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Faith scrubbed her hands and arms with a cake of soap that smelled of lemon and herbs.
“I have to admit, that’s a first for me,” Mason called from the adjacent shower stall.
Even though they couldn’t see each other, Faith felt awkward and exposed while she showered within earshot of a man she’d just met. “I wish I could say the same.” She watched a thin stream of watered-down blood drain into the river-stone bed of the shower. “In my line of work, things sometimes get messy.”
“How long have you been a nurse?”
“All my life, pretty much. I was raised by a single mom. She was sick—congestive heart failure—and I was her caregiver until she passed away when I was about Cara’s age.”
“Damn. That’s rough. I’m sorry to hear it, Faith.”
“I went to school but couldn’t afford to get my RN degree. I trained in a work-study program and I’ve worked in the field ever since.”
She dried off with a big bath towel, which was as thick and luxurious as a robe at a Turkish spa—not that she’d ever been to a Turkish spa. But she’d imagined one, many times.
Then she put on a clean dress, hoping it wasn’t too wrinkled from packing. It was a blue cotton wrap dress, not her first choice for meeting a potential client, but it would do in a pinch.
“All set,” she said, finger combing her wet hair as she stepped out of the cabana. “I just need to— Oh.”
Words failed her as Mason Bellamy came out of the shower stall wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. Time seemed to stop as she had a swift, heated reaction to the sight of his body, a reminder of just how much time had passed since she’d had a boyfriend—or even a date. He was built like a men’s underwear model, perfectly proportioned, with sculpted arms and legs, shoulders and abs not found in nature. His towel-dried hair lay in damp waves, framing his face. His lips curved upward at the corners even when he wasn’t smiling, and she detected both kindness and wariness in his eyes. A small, upside-down crescent scar at the top of his cheekbone kept him from being too handsome. She gave herself a stern, silent reminder that a guy who looked like this undoubtedly spent too much time at the gym. He was probably obsessed with himself.
Or maybe he might just be the kind of guy who took care of himself, said another little voice in her head. In her profession, she saw too little of that. Might as well enjoy a little eye candy.
“Guess I need to find some clean clothes, too,” he said. “Getting drenched in a stranger’s blood wasn’t on the agenda today.”
“I need to check you out.”
He raised one eyebrow, looking intrigued. “Yeah?”
She flushed, wondering if he’d read her mind. “What I mean is, I should check your hands, see if you have any open wounds. When we follow up at the hospital, they’ll need to check again.”
Mason blanched and stuck out both hands toward her. Immediately, the towel hit the ground. “Whoops,” he said, bending to pick it up. He tucked the towel in more securely around his waist. “Didn’t mean to flash you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She felt a bit light-headed, because of course she’d peeked. His body was amazing.
“I’m not worried. Just don’t want to seem rude.” He held out his hands again. “So you mentioned blood-borne pathogens. Like HIV?”
“It’s extremely rare, but yes. Also, HBV, hepatitis, malaria—all very unlikely, though it’s best to rule them out.”
“How will we find out if the guy is okay? Will the hospital tell us?”
“There are 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.”
7 (#ulink_1297f7e4-567a-576a-aa20-7a68b5f1cf85)
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 couldn’t decide what to pursue next. Besides, she didn’t have the dough.
She sneaked a glance at Mrs. Bellamy, but the old lady caught her.
“So this accident,” said Mrs. Bellamy. “You simply happened to come upon it.”
“Yep.” Cara nodded. “Just like that.”
“And it was at the end of the driveway.”
“Across the road from the driveway. Motorcycle versus ditch.”
“It was Cara who saw him first,” Ruby ventured in a tiny voice.
“I spotted him out the window,” said Cara. “A puff of smoke and the sun glinting off a piece of metal. He must have just crashed.”
“I see.”
At least Mrs. Bellamy didn’t say something patronizing like it was a good thing Cara had come running for help and all that crap. It was kind of a no-brainer. It would’ve been simpler if Mom had let her drive the van, but Cara didn’t know how to drive. Mom had shown her the basics, but the stick shift was way too challenging. It was embarrassing. All the kids in her school drove or were currently in driver’s ed. Cara just went to study hall during that block and wished with all her heart she could join the class. Most days the only other kid in study hall was Milo Waxman, an oddball who thought the whole world should ride bicycles or dogsleds or something that didn’t pollute the environment. Cara secretly found him interesting, but it would be social suicide to hang out with him.
