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cleaned cut. “Do you have a first-aid kit? Antiseptic?”
    “It’s just a scratch,” he began, but gave up and rolled his eyes at her fulminating stare. “Back there.” He gestured vaguely.
    She went into the mudroom, and he heard her slamming cabinet doors—and muttering.
    “Vous êtes un espece de cochon, et gauche aussi.”
    “If you’re going to curse at me, do it in English.”
    “I said you’re a pig of a man, and clumsy as well.” She sailed back in with a first-aid kit, busied herself digging out antiseptic.
    He started to tell her he knew what she’d called him, then stopped himself. Why ruin what small amount of amusement he might unearth during this ordeal? “I’m not clumsy.”
    “Hah. That explains why your arm’s in a sling and your hand is bleeding.”
    “This is a work-related injury,” he began, but as she turned to doctor his hand, he sneezed. That basic bodily reaction to a dousing in a rainstorm had his vision wavering. He swayed, fighting for breath as his ribs screamed, and his stomach pitched.
    She looked up, saw the pain turn his eyes glassy, his cheeks sheet pale.
    “What is it?” Without thinking, she slid her arms around his waist to support him as his body shuddered. “You should sit.”
    “Just—” Trying to steady himself, he nudged her back. His vision was still gray at the edges, and he willed it to clear. “Some bruised ribs,” he managed to say when he got his breath back. At her expression of guilt and horror, he bared his teeth. “Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle—work-related.”
    “Oh, you poor man.” Sympathy overwhelmed everything else. “Come, I’ll help you upstairs. You need dry clothes. I’m making soup, so you’ll have a hot meal. You should’ve told me you were seriously hurt.”
    “I’m not …” He trailed off again. She smelled fabulous—and she was cooking. And feeling sorry for him. Why be an idiot? “It’s not so bad.”
    “Men are so foolish about admitting they’re hurt. We’ll need the flashlight.”
    “In my back pocket.”
    “Ah.” She managed to brace him, shift her body. He didn’t mind, not really, when her nice, firm breast nestled against his good side. Or when her long, narrow fingers slid over his butt to pull the flashlight out of his jean’s pocket.
    He really couldn’t say he minded. And it took his mind off the pain.
    He let her help him upstairs where he eased down to sit on the side of his unmade bed. From there he could watch her bustling around, finding more candles to light.
    “Dry clothes,” she said and started going through his dresser. He opened his mouth to object, but she turned with jeans and a sweatshirt in her arms and looked at him with a bolstering smile.
    “Do you need me to help you … um, change?”
    He thought about it. He knew he shouldn’t—it was one step too far. But he figured if a man didn’t at least think of being undressed by a beautiful woman he might as well be shot in the head and end it all.
    “… No, thanks. I can manage it.”
    “All right then. I’m going down to see to the soup. Just call if you need help.”
    She hurried downstairs again, to stir the soup and berate herself.
    She’d called him a pig. The poor man couldn’t possibly do for himself when he was hurt and in pain. It shamed her, how impatient, how unsympathetic and ungrateful she’d been. At least she could make him as comfortable as possible now, give him a hot bowl of soup.
    She went over to plump the sprung cushions of the sofa—and coughed violently at the dust that plumed up. It made her scowl again. Really, she thought, the entire place needed to be turned upside down and shaken out.
    He’d said he’d fired his cleaning service because they—she—had touched his things. She didn’t doubt that for a minute. The man had an obviously prickly temperament. But she also imagined finances could be a problem. Being an archaeologist, he probably subsisted on grants and that sort of