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  He would have liked to have carried her but after the scare she'd had, further helplessness might panic her.

  She struggled to find her balance, kicking off one remaining red shoe, trying to stand alone, but needing his support to manage.

  Then, to his surprise, she tried a wobbly smile.

  'I'll be all right,' she assured him. 'I realise I lost it there for a few minutes, but I really will be OK. If I could just get cleaned up, perhaps beg a cup of coffee from you. They didn't hurt me, you know. I threw my bag and kicked the one who knocked me down, then I ran.'

  Grant felt his anger surge again, but rushing down the road to belt a couple of punks was hardly sensible. Not when Sally needed help more than she needed revenge.

  He used the key he'd grabbed as he'd left the apartment to get them into the lobby, then helped her across to the lift, and held her as they rose to his floor.

  Jocelyn was standing in the open door of his apartment, presumably waiting for an explanation of his abrupt departure.

  'What on earth—?' she began, but Grant, who'd have liked a couple of explanatory statements himself, stalled her.

  'Put the kettle on, would you, Joss?' he said. 'And have a dig around in the little bar cupboard. See if Tom included brandy when he stocked up.'

  He half led, half carried Sally to an armchair and lowered her carefully into it. In the clearer light of his living room, the red spikes of hair standing up all over her head were even more startling, while the shimmering red dress, what there was of it, looked so sexy it was indecent.

  'I'll be right back,' he said, turning abruptly away from the mesmerising sight.

  With a blanket, he told himself grimly. Covering her will help more than her shock!

  He found a face washer and dampened it with warm water, tucked a blanket under his arm, and returned, slightly more in control, to where his unexpected visitor was huddled in the chair.

  He covered her first, then sat beside her, banking down new anger when he saw the grazes on her face.

  With a gentleness usually reserved for very new babies, he bathed away the dirt, washed scrapes of blood from one bare shoulder, then, as she held out her hands to him, as trusting as a child, he carefully wiped away the grit and more blood.

  'Thank you,' she whispered, and the huskiness in her voice warned him not to look into her eyes.

  But he couldn't help himself, and when he saw the shimmer of tears, a growl escaped his throat, and he tucked the blanket more tightly around her, then held her close.

  'You'll be OK,' he promised her. 'I'll look after you.'

  'And how does she take her coffee? Do you know that?'

  Jocelyn's voice was iced with contempt.

  Grant ignored the icing.

  'Make it sweet and milky. Did you find brandy?'

  Small struggles and a muted sniffle from the bundle in his arms suggested she might be trying to get free, so he settled Sally back into the depths of the chair, handed her a handkerchief and went in search of the brandy himself.

  'And just who is she?' Jocelyn demanded, her muted whisper echoing around the kitchen.

  'One of my residents,' Grant told her bluntly, hoping she'd take the hint and not pursue the matter.

  'Your resident? What happened to her? Not that I'd be surprised. Tarted up like that, a woman is asking for trouble.'

  'Unfortunately, walking the streets at night, no matter what she looks like, a woman is asking for trouble.'

  At the sound of the flatly delivered statement, Grant spun around to see Sally, unwrapped again, standing in the doorway.

  She smiled apologetically at him and added, 'I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I needed the bathroom.' She paused, then lifted a hand to brush it across the spikes on her head and added, 'In fact, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to take a shower. Running up the hill made me sweat and all the red must be dripping out of my hair. I'm worried it'll get all over your blanket.'

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. No. It wasn't a dream. Sally Cochrane, in red spiked hair and a dress that should have been illegal, was still standing there. A little stain on a blanket would have been a cheap price to pay for sanity!

  'I'll show you where the bathroom is,' Jocelyn volunteered, although her voice suggested she'd sooner be showing the way to the front door.

  'Here, take the coffee, and see she drinks it.' Grant shoved it into Jocelyn's hands. 'Stay in there with her in case she develops a delayed reaction of some kind. There are clean towels hanging on the rails and I'll pass in a towelling robe.'

