The lantern illuminated the room. Curious, he took a good look around. The Victorian had been built what had to be close to a hundred years ago. The ceiling was high, the moldings original to the time period, the wood floor scarred but gorgeous. The furnishings were comfy and clearly well lived in, and plants thrived throughout the room. The bookshelves were filled, and there was just enough clutter and mess to give off the sense that this house had earned the right to be called a home. He didn’t know why, but he loved that she was . . . well, messy. “Nice place. You live alone?”

“I grew up here with my brother and sister, but at the moment, Gavin’s working in Phoenix, and Winnie’s in school at UCSB.”

“They didn’t come for your party?”

She shrugged. “It’s expensive for them to get home, and anyway, Winnie needs to spend the time studying.”

“You need to start a fire. It’s freezing in here. You’ll never be able to sleep.” He moved to the huge wood stove to do it for her, but she stopped him, her expression dialed to grim as she took in the blood seeping through his clothes. “I’ve got this.” Hunkering low in front of the stove, she lit a match. In less than sixty seconds she had a fire going from what clearly had been a pre-prepped fire stack.

“Impressive,” he said, insanely curious about this tough woman who, according to both his dad and the guarded look she wore like a cloak, had been through hell in her life.

He wanted to know more.

“Not my first time,” she said. Rising, she came back to him, looking him over carefully. “She got you good.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

She lifted a hand and touched his jaw, which was also burning now that he thought of it.

“Take off the jacket,” she said.

“What, no dinner first?”

“Off,” she said, not charmed, and then lent her hands to the cause, tugging at it until he took over and let it hit the wood floor with a wet thwap. They both looked down at his torso. Yep. Blood was seeping through his shirt in several places, on his neck, arms, chest. And not that he was about to tell her, but his right thigh too.

“Dammit,” she muttered and grabbed her medical bag, which she dropped at his feet. “Strip.”

Chapter 4

“I’ve been called worse.”

The last time a woman had ordered Cam to strip had been a very different scene altogether, and it’d been a while. Generally speaking, he liked to be behind the wheel in most situations, but he’d never had any complaints about a woman driving in his bed. “Interesting bedside manner.”

“Okay,” she said. “How about strip, please.”