"Is this where you keep your towels?" He stood in front of her linen cupboard. "I couldn't find any upstairs."

"Towels?" she parroted.

"Yes, you're soaking wet."

His deep, patient voice decimated her poise to that of a tongue-tied schoolgirl standing in the princ.i.p.al's office.

"Bottom shelf." It was then Lauren noticed the clothes tucked under his arm.

Drew's red and blue Superman pajamas, and her much-worn sweatshirt and yoga pants. No boring cotton underwear in sight. Thank goodness.

"Here you go." He pa.s.sed her a towel and placed the stack of clothes beside the washbasin.

"Thanks." She buried her heat-stained cheeks in the soft folds and scrubbed at her hair.

Get with it, Lauren. He's just being nice. Kind and helpful and nice. Nate Fraser certainly didn't seem like the type of man to rummage in a woman's lingerie for kicks.

She lowered the towel, her hope he'd become bored while she'd dried her hair dashed. Still there. Dominating the room, gaze steady as he draped a towel around his wide shoulders. As if he didn't intend to leave any time soon. Short of knocking him unconscious with the nearby bathroom scales, she couldn't imagine a way of removing him.

He opened the medicine cabinet. "Is your first aid kit in here?"

She nodded, and he plucked out a plastic container with a white cross taped to the lid.

"Now." He leaned back against the washbasin, crossing his ankles and flashing a feral smile. "Can you manage removing those wet clothes by yourself, or do you need me to help?"

Blood napalmed the length of her body again. "I can handle it."

"If you're sure." He rubbed the towel along the back of his neck with lazy strokes. Broad shoulders and defined pectoral muscles shifted beneath his black tee shirt with each up and down motion of his hand.

Lauren blinked. What on earth?

Nate turned and sauntered out of her bathroom.

Don't. Have some pride.

But she couldn't prevent her gaze from dropping from the width of his back to his hips...and lower. The man possessed an A-plus example of a tight, male a.s.s.

Lauren hopped forward and shut the door. She rested her brow against the cool wood until her pulse slowed from a crazy gallop to a respectable trot. Maybe she'd knocked her head earlier and now suffered from some weird form of concussion.

She stripped out of her wet shorts and tee shirt then perched on the edge of the bathtub to tug on the dry clothes. Alone, she would've remained in the bathroom for a few moments longer. But if Drew woke to find a strange man in their home, it could wipe out everything she'd worked toward these last two years.

Using the walls for balance, she grabbed the Superman pajamas and hopped all the way into the kitchen. Her gaze darted to Drew-still out of it, thank goodness. She looked toward Nate, who sat at her dining table, dark hair tumbling onto his brow, long, concert-pianist fingers rifling through the first aid kit. He plucked a tube of Arnica cream from the container and laid it beside a roll of elasticated bandage.

"Sit down, and I'll wrap your ankle." He pitched his voice low, flicking a glance at the couch.

"You don't have to do this," Lauren said from the archway.

"I'm happy to drive you to Bounty Bay's hospital, if you'd prefer."

A forty-minute trip each way into town. Plus curious faces, medical records, questions...

After one more look at her son, she slid her gaze back to Nate. "I don't need to go to hospital for a sprained ankle."

"So sit, and I'll stick a compression bandage on it."

She hopped to the seat opposite him and sat.

He held out his hand. "Foot."

"Do you always administer first aid to strangers?" She tugged up the leg of her yoga pants and placed her left foot in his outstretched palm. Warmth soaked into her skin. She nearly squirmed.

Nate rested her heel on his knee. "Only the pretty ones, but not usually ones with big, vicious dogs."

Lauren rolled her eyes, ignoring the shivers spiraling up her leg from the rough denim touching her skin. "Java's not vicious."

"Another misunderstood Rottweiler, huh?" He twisted the cap off the Arnica cream.

Wild flutters exploded inside her stomach. She didn't want his touch, didn't want him this close. Close enough that the enticing top notes of sandalwood in his cologne tickled her nose.

He must've felt her foot shift, as his green gaze jerked to hers.

"I'll try not to hurt you again."

Did he remember her overreaction on the road? Better he think her a wimp than suspect the real reason. "I guess I have a low tolerance for pain."

"Don't we all." Nate bent forward, squeezing a small amount of the cream onto her ankle.

She flinched and grabbed the chair edge.

He crooked an eyebrow. "That couldn't have hurt."

"No, it didn't hurt. It's just cold."

Their gazes met, held for an awkward beat before she looked down at the blob of cream. His fingers slid under her calf to support the weight of her leg, while his other hand stroked ointment over the swollen skin. Each stroke of those long fingers sent warm swirls of sensation dancing up her back and across her scalp. She should've spread the cream on herself, which begged the question of why she hadn't.

