To Trust a Stranger by Karen Robards Page A

liquid soap onto his fingers from a dispenser beside the sink, then rubbed it, none too gently in her opinion, into the open wound on her elbow.
    “Ow! That stings!” Julie jumped as the soap hit her raw flesh, and would have jerked her arm free, but he held on. He was behind her in the confined space, his body keeping her in place as he manoeuvred her elbow under the gushing water.
    “Thought you were a tough guy.” He met her gaze through the mirror. A teasing smile just turned up the corners of his mouth as the water did its work and vanquished the soap. Unfortunately, having the soap flushed away by a stream so strong it could have come out of a fire hose didn't feel much better than having the injury assaulted with soap. She wrinkled her nose at him through the mirror. His expression changed. The smile vanished, and his eyes were suddenly unreadable.
    “How old are you, anyway?” The question was abrupt.
    “Twenty-nine. What about you?” She pushed back against him in a vain attempt to win free of his ministrations, then suddenly stopped. His body felt hard and masculine, and having it pressed so close to hers sent currents of electricity shooting along her nerve endings. Whatever he was or wasn't, he felt like a guy. Her instantaneous physical reaction to that fact both unnerved her and reminded her far too forcefully of the sorry state of her love life.
    It was, she reflected wryly, a sad day when she found herself getting turned on by someone named Debbie.
    “Thirty-two. There, I'm done.”
    He stepped to the side, suddenly no longer touching her anywhere at all, which, she told herself, was a relief. She watched his face through the mirror while he directed his attention to the faucets, turning them off with quick twists of his wrists. If he was aware of the effect he was having on her, he gave no indication of it. Of course, he probably had no idea that he'd given her a thrill. Under the circumstances, she could hardly expect that she would float his boat.
    “How old's your husband?”
    Instead of making a move on her, which in her confused state she might even have welcomed, he handed her a towel.
    “Forty.” She patted her elbow dry.
    “A little old for you, isn't he? You must be the second wife.”
    She put down the towel. He passed her a tube of ointment and laid a Band-Aid on the sink in front of her.
    “Yes, I am. So what?” She gave him a quick want something-of-it look, then started to apply the ointment because the scrape was really beginning to sting.
    “So what happened to wifey number one? Did he dump her for you?” He tore open the Band-Aid and handed it to her.
    “They were divorced years ago.” She accepted the Band-Aid, positioning it carefully over the scrape.
    “Have you ever met her? Or talked to her, or anything?”
    “No, I haven't. She's been completely out of the picture since long before I came into it.” Having finished with the Band-Aid, she lowered her arm and looked up at him with a sudden frown. “What is this, twenty questions?”
    He shrugged. “Just curious about how the other half conducts their love lives.”
    “Oh.” That made sense, in a way. “Thanks for the Band-Aid.”
    “No problem.”
    Julie met his gaze, made a mental note of her own sudden vulnerability to sheer masculine good looks, and turned and headed toward the living room again.
    He followed her. Josephine, who'd been an interested observer all this time, trotted on ahead and beat Julie to the couch. Julie sank down beside the poodle and was rewarded by a cold nose prodding her arm. Gathering Josephine onto her lap, she gave her a hug.
    Debbie stopped a few feet away, folding his arms over his chest and regarding her with a thoughtful expression.
    “Okay, let me see if I've got this straight: You rolled out of bed, stuck your feet in your shoes, jumped in your car, and drove into Charleston. In the middle of the night. Care to explain why?” He took up the conversation-or was it an