The Seductive Impostor by Janet Chapman Page B

your home?”
    â€œI did. Dad was too busy with Sub Rosa.” She waved her hand at the large Victorian structure. “This is my first independent work. I was fourteen at the time.”
    He turned back to her. “It’s lovely.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you used to build homes? You don’t anymore?”
    â€œNo.”
    He waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, he asked, “Why not?”
    She shrugged. “Because I like being a librarian now.”
    His gaze narrowed. “Since when?”
    â€œSince three years ago,” she told him, giving him a pointed look in return, closing the subject.
    He stared at her in silence, wise enough to end the discussion. “Do you want to wait here while I find your clothes, or should I carry you in?” he asked instead.
    Well, heck. She didn’t want to be carried anywhere. It was disconcerting to be in his arms. But then, she didn’t want him pawing through her underwear, either.
    â€œI have crutches in the kitchen closet.”
    He shook his head. “If you want that knee to finish mending properly, you’ll forget the crutches for a few days at least.”
    It wasn’t really a grin he gave her as he opened the door. It was more like a happy smirk, as if he thought that keeping her confined to a wheelchair would keep her more easily under his thumb. Rachel wanted to snort, but she refrained. She’d gotten quite good at maneuvering a wheelchair three weeks ago.
    He walked around to her side of the car, and Rachel braced herself for the feel of his arms going around her back and under her legs yet again.
    Carrying a person was an intimate act. She had seen her father carry her mother more than once, usually when he was headed for their bedroom.
    Keenan Oakes lifted her out of the car as if she weighed no more than a bag of groceries. He strode to the house with long, powerful strides, and Rachel tried her damnedest not to notice the pleasant smell of him, or how the muscles of his arms bunched, or how his legs carried them both with fluid, easy grace. She certainly refused to notice how his hair brushed the back of her hand as he walked.
    It must be hormones, she decided, as he set her down on the porch swing so he could unlock the door. That must be what was causing her traitorous senses to awaken. Hormones. The bane of every woman’s existence.
    He got the door open, then picked her up again and carried her into the house, traveling through the living room, then mounting the steps that led to the bedrooms.
    He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at her.
    â€œWhich way, Rachel?” he asked, his eyes laughing at her discomfort for being carried around like a child.
    â€œSecond door on the right, Mr. Oakes,” she said, emphasizing his last name as a barrier between them.
    But he didn’t move. “If you don’t start calling me Kee, you’re going to get a lot hungrier.”
    â€œKee,” she growled to get him moving.
    â€œNow, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said, finally walking down the hall.
    â€œYou’re a bit of a bully, you know that?” she muttered, scrunching herself up to fit through the door.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œIt wasn’t a compliment,” she snapped.
    He set her on the bed and headed for her bureau.
    â€œI’ll pack my things from there!” she blurted when he opened the top drawer. “Just hand me the whole drawer. I’ve got a suitcase in the closet.”
    He was grinning as he walked back to the bed with the drawer in his hand, busily examining the contents with his gaze. He set the drawer beside her, then looked down at her with the devil dancing in his eyes.
    â€œNow, how did I guess you wore basic white?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
    Rachel felt her cheeks get hot. “The suitcase is on the top shelf,” she told him, lifting her chin and