Derek ran an impatient hand through his tobacco-brown hair and attempted to make sense of the conversation. “My sister left for Los Angeles at midnight?” he asked slowly.
“That’s right. Please come in, Derek, and I’ll make us some coffee. I find it very hard to give explanations before I’ve had my caffeine fix.”
“I gathered there was some reason for our lack of communication,” Derek commented dryly. He took a step forward. Since Summer had not yet moved aside to allow him entrance into the apartment, she found herself suddenly standing so close to his sturdy chest that she could almost feel the rise and fall of his breath. Instinct told her to move hastily backward, but her reflexes seemed to be unusually slow. She stayed right where she was, staring into Derek’s unrevealing gray eyes like a paralyzed rabbit into bright headlights. Did she imagine it, or did something suddenly flicker in those silvery depths? Something dangerous and infinitely exciting.
“You are rather slow before you’ve had your coffee, aren’t you?” Derek murmured, and Summer imagined that his voice was a little rougher than usual. She took an awkward step backward, giving him just enough room to enter the apartment, his arm brushing her as he passed. Suppressing a quiver at the momentary contact, Summer closed the door and leaned against it, watching as Derek looked around the cluttered room with a slight moue of distaste. “Connie left you with the mess, I see,” he commented.
Summer cleared her throat soundlessly. “I told her I didn’t mind. I had nothing better to do this morning.” Her eyes wandered from his face, idly approving the lean strength beneath his crisp white shirt and sharply creased navy slacks. “Do you always dress so conservatively for a Saturday morning, or is this the proper attire for escorting one’s sister to breakfast?” she asked with deceptively mild curiosity, retreating again behind a facetious remark. “Do you even own a sweatshirt or a pair of jeans?”
“You’re hardly in a position to criticize my appearance,” Derek returned, eyeing her with an enigmatic half smile. Her short golden-brown hair was wildly disarrayed, and one recalcitrant lock stood straight up at her crown. She’d made a halfhearted effort to remove her makeup before falling into bed at three o’clock that morning, but there were still faint smudges of mascara on the fair, smooth skin beneath her heavy-lidded eyes. The garishly flowered pink-and-green satin kimono she wore cl
ashed appallingly with the silky legs of her pumpkin-colored pajamas. She was hardly dressed for seduction. Yet his entire body was taut, vibrating with a sudden surge of desire for her. He shoved his fists into his pockets to loosen the front of his snugly tailored slacks, his dark brows drawing downward in self-annoyance.
“I’ll change after I’ve had my coffee,” Summer answered with a shrug, unaware of Derek’s problem. “Can you tolerate instant, or should I brew a pot?”
“I’ll make the coffee. You go wash your face. You look like a panda bear. Cute but distracting.” Definitely distracting. Those soft smudges made his fingers itch to smooth them away. He needed a few minutes alone to remind himself of all the logical reasons that he should not take advantage of his sister’s absence to make a move on her attractive roommate.
When Summer didn’t immediately respond to his suggestion, Derek reached out with a faint smile to give her a light push in the direction of her bedroom. Since she had been precariously balanced on one foot, the other crossed in front of her, his slight shove caused her to wobble. Before Derek could make a grab to steady her, she fell to one knee, gasping in pain as she made contact with the uncarpeted wood floor.
“Summer, I’m sorry.” Derek was sincerely contrite as he knelt beside her to help her to her feet. “I certainly never meant to—”
“I know you didn’t,” she interrupted him, brushing off his apology. Clutching his arm, she rose slowly, flexing the offending knee when she was upright. “Don’t worry about it, Derek. It was simply an accident. I told you I’m not at my best before my coffee.”
“Are you all right? You look a little pale.” He had an arm around her shoulders for support.
Much more aware of his nearness than the ache in her knee, Summer swallowed and shrugged casually out of his supportive embrace. “I’m fine. I just landed on an old war injury,” she told him lightly. “Go make the coffee, Derek, while I remove my ‘cute but distracting’ panda mask.”
