Heatwave. Jamie Denton AnnЧитать онлайн книгу.
with her free hand. The hinges creaked, as if unaccustomed to movement. Dragging her luggage behind her, she pushed through the gate and stepped into the courtyard. She frowned as she did a quick glance around the area. The acrid scent of burnt…something, assaulted her. The wonderland where she’d played as a child retained a mere shadow of its former beauty.
Small patches of dark moss dotted the putti fountain in the courtyard’s center, while the small pond below stood bone-dry. Weeds choked the flower beds running along the front of the house. Even the large white plastic urns, usually filled to overflowing with petunias, portulaca or begonias, housed nothing more than the shriveled remains of their original inhabitants.
Something was definitely wrong, but when she’d spoken to Grandy on the phone two days ago to reconfirm their plans, everything had appeared to be the same as always. Never had Emily expected to find the property in such a state of neglect.
She maneuvered her luggage up the two brick steps of the porch to the house and knocked on the door. The only sound came from the distant traffic on the boulevard behind her, and the gentle hum from the central air conditioning unit one of her uncles had installed for Grandy a couple of years ago. Emily didn’t hear a sound from the television or one of her grandmother’s Big-Band-era CDs, which Grandy often played while puttering around her house. Absolute silence.
Perhaps she’d gone out for the afternoon, but that, too, was highly unlikely. Her grandmother, a creature of habit, reserved errands and shopping for Saturday mornings. Emily decided to check the garage first, then she’d unearth the key hidden on the porch and let herself inside to wait.
She parked her luggage in the shade of the porch, then turned and found herself looking into the most stunning pair of sea-green eyes this side of heaven. Alarm skidded down her spine. She’d been so absorbed in her concern, she hadn’t even heard anyone behind her, something a New Yorker never did. She must be more upset by the recent and completely unexpected turn of events in her life than she realized.
“Can I help you?” she asked cautiously. She took a good look at him, committing his features to memory. With her luck lately, anything was possible and she wanted to be able to give the police an accurate description. She might forget the way his eyes skimmed her body, and she could have a hard time remembering her name, but she doubted she wouldn’t remember how his angular features seemed carved from granite. Too bad he wore a frown that would make Ebenezer Scrooge proud, she thought, because with this man’s chiseled good looks and his slightly wavy hair the color of rich mink, he’d be nothing short of scrumptious if he actually smiled. Not that it mattered to her. She was through with men.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” He had one of those deep, smooth voices capable of coaxing a woman to do just about anything. Oh, she knew the type well. A charmer, and incredibly dangerous to women who made a habit of picking the wrong men. Not that she would ever fall for something so blatantly obvious again.
She smoothed her suddenly clammy palms down the skirt of her loose floral summer dress. “I asked you first.” Okay, could she sound any more childish?
“I’m here on official business. And you are?”
Official business? He wasn’t a cop. Cops didn’t carry shovels around with them. He did wear a badge, though, and a crisp blue uniform that outlined a body spectacular enough for a blue-jeans ad campaign. The man was one-hundred-percent enticing. Well, maybe if she was interested she might call him that, only she wasn’t. Much.
No, she firmly reminded herself. Men were a thing of the past for her. She was just too good at making the wrong decisions when it came to the opposite sex.
“What official business?”
He ignored her question. “Are you related to Mrs. Norris?”
“Yes,” she said carefully. Her roiling stomach took another dip and swirl before settling back down. Feeling none too steady, she reached for the porch railing. “I’m her granddaughter.”
He finally smiled and her breath deserted her. Scrumptious only scratched the surface. The laugh lines surrounding his eyes deepened, which told her that despite that earlier frown, this gorgeous man actually did smile, and often. “Then you must be Emily.”
Obviously, he knew something she didn’t, which made her feel a half step behind him in their conversation. When her stomach gave another lurch, she tightened her grip on the railing. “Who are you, and where is my grandmother?”
His smile widened. Was it really possible for this man to appear any more sinfully handsome?
Apparently so. Her pulse revved up, underscoring that very point.
He leaned his shovel against the porch before he moved up the steps. “Drew Perry,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “And your grandmother is going to be just fine.”
That half step behind shifted into two giant steps as her vision went all funky and blurry on her for the space of two heartbeats. She shook her head to clear it. “Going to be fine? What happened? Where is she?”
“Hey, are you all right?” Drew asked. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” Except she didn’t feel fine. Her voice sounded distant and tinny, a perfect accompaniment for the dull ringing in her ears. Either she was about to suffer a recurrence of the flu or the cardboard excuse for chicken cordon bleu she’d been served on the airplane planned to make an unwelcome reappearance.
She swayed slightly. “Just tell me what happened to my grandmother.”
Warm, work-roughened hands settled over her bare arms as he gently urged her away from the railing to the brick steps. “Maybe you’d better sit down,” he suggested.
Feeling decidedly fuzzy and tingly all at the same time, Emily didn’t argue. She allowed him to assist her down onto the steps. Though she wasn’t exactly certain what she expected to happen next, Drew taking her pulse didn’t even make her list of possibilities. The feel of his fingers holding her wrist sent a chill down her spine and she shivered. A ridiculous reaction, especially considering the record hot temperatures.
“Your pulse always this high?” he asked her.
She tugged her hand away from him. “No,” she lied. “It’s not high, either.”
The look he gave her said he knew otherwise. “Your pulse is elevated, and you’re as pale as a sheet.”
“The airline food didn’t agree with me,” she managed to say around another wave of nausea. “Will you please tell me who you are and what you’ve done with my grandmother?”
“I’m with the Los Angeles Fire Department. Your grandmother had a little accident and was transported by the paramedics to the emergency room.”
Her stomach dipped and swirled again. “What kind of accident?”
He smiled again, causing her pulse to click up a couple more notches. “She’s going to be fine,” he said.
Why wouldn’t he give her a straight answer? She shook her head again. Too late, she realized the drastic error in judgment. Her vision blurred and the ringing in her ears amplified.
“Emily? Stay with me, Emily.”
She tried to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere until he told her exactly what was going on, but her peripheral vision faded to gray. In a matter of seconds, all she could see was a minute pinpoint of light, filled with the rapidly disappearing vision of the handsome stranger, until the lights finally dimmed.
DREW HAD BECOME an arson inspector for a reason—he absolutely detested hospitals. In his opinion, emergency rooms were the worst. But here he was, at the UCLA Medical Center for the second time in one day, hanging around a place he didn’t like, keeping a promise to an old woman he didn’t even know. A sweet old woman who could very well be an arson suspect.
He leaned against the wall nearest the electronic doors a few feet away from the ER’s waiting area. The space was crowded for