“Put me down! I'm capable of getting myself to the car—”
“How?”
Color rose to her face. “And anyway, I have my own doctor.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said pleasantly, “but today we're seeing mine.”
“You're used to calling the shots, aren't you?” The question was accusatory. “Don't you ever take commands?”
He slanted her a look. “Under the right circumstances…” he murmured, letting the sentence trail off—and was rewarded with another blush.
“Where are we going?” Liz glanced out the car window at the highway exit they were passing, then jerked her head around to Quentin. “You just passed my house.”
The doctor they'd seen had told her that her ankle had been badly sprained. While she wouldn't need a cast, she'd have to use crutches for the next couple of weeks.
“We're heading to my place.”
“What?” Panic roiled her stomach.
He took his eyes off the road for a second. “Don't worry. I don't have any nefarious schemes in mind.”
“Of course not.” So what if she'd been thinking just that? “I simply meant, to what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected and unsolicited invitation to your place of abode?”
He chuckled, then cleared his throat. “You're going to need someone to look after you for a while. I have a great housekeeper. You'll love her.”
“Oh, no—”
He tossed her a penetrating look. “Don't even try to argue.”
She raised her chin. “I'll be able to manage just fine.”
He looked back out at the road. “How? You're supposed to keep off that foot. Do you have anyone at your place to help with cooking meals? Running errands? Getting around the house?”
“I can stay with Allison.”
“Forget it.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a droll look. “You know as well as I do that Allison works late regularly, particularly when she has a trial going on. And, except for the occasional cat-sitter, she doesn't have any household help at her apartment.”
He was right, much as she didn't want to admit it.
“Look on the bright side. This will give us a chance to see if we're really compatible.”
She felt a little flutter of panic. “What about my things?”
“Not a problem. I'll swing by your place and pick up anything you need.” He paused, then added, “Does this mean you accept my invitation?”
She studied his profile until he turned and looked at her blandly. She sighed. “Yes.”
She'd seen Quentin's house from the outside of course. She often passed it on trips to meet clients in the most exclusive section of Carlyle. He'd bought it shortly after his engagement.
The wood frame house dated from the mid-1800s. White shingles and a white picket fence set off by black shutters and doors. The two-story structure was partially obscured from the road by two large oaks in the front yard.
She'd often thought it was the sort of house she'd have bought if she could have afforded it. And, she'd often itched to have a look inside, wanting to know if it would be as she'd imagined. But her enthusiasm had been tempered by the knowledge that Quentin had bought it for another woman.
“I'll show you around a little so you have your bearings,” he said as soon as they were inside. “I don't keep a big staff here because I'm often traveling. Just a weekly cleaning service and gardener. Fred O'Donnelly and his wife Muriel fill in as the part-time butler and housekeeper.”
She admired the alabaster banister on the stairs leading from the foyer, where they were standing, to the level above. The wood shone with a dark-red glow. “Is this the original woodwork in the house?” she asked as she turned to look at the nearby doors and their equally dark wood frames.
“Yes.” He opened the door on their left and she used her crutches to hobble into the living room after him. “The fireplaces have also been carefully maintained.”
A spectacular marble mantel dominated the room. A couple of mauve couches faced each other across a small coffee table set on a cream mohair rug. “The stuff in this room, and in most of the rest of the house, I moved in from my bachelor pad. I started some of the essential restoration and renovation, and thought I'd leave the decorating to Vanessa—”
He cut himself off and his jaw tightened. “The engagement was over before we got to that point, but then you probably know that, don't you?” He slanted her a look.
“Allison did mention the engagement, yes.” She had been living in Carlyle but working for a design firm in Boston at the time. She had dreaded perhaps being hired by the future Mrs. Quentin Whittaker to do the interior decorating for the house. When the engagement had been called off, all the local gossip columns had carried the news. Speculation had run rampant over the cancelled engagement of the scion of the Whittaker clan to the Boston Brahmin society belle.
She used her crutches to maneuver over to the mantel. “It's lovely.”
“I'm glad you like it.” His voice held a note of quiet pride.
“Who did you hire for the restoration and renovation?”
He mentioned a name she was accustomed to dealing with. “Yes, I know them well. They do great work.”
He glanced at her crutches doubtfully. “If you can manage, I'll show you the rest of the house.”
“I'd love to see more.”
The downstairs was completed by a study, dining room, kitchen and family room. All contained the same lovely woodwork. The spacious kitchen contained all the modern amenities, though its traditional style made it harmonious with the rest of the house.
“The kitchen had just been redone when I bought the house,” Quentin offered as they moved to the stairs.
“Mmm.” She was distracted by her surroundings, or she would have noticed his pause as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“I'd better carry you.”
“Oh, that's not necessary….” So far, being held in his arms hadn't failed to send her pulse racing. “I can manage these steps just fine—”
“Yeah,” he took the crutches from her suddenly nerveless fingers, “but I can't manage to just stand back and watch you,” he replied in a smooth voice.
Before she knew it, she was swung up into strong arms and held close to a broad muscled chest. If she'd forgotten anything from her encounter earlier that day with certain parts of Quentin's anatomy, this was a great reminder! “Put me—”