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pain in my hand long enough to see if the fellow I'd run into was suffering from third-degree burns on his face.
    He looked up at me.
    I looked at him and nearly fell on my bottom in shock.
    It was my mystery man.

Chapter 4
    The man's eyes widened for an instant before normalizing. He turned to Sandra. "Are you okay?"
    The executive liaison had managed to redirect some of her spew into a rubbish bin. She wiped her mouth with a tissue and nodded.
    He looked to me, took my reddening hand in his, and tsked. "Come along."
    With my brain paralyzed, my feet decided on their own to go along without resistance. We reached the kitchen where he pulled ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a paper towel, and dampened it before placing it against my skin.
    "You look a bit flustered, Miss—" He raised an eyebrow.
    "Uhm, Emily. Glass. That's my name, what people call me." I clamped my mouth shut before sounding like a complete ninny.
    He chuckled. Looked down at his shirt and tie, following the trail of coffee down his slacks to his shoes. "Looks like I need a bath."
    "I'm so sorry, really," I said, opening my mouth again despite my better judgment. "I was just bringing—oh God—Mr. Jones is expecting his coffee."
    "Well, you didn't fail in that regard." The corner of his mouth turned up in an amused grin. "You did deliver my coffee."
    "Wha—wait, you're Mr. Jones?" I felt absolutely flummoxed.
    He pulled away the ice to look at my hand. "Hmm. Looks like it won't blister." Leaving his other hand beneath mine, he pressed the ice back to the skin. "Ice has so many uses," he mused, as if it were a marvel of the modern world.
    "Who are you?" I said in a low voice.
    "Thomas Jones. I'm the sales manager here."
    "I know that, but, well you beat the hell out of a man, saved me and my roommate, and didn't want to talk to the police. Is this company a cover for nefarious businesses?" I had no idea what gave birth to my line of reasoning, though my mental faculties were still aflutter, and there was something oddly comforting about the way his hands clasped my injured one. In fact, the hand beneath mine felt much warmer than normal, likely due to the contrast with the ice. The strange sensation I'd once detected from him began to permeate my muddled thoughts.
    He gave me another amused grin, his green eyes twinkling. "I like the word nefarious, especially when you say it in a British accent. It makes me think of spy movies."
    I slipped back into my American accent. "That doesn't answer my question, Mr. Jones."
    He shrugged. "I simply didn't feel like dealing with them."
    "And that's it? You're not a criminal mastermind?"
    "I suppose you'll just have to find out." He winked.
    For some reason, that wink sent a nervous little flutter into my belly. Why, I had no idea. Thomas Jones seemed rather ordinary, from his plain business attire, to a marginally handsome face. Admittedly, his eyes were quite remarkable. He practically radiated self-confidence. Perhaps he was rich, well hung, or both. I realized my eyes had wandered to his crotch and jerked them back up.
    A tiny self-satisfied grin perked his lips. I felt a hot rush of embarrassment run from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.
    He removed the ice from my hand again. Nodded. "Much better."
    "Aren't you burned?" I asked, looking at the coffee stains.
    "I'm fine. Heat doesn't bother me."
    "There's no need to play tough guy with me," I said. "That coffee was scalding hot. I can't believe it didn't burn you just a little."
    He held out his hands. "See? No blisters." His fingers went to his shirt. "I suppose we could check my chest for third-degree burns."
    My flush returned. "I'm quite sure it won't be necessary," I said in a slightly choked voice.
    "I'm going home," said a moaning voice from the door. Sandra leaned against the jamb for support, face pale, eyes sunken. "I think I have the flu."
    "You look awful," Thomas said. "Let me give you a ride."
    "I can take the bus."
    "Are you kidding