Dream Man by Judy Griffith Gill Read Free Book Online Page B

still giving her the feeling of being enfolded by warmth and safety.
    â€œI’ll get someone to pick it up and deliver it to your house, if you’ll give me your keys,” he went on as he drove toward the street. “You won’t want to go back to the garage.”
    She shuddered and shook her head. He reached out to take her hand, holding it warmly in his. “You’ll have to tell me your address,” he said, nosing the car out onto traffic.
    It no longer seemed to matter that he was stranger. Maybe, she thought, because he really wasn’t one. He had been there when she needed him. He had held her in his arms. He had comforted her. He had given of himself to her. She told him her address.
    â€œThank you, Max,” she said as he pulled into the visitor parking area at the front of her building. “I’m sorry about dinner. Send me your dry-cleaning bill. You’re covered with blood.” She kept his hankie clutched in her left hand as she reached for the door handle with her right. “Good night.”
    â€œNot on a bet” he said firmly. “I’ll see you in.”
    She might have argued, but the clasp of his hand around her elbow made that seem futile, as did the grim set to his jaw. He took her key ring from her, detached what were clearly her car keys, pocketed them, then unlocked the door and stepped back for her to enter. Silently, they climbed five flights of stairs to her floor.
    â€œWould you … would you like to come in?’ she asked.
    He smiled and nodded. “I’d planned on it.”
    He followed her inside and closed the door firmly. She turned from him as she unbuttoned her coat and dropped it across the back of a chair in the entry. It was filthy and would have to go to the cleaners in the morning. “I could fix us an omelet or a sandwich or something,” she offered tentatively.
    He smiled again, his eyes crinkling up, glittering blue between his thick, dark lashes as he shrugged out of his tan trench coat. “That sounds great. Beating up bullies gives me an appetite. But why don’t you point me in the direction of the kitchen, and I’ll make the omelets while you get cleaned up. In case you haven’t looked, Ms. Leslie, you’re a wreck.”
    Her pantyhose were torn, one of her knees, scraped raw in the scuffle, bore a taped on neatly white bandage, visible through a large tear in her velvet skirt, which was fit only for the garbage. Luckily, her sweater was unscathed. Her raincoat had caught all the blood from her head that hadn’t ended up on Max’s clothing.
    â€œThank you. I won’t be long,” she said, turning and moving too quickly across the living room. She staggered dizzily, clutched the doorframe, and pulled herself along the corridor. She was in the shower, standing under the hot spray, gingerly dabbing at the hair around her cut, when she remembered she hadn’t pointed him to the kitchen. No matter, though. He would find it. He was a resourceful man—as well as a hero.
    â€œYou hurt your hand,” she said, glancing up from the light, fluffy omelet he had set before her. He must have used at least four eggs for each one, but she didn’t mind. She’d smelled the delicious aroma of bacon, too, the minute she came out of the bathroom dressed in a warm, loose track suit. She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand near the bruised knuckles. “I’ll put some antiseptic on it.” She pushed her chair back and stood.
    â€œIt’ll be okay,” he said with a shrug, then spread honey thickly on a slice of toast. His hands moved deftly in spite of their size. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the gentle way they had touched her, the tenderness, the caring in his softly stroking palms while he’d comforted her, then the quivering tension in them when she’d responded to his kisses.
    â€œThe skin is broken. The cuts