Her Fifth Husband?

At least she didn’t turn the air-conditioning full blast with all the doors and windows open the way too many thoughtless tenants did.

Humming under her breath, she began double-checking the list she’d made yesterday to make sure that everything that had been lost, stolen or damaged had been replaced. The new bar stools had been delivered. She checked that off her list. Climbing to the top level, she took a good look around to confirm that she hadn’t overlooked anything. Once she was done, she slid open the glass doors on the top floor and stepped out onto the sundeck, her favorite place of all. Ignoring the spectacular view of dunes and ocean, she glanced at the cottage next door.

Not that she’d expected to see him—the parking area next door was empty. Not that she even wanted to see him, but he’d said he wasn’t finished with whatever it was he was doing over there—installing, updating or repairing a security system.

She told herself she wasn’t disappointed, and really, she wasn’t. Not for herself. But for months now she and her friends had been looking for a candidate for Lily Sullivan, the beautiful blond CPA with the sad eyes who lived a few streets over from Marty’s house. So far as anyone knew—Faylene could find out more about a person from their garbage alone than any CIA agent—Lily had no social life at all.

The trouble was that there were so few available men around—certainly none who might interest a woman who was both attractive and intelligent. The best had already been taken; the rest were too old, too young, too dull or too dumb.

Ironically, over the past couple of years it had been Daisy and Marty, two of the original matchmakers, who had skimmed the cream off the top, with Daisy marrying Kell Magee when he’d come east to check out a relative, and Marty marrying the yummy carpenter she’d hired to renovate her house.

And she wasn’t envious, she really wasn’t! As she turned to go, one of her heels slipped between two boards. Flailing her arms for balance, she grabbed at the chaise longue, which slid away from her, throwing her even more off balance. Pain shot up her left leg. Trying to catch herself as she went down on her behind, she jammed her fingers on the sun-warped deck.

“Oh, help, oh, shoot, oh, damn, damn, damn!” She rocked back and forth, clutching her ankle with one hand and waving the other hand in the air, her shoe heel still trapped in the crack between boards.

Seeing that the pink suede covering the five-inch heel was ruined, she cried out in frustration as well as pain. She’d paid dearly for these shoes, knowing that nothing flattered a woman’s legs like a good pair of spike heels. Especially a woman who had stopped growing—at least vertically—in the fifth grade. Having been told at an early age that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, she’d gone out of her way to wear something pink on every possible occasion, even if it was only pink tourmaline jewelry.

With trembling fingers, she managed to unbuckle the ankle strap, unwrap it and ease her foot from the arrow-shaped toe that looked so gorgeous she usually didn’t even notice the torture.

Oh, gross! Her ankle was already starting to look like an overstuffed sausage. Not only that, she had popped three fingernails and collected a handful of splinters that would probably give her blood poisoning. Didn’t they use arsenic to treat the lumber for these beach houses? Did that include the sundecks?

At least she managed to unfasten her gold ankle bracelet before it cut off circulation. Oh God, she was going to die right here on the top deck of an empty cottage. The sun would turn her red as a boiled crab. Her nose would blister, seagulls and ospreys would drop disgusting things on her body—

Her cell phone—she’d left it in her purse inside. If she could just get up she could use one of the plastic chairs as a walker and hop inside to call 911. Although after yesterday…

Maybe a different dispatcher would be on in the mornings.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaking trails of mascara through her blusher, dripping off her chin onto her Tilly MacIntire blouse. She unfastened her other shoe and tossed it aside. What good was one shoe when its mate was ruined? If it weren’t for the fact that nothing flattered a woman’s legs like putting them on a pedestal—and she was just vain enough to want every advantage she could possibly get—she’d burn the treacherous things the minute she got home.

But first she had to get there.

She was on her knees, trying to grab the leg of a chair and drag it closer when she heard someone step out onto the sundeck behind her.

“What the devil have you done to yourself?” a familiar voice boomed.

Startled, she twisted around and stared up at the voyeur—the man who had scared the wits out of her just yesterday.

Oh, please, her inner woman groaned, not like this!

“Help?” she said weakly.

By the time they were in Jake’s SUV on the way to the hospital in Nags Head, Sasha had set aside her misery to make three firm vows. First, no more five-inch heels—at least not when she was working. Second, starting now she would cut her carb count in half. No more Krispy Kremes, no more double lattes.

In other words, no more anything worth eating.