  He dismissed as unworthy a thought that if Jocelyn hadn't been here, it would have been his role to stand guard against an unexpected reaction.

  Voyeurism, that's all it would be! he scolded himself as the two women disappeared, leaving him alone with uncomfortable thoughts.

  'I showed her into the spare bedroom. Told her to rest for a while then I'll drive her home,' Jocelyn announced, striding back into the living room some time later. He'd been staring out at the view and trying to make sense of a number of disparate reactions, and not getting far. 'Apparently she lives close by.'

  Grant heard the words and guessed Jocelyn was waiting for him to tell her she needn't go. In fact, he'd sensed earlier that she'd been angling for an invitation to stay.

  Which probably explained why he'd still been awake, ready to do a Sir Galahad act, when Sally had come ringing on his bell.

  'Did she tell you any more about what happened?' he asked, avoiding the pitfalls of any other discussion.

  'Only that her car had stopped and she'd decided to walk home. And something about her brothers being angry, and them playing in a band, but it didn't make much sense.'

  Jocelyn pursed disapproving lips.

  'Sex, drugs and rock and roll,' Grant murmured.

  'What do you mean?'

  He looked vaguely at the woman he'd known for so long—and with whom, at one time, he'd even contemplated a close relationship.

  'I've no idea,' he said. 'It's just a phrase that keeps repeating itself in my head.' Then, realising he must sound demented, he smiled and added, 'Look. There's no need for you to stay. I'll let Sally have a rest then drop her home later. No sense both of us being up all night.'

  'I don't have to go, Grant,' Jocelyn said, bringing his assumptions out into the open.

  He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.

  'It's best you do,' he said gently. 'I'm not Tom for all I look like him. And if you think about it, and are really honest with yourself, what you and he had died a long time ago.'

  He took her in his arms and held her close.

  'Time to move on, Joss. I'll always be your friend. You know that. But the man you need is still out there somewhere. Waiting for you.'

  He felt her slack body grow taut a split second before she pulled away from him.

  'You won't even give it a chance!' she stormed. 'You're like Tom. You won't admit it but you're still seeking something special. There is no magic, Grant. It doesn't exist. There's friendship and sharing and tolerance and understanding. Common interests and companionship. That's what marriage is about.'

  She stalked off towards the kitchen where she retrieved her handbag, but as she whirled towards the door she stopped and flicked her head towards the passage—towards the spare bedroom.

  'And if you think that—that woman is going to bring you happiness, then think again!'

  He heard the slam as the door swung back on its hinges and hit the wall, and pulled himself together, following Jocelyn out, joining her in the lift, speaking quietly to her, anxious to calm her down before she got behind the wheel of her car.

  Agreeing with her helped. Acknowledging all the points she'd made as being the right ingredients for marriage. Talking, talking, talking—while his limbs grew heavy and his brain felt dead.

  Promising to phone her in the morning finally did the trick.

  Though he knew he'd regret it, because it would take them back to squ
are one—to her assumption that something could develop between them.

  But as he made his way back up to his apartment, concerned about his patient—he'd been gone at least an hour— he remembered something Jocelyn had said and smiled grimly to himself.

  No, he didn't think 'that woman' was going to bring him happiness. A certain level of frustration—definitely. Odd spurts of anger when he felt baffled by something she said or did. A constant sense of being slightly off balance when he was with her.

  Of being somehow at a loss when he wasn't.

  All of these things she'd already managed to inject into his normally placid existence.

  But happiness?

  With Sally Cochrane?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sally was standing by the window in the living room when Grant returned. A robe-wrapped shadow in the faint glow shed from the light still burning in the kitchen. The red spikes were gone and familiar dark hair now clung damply to her shapely skull.

  'Can I get you something?' he asked, wary about approaching her when she'd been assaulted by members of his sex.

  She shook her head.

  'No, thanks. I was thinking I should phone someone. The police. My bank. Report the credit cards missing.'

