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Severe sprain, the doctor said. Keep it elevated, put ice on the swelling, and don’t walk on it for at least 24 hours. On Monday, after the swelling went down, she was to see an orthopedic doctor. With those words of wisdom, a pair of crutches and an elastic stocking to control the swelling, she was discharged from the clinic.

Renard had only raised an eyebrow when the nurses had recognized her on sight. And if he thought it strange that they had listened to her chest and took her blood pressure before looking at her foot, he didn’t comment. He chuckled with the rest of them when the doctor pronounced this “a common injury”. His absence of questions made the ride home a bit awkward but now as they sat in his car across from her house, the silence became downright annoying.

“You live here all alone?” he asked, assessing the old two-story brick building.

“I live with my mother.” She reached behind the bucket seat, trying to grasp the crutches in the back, but Oreo kept interfering. “But she’s in Florida right now with my sick aunt.” She pushed the furry head back, “Stop that.”

“And your father?”

The question drew her up short. She stopped fishing for the crutches and glanced up into Renard’s eyes. “He died about ten years ago. Heart failure.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, a bit awkwardly. He glanced about, at everything but her. Eventually, his gaze found the house.

“How do you plan to get up the porch steps?” He turned back toward her, one brow raised.

“I’ll manage,” she answered tersely, though in truth, she wondered the same thing.

“Isn’t there someone who could help you, a neighbor, a significant other?”

She laughed at the suggestion of a boyfriend. “No, just Oreo and me.” She scratched between the dog’s floppy ears. “Right, girl?”

“And the dog?” He petted the furry white head as it extended further and further between the seats. Oreo’s tail thumped out a rhythm against the back seat. “You’ll be able to manage this terror on paws all alone while on crutches?”

That one stumped her for a moment. She supposed she could call Stephen. He should be back by now, but she dreaded the smothering attention that plea would bring. Wasn’t she the one who had demanded independence? The one who had asked her family to stop interfering in her life as if she were still an invalid, too weak to do anything but ask for help?

“Is she housebroken?”

Indignity on behalf of her pet flooded her. “Of course she is,” she snapped, “not that it should matter to—”

“Give me your keys.”

“Excuse me?” Indignity on her own behalf made her twist sideways so she could face him. She scooted her back to the door to maintain distance. “Why do you want my keys?”

“The company provided me with a fully furnished ranch-style house to use until I find a place of my own.” He spoke more to the windshield than to her face. “There are four bedrooms, no stairs to hobble up and down, and plenty of room for Fido here.”

“Oreo,” she corrected, “and the answer is no.”

“Look, I’m not interested in anything but giving you an alternative to doing permanent damage to your ankle.” He turned toward her. “The house is too big for one person.” His lips turned up in a faint smile. “We wouldn’t even have to see each other, if you like.”

“Mr. Renard…”

“Hank,” he interjected. She glanced up. “My friends call me Hank. And after our chance meeting this afternoon, you know parts of me better than my best friend.”

She lowered her gaze, her memory of that meeting burning bright on her cheeks. “Okay, Hank. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Who said anything about losing your job?”

She looked up at him askance. “You did. Twice.”

He dismissed her response with a wave of his hand. “I wasn’t serious. You just…managed to catch me at a bad time.”

Skeptical, she wondered if he ever had a good time. She took a breath. “If Falstaff and Watterson found out I was staying at your house, they’d fire me for certain.”

“We’re not meeting for some clandestine affair.” He looked incredulous, as if the thought of her as a sexual partner was beneath consideration. The dismissal stabbed at her. “I’m only offering a spare bedroom. Why should that jeopardize your job?”

“Because of appearances.” She fumbled with a button on her coat, afraid he might recognize her disappointment if he saw her face. “Even if it appears that we’re not involved, then Falstaff and Watterson could question my objectivity. They might not trust my judgment when auditing your books.”

“Let me get this straight.” She heard laughter in his voice. “If you exercise some common sense and accept my offer, you get fired. But practically emasculating me, that’s okay?” He hesitated. “And I pay you for this?”

She yanked on the door handle, wanting to run from his laughter.

“Wait.” His hand grasped her thigh, stopping her exit. She froze. The heavy denim of her jeans felt almost sheer beneath his touch, especially as his fingers drew tiny circles on her leg.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice, so gentle and apologetic, lured her acceptance, but she kept her face turned to the window so he couldn’t see her hurt. “The truth is,” he said, “the house I’m in is extremely private. More people have probably seen you sitting in my car here than will see you at my place.”

That pulled her around. She hadn’t considered how this innocent discussion might appear to someone driving by.

“I guarantee I won’t say anything to Falstaff and Watterson.” He raised his hand as if taking an oath. “Unless you tell them, I don’t think your job is in jeopardy.” His dimple deepened as his lips lifted in a smile. “After all, we both know your objectivity is uncompromised, at least as far as I’m concerned.”

She looked into his eyes and for the first time wondered if that were true. Warmth spread from the base of her spine. The same protected, secure warmth that she had felt in his arms as he carried her effortlessly along the bank of the reservoir.

Oreo whimpered from the back seat. Angie slid out from under his hand. “We’ve got to go.” She tugged Oreo forward. Using the toes of her injured foot for balance, she staggered out of the car.

“Wait a minute, let me help you,” Hank called, his door already creaking open.

“No, I need to do this myself.” Angela opened the back door, retrieved the crutches then braced herself for the hobble across the street.

“Will you at least turn a light on, or wave from your window, or something, so I know you got inside all right?”

She nodded her head and closed the car door.

He watched her step-swing-step across the street, Oreo trotting by her side. She managed to scale the porch steps and unlock the front door. She paused, then gave him a little wave. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, highlighting her pale blond hair as she disappeared into the dark forbidding house.

The memory of that silken hair flowing across his thighs on the muddy bank made his groin tighten. And her eyes, those clear, expressive blue eyes that in unguarded moments spoke of vulnerability and frailty. He glanced up at the dark windows. Frail. That’s hardly the word he would have used when she plowed into him earlier. He chuckled. The last thing he had expected when he decided to sort his life out over the arch of a fishing pole was to play nursemaid to an elfin chauffeur/accountant. Damn. He meant to ask her about that. He glanced at the windows.

Still dark. Of course, the way things were going their paths had to cross again. The thought pleased him. It should scare him to death, he modified. First thing Monday he would check the provisions of his health insurance.

Health insurance. He frowned at the still dark windows. Medicine. What was all that about? She didn’t look sick. She certainly hadn’t felt sick when he held her in his arms. She felt good, too damn good. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. What was she trying to hide? He reached for the door handle. And why wasn’t that damn light on?

He found her a few minutes later, sitting midway up a flight of steps, crying her eyes out.