Jake had insisted on carrying her down the stairs. As her only option was bouncing on her butt all the way down, which would’ve left her rear end in the same shape as her right hand, she’d let him sweep her up into his arms. As if pain alone weren’t bad enough, the feel of being cradled against a hard, warm body had rattled her to the point that she hadn’t even argued.

She’d already forgotten the third vow, but it probably concerned steering clear of any man who could melt her resistance with no more than a growl, a glower and the way he smelled. Like soap, toothpaste and coffee, plus something earthy and essentially male.

Not to mention the fact that his touch alone was like poking her finger into a light socket.

She’d still been quivering inside when he’d settled her onto the passenger seat and arranged something to prop her foot on. He’d reached for the seatbelt and she’d brushed his hands away. “I can do it myself.”

“Then do it,” he’d snapped.

What the devil did he have to be angry about, she wondered, feeling sorry for herself and, oddly excited at the same time. She was the one with a broken ankle, not him. She was the one whose right hand was probably going to get infected and swell up and have to be amputated. Plus, she’d probably end up with blood poisoning. For all she knew she might be allergic to antibiotics. So she’d die of anaphylactic shock or whatever grisly symptoms that sort of allergy caused.

He drove fast, easing off each time he approached the stoplights so that he wouldn’t have to slam on the brakes if a light suddenly changed. Grudgingly, she appreciated it. Her ankle throbbed like a bad toothache, and she hated pain, purely hated it. Always had. A stoic, she was not.

“You all right?” he asked as they passed the Wright Brothers Memorial at Kill Devil Hill. At least he’d quit growling. In fact, he sounded almost concerned.

“No, I’m not all right, I hurt,” she snapped. Childish, but then, what did she have to lose that she hadn’t already lost? Her dignity?

Ha.

“We’ll be there in a few more minutes,” he said. “This time of year, you probably won’t have to wait. They’ll give you something for pain and then do X-rays, my guess.” He had propped her foot up on a plastic carton he’d padded with a folded shirt. She was cradling her splintery hand in her other hand on her lap. “What’s wrong, did you hurt your hand, too?” he asked.

Well, shoot. Now he even sounded sympathetic. She couldn’t handle sympathy. It had been in short supply back when she could have used it—back when she’d spent her lunch money on cheap makeup to conceal bruises inflicted by her father’s fists, only to have him accuse her of painting her face like a hussy. Which often as not earned her a few more bruises.

Jake pulled up in front of the beach hospital and said, “Wait while I go get a wheelchair.”

“Don’t be silly, I don’t need a wheelchair.” She had never even been to a hospital before, except as a visitor.

“Okay then, put your arm over my shoulder.” He leaned into the open door and eased his arm under her knees.

If she’d had a single rational thought in her head before, it was gone by the time he carried her inside. The man was definitely high-voltage.

“You’ll have to do the paper work,” he told her, “but I’ll see if I can’t speed up the process.”

Two women behind glass windows stared. Several people in the waiting room glanced up from their outdated People magazines.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put me down,” Sasha muttered. At this rate she wouldn’t even need a doctor’s help. Being this close to Jake Smith, whoever he was—whatever he was—was distracting enough that she hardly even noticed her throbbing ankle, much less her stinging hand.

Just under two hours later an orderly wheeled her out to the waiting room. Laying aside the newspaper he’d read without retaining a single word, Jake stood to meet her. “All done?” he asked. No cast, just a wrap job, which meant a bad sprain, not a break. “What’s with the hand?” Her right hand was bandaged, all but two fingers and her thumb.

“Splinters. I lost three fingernails, too.”

His eyes widened. “Good God, that’s awful!” he swallowed hard, fighting back nausea.

“I think another one’s loose and I just had them done last week. Now I’ll have to get the whole right hand done over.” Glancing over her shoulder, she thanked the orderly. “I can make it from here just fine,” she assured him with a smile that was undiminished by chewed-off lipstick and smeared mascara.

“It’s the rules, ma’am,” the orderly said, refusing to dump her out of the wheelchair.

Jake shook his head. He crossed to the double glass doors and held it wide. “Come on, don’t be so stubborn.”

Together, the two men eased her from the wheelchair onto the front seat. Jake slipped the orderly a few bucks—didn’t know if it was proper or not, but the kid was about Timmy’s age. Might even have been a classmate.

They drove several miles in silence except for a few heavy sighs coming from the passenger side. The first time they stopped for a red light, Jake tried to get a handle on how bad she was hurting. “We’ll stop by and get your prescription filled, then we’ll cut over to the beach road and put the top up on your car. It should be all right there for a few days until you can drive.”