  The tremor in her voice gave her away and he went to her and once again, knowing no other way to offer comfort, held her close against his body.

  She was shaking. More shock than cold, he suspected, although he didn't tell her that when she said apologetically, 'I can't seem to get warm.'

  'Just relax,' he told her. 'Come. Sit with me. I'll make the phone calls.'

  He led her to the couch and tucked her against his side, keeping her anchored there with one hand so his body could feed warmth into hers. One-handed, he flicked through the phone book, found the necessary numbers and made the calls.

  'The police want you to call at the local station tomorrow to sign a complaint,' he eventually reported to her. 'Your credit cards are cancelled. What about your car? Should I call the auto club to shift it for you? Were the keys in your handbag?'

  She opened her hand and looked down at it, as if expecting them to be there.

  'They were in my hand. I'm sure I didn't drop them. I remember thinking that if I hit out with them it might hurt more.'

  He thought of how she'd huddled into the chair and glanced across there. The keys were squashed into the soft leather, against the armrest.

  'Apparently you did hang onto them.' He pointed to them and was pleased to see her smile.

  'Well, that saves a call to hospital security, doesn't it?' she said, and moved away from him, fumbling to hold closed the opening of the robe. 'I should be going. You've done more than enough on my account. Did your friend go home? I'm sorry. I've spoiled your evening.'

  'My friend was leaving anyway,' Grant said, surprising himself by the firmness in his tone.

  The conversation stalled.

  Think practical, he told himself, but his wayward mind was trekking down paths so far from practical it was downright embarrassing.

  'Will there be someone at your place? These brothers of yours? Will they keep an eye on you? You could easily have a delayed reaction.'

  'The b-boys!' she stuttered, and the brown eyes gazed into his with such helplessness that if he'd been able to get his hands on the louts who'd hurt her, he'd probably have murdered them. 'I can't tell them. They'd be angry at me for walking alone. At whoever did it. They'd go crazy about the whole thing.'

  She tried a wobbly smile and added, 'They're a bit protective.'

  'And so they should be,' Grant growled, knowing exactly what she meant as he'd felt the same reactions himself. He pulled himself together and suggested the obvious. 'Stay here for the night. I'll run you home in the morning before their stomach alarms have them up and about. Then you can tell them in your own time.'

  Sally looked at him with puzzled eyes and he touched her cheek with the tip of his forefinger.

  'You'll have to tell them some time, you know.'

  The brown eyes, gold flecks subdued, studied him and he realised that, although she nodded her agreement, she hadn't lost the puzzled look.

  And why he thought kissing her would help, he had no idea, but he did it anyway. Leaning forward and kissing her very softly on the lips. Catching her soft gasp of surprise in his mouth, tasting the remains of sugared coffee, then only the woman.

  At first, she let him have his way, remaining quiescent but not cold. But when he slid his tongue between her lips, she responded, not tentative so much as taking her own sweet time to explore his lips, his mouth, as he'd explored hers.

  Her body pressed closer, and when the edges of the robe opened enough to expose a swelling breast, common sense sounded a warning in his head.

  'This is a bad move,' he managed to say, though his hand hadn't listened to common sense and was testing the weight of that breast, his thumb rubbing, ever so gently, over a hardening nipple.

  'It's adrenalin,' she murmured in reply, coming closer instead of moving further away. 'I know that, Grant, but it doesn't seem to make any difference.'

  Her own hand had been engaged in exploratory manoeuvres and he knew just how aware she was of his arousal.

  'We're consenting adults, after all, and we both know it doesn't mean anything.'

  He felt the words like Braille against his lips and knew he should stop kissing her, stop relishing the silky smooth skin beneath his fingers.

  Be sensible.

  But she was doing sensible, and for some reason he was finding the murmur of her voice, the calmly stated assertions of it not meaning anything—about it being nothing more than mutual comfort—unbearably erotic.

  He gave himself up to kissing, then somehow they were lying on the couch, not sitting, though when he felt her fingers slide under his shirt, the discomfort of the situation— not to mention the stupidity of going further—struck him as forcibly as a blow from a bit of four by two.

