Unknown by Unknown Page B

wanting to reach out and touch his drawn features.
    ‘The cleaning service comes today,' he scowled. ‘And I have work to do.’
    ‘You don’t plan to go into the office?’ she demanded incredulously.
    ‘Why not? Do you think I’ll frighten my secretary?’ His hand went up to touch the edge of the bluish swelling surrounding one of the two lines of stitches on his face.
    ‘I think you should stay at home and rest.’ Her voice took on a softly coaxing quality. ‘I know your wrist is still throbbing. You won’t be able to get any work done and you should keep ice on it all day today.’
    ‘You’re probably right,’ he grimaced, exercising the fingers of the affected hand with obvious difficulty.
    ‘Of course I am,’ she affirmed, adding over her shoulder as she moved swiftly towards her bedroom, ‘I’m going to dress and then fix breakfast while you go back to bed.’ However, later as she was cracking eggs into the skillet, Brad came back into the kitchen fully clothed. ‘I agreed to stay at home and keep my wrist in an ice pack. I did not agree to play the role of an invalid,’ he informed her in response to her critical glance.
    ‘I suppose that’s as good a compromise as I can hope for from a bull-headed male,’ she muttered, filling two fresh ice bags for his wrist and using the oversized rubber bands to hold them in place once again.
    ‘Bull-headed?’ he grumbled. ‘If I’d known I was going to get no sympathy here I would never have agreed to stay. At least my secretary would have had a kind word for me.’
    Suddenly worried that he might change his mind, Sara tenderly touched his slightly swollen skin. Tm sorry you were hurt, and I apologise for calling you bull-headed.’
    ‘You do know how to get your way, don’t you?’ he murmured, his expression darkening as he turned away, breaking the contact.
    With his back towards her, he poured himself a cup of coffee while Sara stood for a long moment staring self-consciously at her hand. Then with a rigid posture, she forced herself back into motion and finished putting the breakfast on the table. Obviously Brad did not want her to touch him. She would be certain not to make the same mistake twice.
    At precisely eight, the cleaning service crew arrived, and Brad introduced Sara as his temporary housekeeper and artist in residence.
    ‘You Yankees have a marked sense of humour,’ the head of the crew, a woman named Kate, laughed good-naturedly. ‘And I’ve always suspected there was a bit of the Irish in you, Mr Garwood—a large bit!’
    Sara’s mouth tightened as she held on to her reserved composure. The ‘artist in residence’ crack had apparently been made to explain her less than housekeeperish attire. However, from the expressions on the faces of the crew, it was obvious that the word ‘artist’ had conjured up the Bohemian stereotype, leaving no doubt in their minds that her true position was that of Brad Garwood’s mistress.
    And, as it turned out, the smartly dressed, uniformed cleaning service people were only the beginning. While they were still in the house, a policeman came to ask Brad more questions concerning the accident. This time he introduced Sara only as his housekeeper. The policeman took one look at her trim figure housed in faded denims and a tee-shirt and his eyes told Sara that he didn’t believe the housekeeper story either.
    Retreating to her studio, she tried to push the sidelong glances out of her mind, with only limited success. Each time she was forced out of her seclusion to change Brad’s ice packs, she encountered at least one member of the crew, and then there was the policeman watching her every move. By eleven-thirty when the house crew had finished and Kate sought her out for an inspection tour of the work done, her nerves were taut as a bowstring. Briefly, Sara allowed herself to believe that Kate had sought her out for a complete inspection because after seeing that she had her own bedroom, the