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to talk about it then just say so.’

      He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

      Well, she had definitely asked for that one, Stephanie acknowledged ruefully. ‘I was only trying to make polite conversation.’

      Jordan looked at her coldly. ‘I agreed to let you cook dinner, not talk.’

      Stephanie bit back her angry retort as she resumed unpacking the box of groceries. Maybe he would be more amenable after he had eaten? And maybe he wouldn’t! she thought dryly.

      His medical file had stated that the broken bones in his arm and ribcage had knitted back together well, but the lines of strain grooved beside his mouth and eyes were evidence of the pain he still suffered in the hip and leg that had been fractured and obviously hadn’t healed as well. Stephanie’s fingers itched to explore that damaged leg and hip, to check for herself what could be done about restoring this man to full mobility.

      Or maybe they just itched to touch all six foot four inches of lean, male flesh that was Jordan Simpson.

      Her sister had been first incredulous and then amused when Stephanie had explained her dilemma to her, dismissing her misgivings regarding having the actor as her newest patient.

      Joey had also reassured Stephanie concerning her worry over her unwilling involvement in the Newmans’ divorce. Her lawyer sister had advised Stephanie to ‘just get on and do what you do best, sis, and leave me to deal with the Newman situation.’

      That the ‘Newman situation’ even needed dealing with still rankled with Stephanie.

      ‘Could you lay the table while I cook?’ she prompted sharply.

      His jaw clenched. ‘I’m not a complete invalid, damn it.’ He gritted very white teeth as he rose awkwardly to his feet before grasping the ebony cane to balance himself.

      ‘It was a request for you to actually lay the table, not a question as to whether or not you’re capable of doing it,’ she elaborated.

      ‘Of course it was,’ he said sarcastically.

      Stephanie watched him as he limped across the kitchen to open the cutlery drawer, determinedly keeping her gaze professional. The muscles in his leg were obviously weakened from months of disuse, but that didn’t explain the amount of pain he seemed to be suffering. It might be an idea to have someone else look at him—

      ‘What the hell are you looking at?’

      Stephanie raised her gaze to find Jordan scowling across the kitchen at her, and the look of savage anger on that handsome face warned her to opt for honesty. ‘I was wondering if you should have that leg and hip re-X-rayed.’

      ‘Forget it.’ He threw the cutlery noisily back into the drawer before slamming it shut. ‘And while you’re at it take your food and just get out!’ He walked stiffly towards the door that led back into the hallway.

      Stephanie frowned her dismay as she realised his obvious intention of leaving. ‘What about dinner?’

      Those amber eyes were glittering furiously as he turned to glare at her. ‘I just lost my appetite.’

      ‘Just because I talked about your leg?’

      ‘Because you talked at all, Jordan told her insultingly. ‘Men just shut up and get on with it—whereas women, I’ve learnt, feel the need to dissect everything.’

      ‘If by that you mean that men prefer to bottle up their anxieties rather than—’

      ‘The only anxiety I have at this moment is you!’ he cut in viciously, able to feel the nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘A situation that will resolve itself the moment you walk out the door.’

      This man really was an immovable object, Stephanie recognised in sheer frustration. Well, two could play at that game! ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she told him levelly.

      Those glittering amber eyes turned icily cold as his gaze raked over her from head to toe and back again. ‘No?’

      ‘No.’ She stood her ground. ‘And I very much doubt that you’re capable of making me leave, either.’

      His face was once again unhealthily pale as his mouth tightened to an angry grim line. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’ he muttered harshly.

      Stephanie sighed. ‘It isn’t my intention to upset you, Mr Simpson—’

      ‘Then get the hell out of my house! ‘ He turned and left the room without a backward glance, his dark hair long and unkempt on his shoulders, and his back stiff with the fury he made no effort to hide.

      Leaving Stephanie to sink down wearily into the kitchen chair Jordan had just vacated. She was used to difficult patients—actually relished the challenge of working with them. But dealing with Jordan Simpson was going to be so much harder than Stephanie could ever have imagined a week ago, when she had unknowingly agreed to help Lucan St Claire’s brother.

      ‘Changed your mind?’ She looked up hopefully an hour later, when she heard the slight unevenness of Jordan’s gait as he walked back down the hallway.

      ‘No.’ Jordan couldn’t say he hadn’t been tempted by the delicious smells emanating down the hall from the kitchen and into the study, where he’d sat as this stubborn woman obviously prepared her own dinner. Or that his mouth hadn’t watered at the thought of sinking his teeth into a medium-rare steak and a fluffy jacket potato smothered in butter, possibly with a nice light French dressing on the green salad on the side. Tempted, maybe, but there was no way he would give Stephanie McKinley the satisfaction of joining her. ‘I thought I told you to leave?’ The pristine tidiness of the kitchen showed that she had finished cleaning before even attempting to cook her meal.

      She remained comfortably seated at the kitchen table, where she had obviously just finished eating her meal—washed down by a glass of decent-looking red wine if the label on the open bottle on the table was anything to go by. ‘Your brother wants me to stay.’

      Jordan clenched his jaw. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

      ‘Not since last week, no.’

      ‘Well, it may have escaped your notice, but Lucan isn’t here right now.’

      ‘I have no doubt that he could be here in a matter of hours if I should decide to call him,’ Stephanie McKinley came back unconcernedly.

      Knowing his arrogant brother as he did, Jordan had no doubt, either, that Lucan was quite capable of climbing into his private helicopter and flying up here if he felt there was a need for him to do so. If Lucan thought that Jordan was being difficult. Which he undoubtedly was!

      Jordan limped over to get a glass out of one of the cupboards, poured himself a glass of red wine from the open bottle and then took a sip before answering this increasingly annoying woman. ‘If that was a threat then I’m not impressed.’

      ‘It wasn’t, and you weren’t meant to be.’ She grimaced. ‘And should you be drinking wine if you’re taking medication for pain?’

      ‘This is my medication for the pain!’ One thing Mulberry Hall did have was a decent wine cellar, and Jordan had helped himself liberally to its contents this past month. A cripple and a drunk; how the mighty had fallen! he thought derisively.

      Stephanie McKinley eyed him frowningly. ‘Alcohol causes depression—’

      ‘I’m not depressed, damn it! ‘ The glass landed heavily on the table-top as he slammed it down, spilling some of its contents over his hand and onto the wooden surface.

      ‘Okay. But you’re angry. Frustrated. And rude.’

      ‘How do you know that I wasn’t angry, frustrated and rude before the accident?’ Jordan asked.

      ‘You weren’t,’ Stephanie said quietly as she looked up at him. ‘The press would certainly have made something

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