  He straightened up, and put her from him, looking into her eyes so he wouldn't see pert breasts, slightly flushed from his fingers, and will-sapping silky skin.

  'Not a good idea, Dr Cochrane,' he said firmly.

  Little smile wrinkles appeared beside her eyes.

  'I know that,' she told him, 'but it would be nice.' The gold glints seemed to sparkle as she added, 'Don't you think?'

  He groaned and buried his head in his hands. The golden glints were as bad for his anatomy as the damn breasts.

  'Of course I think it would be nice, but is that all you want? Nice?'

  She reached out and took his hands, easing them away from his face so he had to look at her again. He could read a measure of his own uncertainty in her eyes, but there was something else as well. A flicker of excitement, as if she'd listened to the sage advice her head had, no doubt, offered her and then discarded it.

  'Sometimes nice is more than enough,' she said quietly. 'Tonight, nice sounds like heaven to me. I know it's reaction, Grant, but it feels right. To lie together, enjoy each other. Give and take some pleasure. No strings, no promises, no regrets tomorrow.'

  She paused, the flicker growing into something stronger, steadier, then added, 'Would it be so bad?'

  Yes, his head was shouting, but his body had stopped listening. He leant forward and once again kissed her gently on the lips.

  'That sounds like talk, Dr Cochrane,' he said. 'Especially the bit about no regrets tomorrow! Why are you so sure you can handle that?'

  She kissed him back, then pulled away, pressing little teasing, smoochy kisses on his neck before replying.

  'Why is it men believe the love-'em-and-leave-'em scenario is a purely male preserve?' she asked, her eyes dancing with the knowledge that she'd shocked him. 'I'm not promiscuous, Dr Hudson. Far from it, but when it comes to mutual pleasure and satisfaction, aren't women just as entitled to it as men?'

  Grant shook his head, unable to believe, firstly, that he was having this conversation with his prim resident and, secondl
y, that he was continuing to find it almost unbearably arousing.

  'You're saying a romp in the hay, so to speak—a one-night stand—is all you want? All other women want?'

  She grinned at him.

  'I must admit I'm every bit as surprised about this as you are,' she said in her usual forthright manner, 'and while I don't have a clue about how other women think about it, right now, tonight, I am very sure that what I want is a one-night stand, as you so indelicately put it, with you.'

  And if anything was going to put him off, Sally decided, stating it so bluntly should. She had no idea why she was talking this way, or why spending the night, or what was left of it, in bed with Grant Hudson should suddenly be so important.

  Sally knew he wanted her. She was sitting too close to know his ardour hadn't dimmed.

  Perhaps if she explained how she was feeling.

  Or tried to.

  She edged closer and began.

  'For a long time now, I've had other people I've had to put first,' she said, holding his hand and rubbing her thumb across the palm as she carefully selected each word. 'Other people, or study, or responsibility of some kind.'

  She looked up into his eyes.

  'Tonight would be just for me. Just for pleasure.'

  She gave a little choke of laughter and added, 'Great timing, huh?'

  The silence went on for so long she was afraid swallowing might break it, and in the end, deciding he was trying to figure out how to say no without hurting her feelings, she cracked.

  'But, of course, you've your own considerations. Jocelyn, or some other lover you wouldn't want to betray. I understand that. Stupid suggestion.'

  She pulled the robe closed across her chest and shifted further along the lounge, wanting to be sure her legs would hold her up before she made an as-dignified-as-possible exit.

  Grant snagged her with one foot, and somehow tumbled her back into his arms.

  'Just for tonight?' he growled, biting playfully at her neck.

  She managed to nod, words beyond her now it seemed vaguely possible.

  'Mutual pleasure?'

  His thumb rasped against her nipple.

  Sally nodded again, then her lips opened to his demands and she relaxed, letting her body show him what it wanted, responding to his as a dancer responded to almost forgotten but once familiar music.