In A Heartbeat by Donna MacMeans

through the dusky light that settled so early this time of year, she had to admit that the house would be difficult to spot from the road. The long driveway combined with banks of trees, many still holding their brightly colored foliage, obscured the view.
    “And you’ll be able to rest that ankle,” Hank continued his cheerful banter. “So just relax. Enjoy the weekend.”
    Relax? She accepted that the house was private, and the ranch styling would be easier to negotiate. But relax? She stole a sideways glance. Not with this man. She hadn’t forgotten that she was here through blackmail.
    The long curving driveway ended in front of a sprawling ranch of stone and dark-hued timber. No welcoming lights shone through the windows. The house didn’t want her there anymore than she wished it herself. She shivered.
    “It’s a shame we had to pick up dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, you know.”
    No, she didn’t know. Other than the fact that he seemed bound and determined to make both her working and private lives miserable, she didn’t know much about this man with whom she’d agreed to hide away.
    “We’ll eat as soon as I bring in some wood for the fireplace. I’ll have you warm and cozy in no time.” He pushed a button on the windshield visor and a door to a cavernous garage slowly lifted.
    “No one else lives here?” she asked, noting a bright red corvette in one of the packing spaces.
    “That’s Elizabeth’s. She leaves it here so she’ll have a car available when she visits.”
    “Oh.” She sighed. As if she needed further proof that she posed no competition to the beautiful Elizabeth. The flashy Corvette epitomized the New York model, while her tiny battered Civic… Shoot—her Civic! She hadn’t arranged for anyone to move it from the reservoir’s parking lot.
    “I need to make a call,” she said, digging in her purse. Her hand brushed her keys. Drat! Her keys! Another complication. How could she get someone to retrieve her car without revealing her present whereabouts? How could she get them her keys? She slumped in the leather seat. “Crap, crap crap.”
    “What’s wrong?” Hank asked, opening her door. He shifted the bag of hamburgers and fries so he could help her ease from the car.
    “My Civic is still at the park and I’m the only one with the keys.” Oreo jumped over the front seat, exiting moments before the door closed. “It’ll be towed if it’s left overnight.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Hank said, leading her toward the door at the back of the garage.
    “But no one can know I’m here. How can you—”
    “Look, Angela.” He stopped and faced her. “I know how important this is to you. I said I’ll take care of it and I will.” His hand slid up and down her upper arm, generating warmth that dipped much lower. “Trust me a little.” He smiled. “Okay?”
    She nodded, too dazed by her reaction to his touch to speak.
    He opened the door leading to the main house and flipped on a light switch, illuminating the great room. “Make yourself at home.” He pushed the bag of food into her arms. “I have a call to make.”
    A leather couch and chairs surrounded a small coffee table in front of an enormous walk-through fireplace. She hobbled over to the table and set the bag down. Oreo busily investigated all the corners of the room, her nails clicking on the hardwood floors. She glanced at the tasteful and expensive furnishings. No magazines. No photographs. No half-dead plants or partially melted candles. The room felt lifeless, cold, impersonal. “Our place may not be this fancy, but it has personality,” she informed the dog.
    She dropped her purse on the nearest chair and limp-hopped to the French doors along the opposite wall. A switch by the door illuminated the grounds behind the house.
    “My God,” she whispered. Dark blue canvas covered the in-ground pool directly in front of her. The high fence of a tennis court loomed to the right.