Partially reassured by her airy dismissal, Derek nodded and stepped away from her, though his eyes frowned steadily at her back as she moved toward her bedroom. She had taken only three steps when his exclamation of distress stopped her. “Dampiit, Summer, you’re limping! I really hurt you, didn’t I?” Before she could open her mouth to deny his self-recrimination, he had swept her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and was carrying her to the worn sofa, which was still shoved against one wall.
“Derek, will you put me down!” Summer gasped, clutching at his shoulder for balance. Lord, he was strong. And so warm. His warmth scorched her through her thin nightclothes. “You did not hurt me. I always limp,” she told him as evenly as she could under the circumstances.
She was completely ignored as Derek deposited her with great care in the center of the sagging couch and, holding her leg still with a hand at her ankle, began to roll up her wide pajama leg. “Derek! Stop that!” She reached down to arrest his hand, reluctant for him to see her leg, but he easily overpowered her.
“Dear God, Summer, what did you do to this knee?” Derek stared in near horror at the slender appendage, which was disfigured by a veritable spiderweb of scars from her lower thigh to two inches below her knee. The kneecap itself was unnaturally lopsided.
“If you had listened to me instead of throwing me around like a sack of potatoes, I would have told you,” she answered crossly, not caring that her analogy bore little resemblance to his somewhat high-handed but unarguably gentle handling of her. She looked away from the expression on his face, not wanting to see the revulsion that usually followed the shock.
“I’m listening now.”
“I was injured in a motorcycle accident five years ago. A car ran a stop sign and smashed into me. I’ll walk with this limp for the rest of my life, but since I nearly had to have the leg amputated, I’m not complaining. Now are you satisfied that you did not cause me a terrible injury?”
Still holding her leg just behind the knee, Derek sat back on his heels and looked intently up at her. “How’d the guy driving the motorcycle fare?”
“I was driving the motorcycle, you chauvinist. And the accident wasn’t my fault.” She wished she could control the slight trembling of her muscles beneath his warm palm. With uncharacteristic bitterness she told herself he must not be aware that he was still holding the disfigured leg. It was hardly a sight to make him want to touch her.
“How long did it take you to get back on your feet?”
“Almost two years,” Summer admitted reluctantly, desperately wishing he’d move his hand. “I spent some time in bed, then in a wheelchair, then using a walker and crutches. I skipped having to use a cane, though.”
“Good for you. I have a feeling you hated being an invalid.”
“Despised it. The main reason I moved to San Francisco was because it was as far west of my tender loving relatives as I could get without falling into the Pacific. I needed to stand on my own two feet again—excuse the pun.” Unable to bear the bittersweet feel of his touch for another moment, she reached down toward her rolled-up pajama leg.
Derek stopped her by catching her wrist and moving her hand firmly back to her lap, obviously intending to smooth the pajamas back into place himself. He grasped the soft fabric in both hands and began to unroll it, then stopped. Shooting a quick look up at her, he shocked her by leaning over to brush the gentlest of kisses across her kneecap. Her leg jumped reflexively. Without a word Derek finished rolling the pajama leg down, smoothed the fabric from knee to ankle with excruciating slowness, then released her. In an easy, gracefully coordinated movement he turned and sat beside her on the sofa, wincing when a semiprotruding spring poked him in the posterior. “Just where are your tender loving relatives?” he inquired as if he hadn’t just caused her heart to leap into her throat and hang there in quivering convulsions. “Obviously you’re from the south. Memphis?”
Summer blinked twice and swallowed her heart back into her chest, deciding to follow Derek’s lead and ignore that odd little kiss. She’d have plenty of time to think about it later—and she knew she would think about it. When she spoke, her voice was amazingly normal. “Hasn’t Connie told you anything about me? I just assumed you knew that I limped and where I’m from.”
Derek shook his head, his expression grim. “We haven’t talked much,” he admitted. “Every time we try to have a conversation, we end up in a fight.”