LITMIR.BIZ

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from her position with the firm. They had been all too willing to believe she’d let greed trump ethics and had engaged in behavior that they should have realized was utterly foreign to her.

      Unable to appreciate the nice weather or the beautiful scenery surrounding her, she closed her cell phone. Her lips felt dry and she realized she was thirsty. She’d stocked the fridge with her favorite bottled water. Rising, she moved toward the door, wondering idly if Casey had finished installing the fan yet.

      He was standing at the sink when she entered the kitchen. Though his back was turned to her, he seemed to be fumbling with the roll of paper towels on the counter.

      “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

      He started and turned toward her, his left hand cupped in front of him. Something about the way he held it made her study him more closely. Only then did she notice the blood that dripped from his palm.

      Sighing lightly, she moved toward him. “What have you done now? Let me see.”

      If Casey’d had access to a teleporter, he would have beamed out of there right that minute. But since his sci-fi fandom was of no use to him just then, he squared his shoulders and tried to look nonchalant even though he was bleeding all over her kitchen.

      “It’s just a scratch,” he assured her, closing his fist before she could see the wound. “I’ll wash it off and wrap a paper towel around it until it scabs over and it’ll be fine.”

      “You don’t get that much blood from ‘just a scratch,’” she argued, reaching for his wrist. “I think you should let me look at it.”

      “What are you, a doctor?” he asked, reluctantly opening his fingers.

      “No, but I played one on TV,” she answered absently, wincing as she looked at the ragged gash across his palm.

      “Kidding,” she added with a glance up at his face. “I’m not an actor. Casey, this is more than a scratch. How did you do it?”

      Amused by her automatic quip—so he wasn’t the only popculture fan in the room—he shrugged, having no intention of telling her exactly how he’d sliced himself. “Just carelessness. I really don’t think it’s all that bad.”

      She studied his palm again and the sight of her bent over his hand, peering so closely he could feel her warm breath on his skin, made an odd feeling go down his spine. At least, he assumed it was her closeness and not blood loss causing that sensation. He was a healthy, red-blooded—hah—young man, after all.

      She glanced up at him again. “You’re dripping blood all over my floor and you find it funny?” she asked a bit too politely.

      He stifled his inappropriate grin, suspecting she wouldn’t share his humor in the situation. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess, of course.”

      “First, we’re going to have to stop the bleeding.” She tugged him toward the table. “Sit down. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

      “I don’t—”

      She gave him a look that reminded him oddly of his mother’s famous don’t-argue-with-me expression. His libido effectively quashed, he sank into a chair.

      She returned a few minutes later carrying a small, white plastic box which she set on the table and opened purposefully. He grimaced when he saw that the first item she removed was an alcohol pad. That was going to sting.

      “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?” she asked, ripping open the packet containing the pad.

      “Last year. I cut myself on some rusty barbed wire at my cousin’s ranch. Thought it was a good idea to have a tetanus shot after that.”

      She dabbed the cut with the pad and he had to make an effort not to grunt. He’d anticipated correctly. It stung.

      “Are you always so accident-prone?”

      He frowned. “Not really.”

      “Mmm.” She didn’t sound as if she entirely believed him.

      He supposed he couldn’t blame her, really. He’d sprayed her with water fixing a pipe and sliced open his hand installing a fan. She’d probably expect him to break a leg or something if he had to climb a ladder.

      “I don’t think you need stitches,” she said, studying the now-clean wound, which was still oozing blood, though the bleeding had slowed.

      “Definitely don’t need stitches.”

      She pulled out a tube of ointment and an adhesive bandage. “At least let me cover it so it will stay clean.”

      He nodded, figuring that was a good idea.

      Kneeling in front of him, she cradled his hand in hers as she carefully smoothed the ointment over his injury. She was wearing a thin, long-sleeved green sweater with a scoop neck. He realized that from this angle, he could see the creamy upper curves of her breasts. Any resemblance he’d seen in her to his mother disappeared. He lifted his gaze quickly to the window across the room before he embarrassed himself by visibly reacting to her crouching so close to him, looking like—well, like that, he thought with a fleeting glance back at her.

      She looked up and met his eyes. “Am I hurting you?”

      “No.” Aware that he’d spoken rather curtly, he looked out the window again. “Almost done?”

      “Yes. Just let me—” She spread the bandage across his palm, centered the gauze part over the wound, then pressed down on the adhesive edges to secure it. “There. How does that feel?”

      At that moment he didn’t feel a thing in his hand, though he was aware of plenty of sensations in other parts of him. Maybe the blood loss had affected him, he thought grimly, though he knew full well he hadn’t been injured badly enough for that to be an issue. “It feels fine. Thanks. I’d better wipe up in here and then get back to work. I still have to hang that mirror in the bathroom.”

      “Are you sure you can work with that sore hand?”

      “Oh, sure.” He flexed his fingers a few times in demonstration, managing not to wince with the movement. “It’s fine.”

      “Did you finish installing the fan?”

      “Yeah.” He had been cleaning up in there when he’d sliced himself with a box cutter while breaking down the fan’s cardboard box. Maybe he’d been a little distracted by the sight of a lacy nightgown peeking out of the top of a drawer. He had no intention of telling her either how—or why—he’d sustained the injury. “I’ll take care of this mess, and then I’ll hang the mirror and get out of your way.”

      But she had already grabbed a paper towel and was scrubbing at the drops of blood on the countertop. “I’ve got this. You finish your work.”

      It was obvious that she wasn’t one to be deterred once she’d made up her mind. Maybe she just wanted him to finish up and clear out quickly. Because it wasn’t worth an argument, he merely nodded. “All right. Thanks.”

      She nodded in return, busily cleaning up the evidence of his latest act of clumsiness.

      Shaking his head in self-reproof, he went back to her bedroom, suddenly wanting to be out of that cabin before his ego took an even harder hit. He seemed to feel that way every time he left Natalie, he thought with a rueful grimace.

      Even as she drove the ten miles of winding roads down the mountain and into Gatlinburg early Friday evening, Natalie wished she could have found some reason to decline the dinner invitation that had brought her out of her solitude. Other than Casey and the one maintenance visit from Kyle, the only people Natalie had seen in the past week were her aunt and uncle. They’d popped in the day before to check on her and bring her a supply of Aunt Jewel’s home cooking, though she had assured them that wasn’t necessary.

      She’d had phone calls, of course. Amber. Her dad. Her mom. All of them were worried

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