Warm Hearts by Barbara Delinsky

wasn’t a neighbor. It was the guy she dated, but she didn’t look pleased to see him. She had a tight grip on the doorknob, and her back had stiffened. Brendan’s eyes narrowed. He could see that the man was talking, gesturing toward the inside of her apartment. She shook her head, but he ignored her and took several steps into the loft.
    Brendan felt his body grow tense in ways vastly different from the sexual tension of moments before. He watched closely. Her guest continued to talk. She shook her head again, more slowly this time, but whatever she was saying seemed to annoy the fellow, who proceeded to rake a hand through his hair, then fling his arms wide in frustration.
    Brendan could almost sympathize with the man. He didn’t look like a mean sort; he was clean, nicely dressed, and there was a defensiveness about him. If he was half as hung up on her as Brendan was himself and she was denying him what he most wanted, Brendan could indeed understand the frustration.
    His feelings of sympathy vanished, though, when the man clasped her arm. She quickly pulled from his grip and took a step toward the door, but her visitor kept pace, kept talking, kept gesturing. She pointed to the door. The man shook his head. When he snaked an arm around her waist and brought her body flush with his, she arched away and tried to push.
    The harsh sound of the beer can crushing in his hand brought Brendan to life. He’d seen enough. Sweet-and-Sexy didn’t want that man there. If the guy wasn’t willing to accept that on his own, Brendan intended to help him.
    Blindly pitching the can toward the sink on his way out the door, Brendan flew down the three flights in record time. He didn’t have to pause when he reached the street; he’d traveled the route in his mind so many times that he knew the fastest way around the block. He also knew that since her apartment faced his, her town house had to be the fourth from the corner. He ran there full speed and yanked the door open. When it collided with his toe, he swore, but that was the extent of his self-indulgence. Ignoring the pain, he took the steps two at a time.
    He might have taken it as a good omen—to his fantasy or his calculations or whatever—that the door to the third-floor apartment stood open, but he wasn’t taking time to think of omens, good or otherwise. He slowed his pace and jogged to the door, coming to a full stop with his hand high on the jamb before calmly ambling inside.
    Caroline’s head shot to the door the instant he appeared. She’d already freed herself from Elliot’s hold, but the threat of his presence remained. Now, abruptly, it was gone and forgotten.
    Tall-Dark-and-Handsome? It had to be! The way he looked at her spoke of all she’d imagined and then some.
    â€œHi, hon,” he said softly. Strolling to her side, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. “Sorry I’m late. I took a detour. Nearly got lost.” He gave her a smile and a squeeze, then released her shoulder and extended his hand to her guest. “Brendan Carr. And you are…?”
    Elliot stood very still. Only his eyes moved, jumping from Brendan to Caroline and back. He looked totally confused, all but paralyzed, and seemed to be rescued in the end by nothing more than the reflex of manners.
    â€œElliot Markham,” he said, letting his hand be shaken.
    â€œNice to meet you,” Brendan said, then headed for the refrigerator. “Man, is it a warm night.” He pulled open the door, extracted the pitcher of iced tea that he knew was always there, took a glass from the adjacent cabinet and poured himself a drink. “Anyone else want some while I’m at it?” he asked, shooting a glance over his shoulder.
    Caroline could only manage to shake her head. Her eyes were wide, glued to Brendan— Brendan —and she doubted she could swallow air, let alone