Lauren risked a glance up from her ankle to find Nate watching. She cleared the half dozen frogs from her throat.

"Have you taken first aid courses?"

He gave a brief shake of his head. "Not formal ones. My mother's a nurse, so I picked up the basics. The rest I learned on the job."

"As a photojournalist, not a photographer."

After unraveling the end of the bandage, he wound it around her foot and ankle in a figure eight. "Uh-huh."

"Is it a dangerous job?"

"Sometimes. Mainly when bullets are flying."

"You've been shot at?"

"More than once."

She winced as Nate secured the bandage with a safety pin. "Maybe you should've chosen to be a wedding photographer; it sounds safer."

"You ever witness a bridezilla on her wedding day?" He smiled, the transformation from serious to stunning causing the stomach fluttering to escalate.

Refusing to acknowledge the tension between her shoulder blades thanks to the prolonged contact of Nate's hand, Lauren allowed a brief grin to cross her mouth. "No, I haven't."

But she'd been on photo shoots with young women high on amphetamines and low on proper nutrition, both of which contributed to their hysterical temperaments.

"Yeah, well me either-and I don't intend to. I'll leave the psychotic brides and screaming babies to someone else. Political coups are much more my scene."

"I bet you can't wait to get back to the action?"

Back to the action and far, far away from the safe little life she'd clawed out for her and her son. At least the man wouldn't be hanging around over summer, inviting his nosy reporter pals up for a few beers.

"Absolutely, I-"

A murmur and rustle from the couch, a whimper.

"Drew-"

Lauren pushed herself off the chair and Nate's hand slipped from her foot.

But she was too late.

Caught in a nightmare's grip, his mouth twisted and contorted, Drew cried out. "No, Daddy! No. Please!"

Chapter 2.

Nate tried to catch Lauren's gaze, but she was gone, hopping over to cuddle her wailing son. The muscles in his back stretched piano-wire tight. He didn't need to be a rocket scientist to connect A to B to C. Woman without a wedding band, big dog with bigger teeth, and a skittish kid with nightmares involving "Daddy."

His fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist as he eyed the hairline crack in the brick archway. Would the whole ceiling collapse if he punched it?

Back off. You can't get involved in this type of drama again. He closed his eyes, uncurling one stiff finger at a time.

The kid's sobs tapered off to wet snuffles. "I'm hungry. Where's my monkey-roni?"

Lauren murmured soothing noises while stroking his tear-streaked cheek.

"I'm making dinner tonight, mate. Want to help?" Nate blinked. Why had he opened his mouth and made that offer?

Drew peeped over his mother's shoulder. "Don't you know how to cook monkey-roni?"

She turned. "Mr. Fraser-"

"Haven't we gone beyond surnames now?"

Her lips pressed together for a moment. "Nate, then. I appreciate all you've done, but you don't need to stay any longer. I've got-"

Drew touched his mother's jaw, turning her face back to him. "I'm a big boy, and I can help. He said so."

"Rest your ankle. Drew and I will fix-just what is monkey-roni?"

Even saying the word made Nate feel like a complete idiot. Single guy with no dependents and an only child to boot, he was without the usual h.o.a.rd of nieces and nephews crawling all over him.

"It's what he calls macaroni cheese." She hugged Drew closer. "Nate needs to go home."

"No he doesn't. He said he could stay." The kid frowned then said in a stage whisper, "You don't need to be scared of him, Mummy. You told me he was a good guy."

Despite the fact no woman should have to categorize men as either good or bad to a little kid, Nate bit back a grin. "It's true. I am one of the good guys, maybe even a superhero like Superman."

He tossed Drew's pajamas over, and she caught them with one hand without making eye contact.

Drew's jaw sagged. "Coooool."

Nate left Lauren helping Drew change, while he entered the kitchen. He opened the pantry doors and found a plastic container of pasta elbows with a wobbly, hand drawn label that read "Monkey-roni." Now what?

"Got any of the boxed stuff?" he asked.

"Sorry, no."

Drew wriggled away from his mother and peeked around the island counter. "Mummy won't buy that. She says it's rubbish food."

Yeah, going by her fridge contents, he should've guessed.

"You gotta cook the monkey-roni first."

Drew edged a little farther out, closer to the kitchen. Behind him, Lauren sat sideways on the couch, her ankle propped on a cushion.

"Pots are in the cabinet below the sink," she called out.

Her helpful tone didn't fool him for a minute.

"The whisk for making the cheese sauce is in the jar beside the stove," she added.

Whisk? What on earth was a whisk?

He squatted down to Drew's level and crooked his finger. "Uh, Drew? Can you show me what a whisk is?"

Drew grinned, clapping one hand over his mouth and pointing with the other at the pottery jar filled with metal utensils.