She yearned to be normal, whatever normal was. Driving a car and living in one place for more than a few months at a time. But she didn’t like asking her mom for anything, because she knew damn well that Mom would give her and Ruby everything if she could afford it. And she couldn’t afford it.
Cara remembered the day she finally understood that they were poor. And not just ordinary, having-to-clip-coupons poor, but poor like we-don’t-have-a-place-to-live poor. Not long after Dad had died, the three of them had spent several nights “camping” in the van. Mom had acted as if it was a fun adventure, even when the mornings were so cold that the van’s windows were etched with frost. Cara had pretended to be asleep when a park ranger had come along, telling Mom it was time to check and see if the county housing agency had found a place for them yet.
“You’re seventeen, according to the letter your mother sent last night,” said Mrs. Bellamy, interrupting her thoughts.
It wasn’t a question, so Cara simply nodded, happy enough to quit thinking about the past.
“And you’re eight,” the old lady said to Ruby.
The woman wasn’t really old, Cara observed. She just looked that way because she was a sourpuss, and she wore her blond hair in a granny bun.
“Yes,” Ruby replied in a soft, shaky voice.
“What grade are you in?”
“Second grade. My teacher’s name is Ms. Iversen.”
“Your mother said you have special needs. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ruby trembled as if the old lady were breathing fire. “I...I...”
Mrs. Bellamy blew into a tube on her wheelchair and the thing moved closer to Ruby. “Speak up. I can’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Ruby looked as if she were about to pee her pants.
Just then Regina came back with a fancy tray loaded with frosted cookies and icy glasses of lemonade. “I brought extra, in case you changed your mind,” she chirped. “Once you taste Wayan’s treats, you won’t be able to resist.”
“Well?” demanded Mrs. Bellamy, glaring at Ruby. “I was asking about your needs. Your special needs.”
Ruby’s mouth moved, forming the words, I’m diabetic, but no sound came out. Cara always hated when Ruby acted ashamed, as if the disease were somehow her own failing.
“She’s diabetic,” Cara snapped. “And no, thank you,” she added as Regina set down the tray. “We both totally appreciate the offer, but she can’t have any of Wayan’s damn cookies.”
Ruby’s hands came up to her cheeks, and her eyes got even rounder. At the same time, Mason Bellamy and Mom walked into the room.
“Well,” said Mom, surveying the situation, “I see everyone is getting along just fine.”
Cara shut her stupid mouth, but she didn’t see any reason to apologize to the dragon lady or to Regina. Her outburst might have cost Mom the job, in which case she owed her mother an apology, not anyone else.
Mom walked right over to Mrs. Bellamy and sat down in the wingback chair beside her. “I’m Faith McCallum,” she said. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“Likewise, I suppose,” said old lady Bellamy. Cara could tell already that she had a way of sizing people up with her eyes.
“This is Regina Jeffries,” said the guy named Mason. He had changed out of his bloody clothes and now wore clean jeans and a white shirt, open at the collar, the cuffs turned back. He was super good-looking for a guy in his thirties. Now Cara understood how Regina fit into the picture—she was his girlfriend. It was obvious by the way she stared at him.
Mom stood up briefly and shook hands with Regina. There was an obvious contrast between the two of them. Regina had every hair in place, while Mom looked...well, just kind of ordinary in a dress with pockets and flat shoes, her damp brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup. Ever.
“That was more drama than we expected this morning,” said Mason. “How about we start over?”
“Lemonade?” asked Regina. “Cookie?”
“I’m fine,” said Mom. She shifted her focus to Mrs. Bellamy. “I’d love to hear about you—what you need, what you want. Your expectations.”
Mrs. Bellamy narrowed her eyes. “You are to be in charge of assisting me, including the supervision of the two other home health aides who cover the evening and early-morning shifts.”
