“Hear what?” How could he hear anything when he was trying not to kiss her again?

“In here.” She turned toward the door, straining her ears. “Yes, in here, I heard—”

That time he’d heard it, too. Lifting a fist, he pounded on the door. “Mrs. Wolburg. Mrs. Wolburg, it’s Mik.”

The shaky voice barely penetrated the wood. “Hurt. Help me.”

“Oh, God, she’s—”

Before Sydney could finish, Mikhail rammed his shoulder against the door. With the second thud, it crashed open to lean drunkenly on its hinges.

“In the kitchen,” Mrs. Wolburg called weakly. “Mik, thank God.”

He bolted through the apartment with its starched doilies and paper flowers to find her on the kitchen floor. She was a tiny woman, mostly bone and thin flesh. Her usually neat cap of white hair was matted with sweat.

“Can’t see,” she said. “Dropped my glasses.”

“Don’t worry.” He knelt beside her, automatically checking her pulse as he studied her pain-filled eyes. “Call an ambulance,” he ordered Sydney, but she was already on the phone. “I’m not going to help you up, because I don’t know how you’re hurt.”

“Hip.” She gritted her teeth at the awful, radiating pain. “I think I busted my hip. Fell, caught my foot. Couldn’t move. All the noise, nobody could hear me calling. Been here two, three hours. Got so weak.”

“It’s all right now.” He tried to chafe some heat into her hands. “Sydney, get a blanket and pillow.”

She had them in her arms and was already crouching beside Mrs. Wolburg before he’d finished the order. “Here now. I’m just going to lift your head a little.” Gently she set the woman’s limp head on the pillow. Despite the raging heat, Mrs. Wolburg was shivering with cold. As she continued to speak in quiet, soothing tones, Sydney tucked the blanket around her. “Just a few more minutes,” Sydney murmured, and stroked the clammy forehead.

A crowd was forming at the door. Though he didn’t like leaving Sydney with the injured woman, he rose. “I want to keep the neighbors away. Send someone to keep an eye for the ambulance.”

“Fine.” While fear pumped hard in her heart, she continued to smile down at Mrs. Wolburg. “You have a lovely apartment. Do you crochet the doilies yourself?”

“Been doing needlework for sixty years, since I was pregnant with my first daughter.”

“They’re beautiful. Do you have other children?”

“Six, three of each. And twenty grandchildren. Five great…” She shut her eyes on a flood of pain, then opened them again and managed a smile. “Been after me for living alone, but I like my own place and my own way.”

“Of course.”

“And my daughter, Lizzy? Moved clear out to Phoenix, Arizona. Now what would I want to live out there for?”

Sydney smiled and stroked. “I couldn’t say.”