Cheryl Holt by Too Hot to Handle Page A

and worried about his delicate sensibilities.
    She was the sole individual who’d been brave enough to suffer his disrespect, then toss it back. He was mortified. To what a filthy trough he’d descended! When had he become the sort of villain who’d abuse a blind woman?
    She hadn’t mentioned her disability, hadn’t used it as a justification for her blunder, and he could tell that she was too proud to cite it as a defense. She took several halting steps, her arm furtively searching for an exit.
    As she was disoriented, her stealthy fumbling was fruitless, and she tripped over a pair of his boots. With a soft wail of dismay, she pitched forward and smacked onto the rug.
    Dumbstruck, he rushed forward and lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m perfectly fine.” She yanked away, even as she surreptitiously massaged her wrist, and he was furious to note that there were tears in her eyes.
    He couldn’t abide a display of histrionics! “For God’s sake, don’t cry.”
    “I’m not,” she insisted as she swiped her hand across her cheeks. “If you’d be so kind as to point me toward the hall, and the stairs to the third floor, I would be much obliged.”
    It galled her, having to ask for directions, and her palpable wrath cooled his own, restoring his manners to an appropriate level.
    “Sit for a minute. Please.”
    “I’d rather walk across a bed of hot coals.”
    “A thoroughly warranted reprimand.” He eased her toward a nearby chair. She felt it brush her legs but wouldn’t slip into it, so they dawdled, awkward and much too close together. To break the thorny silence, hedeclared, “I apologize for my boorish behavior. I’ve had a terrible day.”
    “So have I.” She was in a temper, which he suspected was out of character. She was trembling, upset by the fall and he couldn’t guess what else.
    “I’d say we were even.”
    “I doubt it. I resided in the same locale for twenty-eight years, and now, I’m a vagabond. Have you any notion of how awful it is to be accustomed to routine, to know where every little item is placed, and then to be thrust into this monstrosity of a house?”
    “No, I can’t imagine.”
    “Suddenly, I’m relying on the benevolence of strangers; I’m praying for charity, and hoping there’ll be food for supper to feed my daughter. Can you envision how hideous it is to be helpless? To be dependent? To be in such dire straits, and incapable of assisting in any worthwhile fashion?”
    “No,” he repeated, discomfited by the information.
    “Then don’t insult me by pretending our situations are the same.”
    He was unsure of how to respond, and her anger had him fascinated and wary.
    “Hello.” He clasped her hand and bowed over it. “I’m Alex Farrow.”
    On learning his name, she blanched. “So, I’ve offended the earl’s brother, and I haven’t been here an hour. Isn’t that the icing on the cake?”
    Charmed by her pique, he chuckled. “And you are?”
    “No one of any consequence, at all.”
    She moved away, and he almost went after her, but he was positive that any aid would be rebuffed. When shedetected the door frame, she paused, her confusion evident.
    “The rear stairs are about eight paces to your right,” he murmured. “There are two flights, of ten steps each, with a landing in the middle. You’ll be at the third floor.”
    “Thank you.” Her reply was short, bitter. She started off, and he listened; then he tiptoed after her and watched as she disappeared.
    Soon, he could hear her overhead, and apparently, she was lodged in the bedchamber above his own. When she’d erroneously stumbled into his room, she’d likely miscounted and presumed herself to be on the third floor when, in reality, she was on the second.
    “A harmless and interesting mistake,” he mused to himself.
    The stairway was a convenient route between the two rooms. Not that he’d ever have occasion to climb them and speak with her. Not that he’d ever