to feel his body warmth, to catch the soap-and-water smell of them both, mingling together. In her work, she got close to people; in her personal life, not so much. It occurred to her that this was the most intimate she’d been with a man in...forever, it seemed. She needed to get out more. Maybe after she was no longer homeless and broke, she would give it some thought.
“You’re most likely okay,” she told him, finishing up the exam quickly. “Are you free to go to the hospital tomorrow?”
“Sure. Guess I won’t worry until there’s something to worry about,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll send someone to help you move your things into the house.” He spoke like a man used to taking charge.
“That’s getting ahead of things,” she said. She hadn’t even set foot in the house or met the client.
“You mentioned in your email that you’d be able to start right away.”
“That’s assuming your mother and I agree that this is a good match. I need to learn more about the job. It might not be the right thing for me.”
As if she had a choice.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right.”
She couldn’t decide whether his can-do attitude was annoying or attractive. “First things first. Your mother and I need to meet and have a nice long chat.”
“She’ll agree. She’d be crazy not to.”
“Why do you say that?”
He held open the door and stood aside to let her pass. “Because you’re awesome. See you inside.”
Cara tried her best to act totally chill about sitting in the fanciest living room she’d ever seen. She leaned her elbow on the arm of the cushy leather sofa, crossed her legs at the ankles and stared out the French doors at an amazing view of Willow Lake. Every few seconds she surreptitiously checked out some detail of the room—a tall grandfather clock that softly ticked into the silence, a rustic chandelier perfectly centered over the middle of the room, an oil painting that looked exactly like a Renoir. It probably was a Renoir.
On the opposite end of the sofa, Ruby sat twirling her feet in small circles, her brown eyes like saucers and her fingers twisting into the fur of her Gruffalo. New situations always intimidated the hell out of Ruby.
The woman named Regina was acting all flustered as they waited for Cara’s mom and the Bellamy guy to get cleaned up and join them. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Regina jumped up, smoothing her hands down the front of her expensive-looking beige slacks, and said, “I’m going to get some refreshments from the kitchen. Alice, what sounds good to you?”
“A sloe gin fizz, but it’s too early in the day for that.” Old Mrs. Bellamy didn’t crack a smile.
“How about you, Cara? Lemonade? Iced tea?”
“I’m fine,” said Cara. “Thanks.”
“Ruby?” Regina’s voice went up an octave, the way some people’s did when they talked to little kids. Everybody assumed Ruby was younger than she looked, because she was so puny. “I bet I can talk Wayan—he’s the chef—into bringing you a plate of his special frosted sugar cookies.”
“No, thank you.” Ruby’s eyes widened in terror. She was so damned bashful all the time.
“Well, then.” Regina grinned with phony brightness. “I’ll go ask for a tray of lemonade and snacks. In case you change your mind.” She practically ran out of the room, as uncomfortable as Cara felt inside.
Cara wasn’t sure who Regina was or how she fit into the Bellamy household. She seemed way too stylish to be a housekeeper or whatever. She looked totally polished, with shiny, straight hair, expertly applied makeup and nails, and an outfit a TV news anchor might wear. She was attractive, but Cara couldn’t be sure if that was due to the hair and makeup, or if she really was attractive.
Cara’s mom was pretty, but it was a tired kind of pretty that just happened naturally, because she was slender and had light brown hair, kind eyes and a nice smile. Cara sometimes wished her mom would find time to get a makeover or whatever, but of course there was never time. Or money.
Throughout high school, Cara had given herself several makeovers. One of the few—very few—perks of having to move all the time was that she got to reinvent herself, and no one thought it was odd. Yet despite all her experiments with different looks, nothing seemed to work. She had tried going boho, with layers of organic cotton and weird footwear, but that kind of made her look like a homeless person. Which technically she had been off and on ever since Dad had died. Last year she tried to go preppy with stuff from thrift shops, but it had made her look like a total poseur. Knee socks had gone away for a reason. Her current look was her version of steampunk. It wasn’t working, either, but at the moment she