And with a gunshot crack, smacked straight into the doorjamb.
“Jesus! Are you okay?” Mac tossed the phone on a table as she rushed over to where he was currently staggering.
“Yes. Fine. Sorry.”
“You’re bleeding. Wow, you really hit your head. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Maybe.” And with that, eyes dazed and slightly unfocused, he sort of slid down the wall to the floor.
Mac crouched, brushed at the dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and the bleeding scrape that was already growing into an impressive knot. “Okay, it’s not cut. You’ve escaped stitches. It’s just really bashed. Boy, it sounded like you hit the door with a hammer. Ice maybe, and then—”
“Excuse me? Um, I’m not sure if you realize . . . I just wonder if you shouldn’t . . .”
She saw his gaze aim down, followed it with her own. And noted while she considered triage, that her barely bra-covered breasts were very close to pressing into his face.
“Oops. Forgot. Sit there. Don’t move.” She leaped up, dashed away.
He wasn’t sure he could’ve moved. Disoriented, bewildered, he sat where he was, back braced against the wall. Even with the cartoon birds circling over his head, he had to admit they’d been very pretty breasts. He couldn’t help but notice.
But he wasn’t at all sure what to say or do in his current situation. So sitting there, as she’d told him, seemed best all around.
When she came back with a bag of ice, she had a shirt on. It was probably wrong to feel the quick tug of disappointment. She crouched down again on what he noticed—now that her breasts weren’t in view—were very long legs.
“Here, try this.” She put the ice in his hand, put his hand on his throbbing forehead. And sat back on her haunches like a catcher behind the plate. Her eyes were the green of a magic sea.
“Who are you?” she asked him.
“What?”
“Hmm. How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.
“Twelve.”
And smiled. Dimples creased into her cheeks with the curve of her lips and his heart did a little dance in his chest.
“No, you don’t. Let’s try this. What are you doing in my studio—or what were you doing here before you concussed yourself over my boobs?”
“Ah. I have an appointment? Or Sherry does. Sherry Maguire?” He thought her smile dimmed a little, and the dimples disappeared.
“Okay, wrong place. You want the main house. I’m Mackensie Elliot, photography end of the business.”
“I know. I mean I know who you are. Sherry wasn’t very clear, which is usually the case, on where.”
“Or when, since your appointment’s not until two.”
“She said she thought one thirty, which I know means she’ll get here at two. I should’ve gone by Sherry Time, or called to confirm myself. Sorry again.”
“It’s no problem.” She angled her head. His eyes—very nice eyes—were clear again. “How do you know me?”
“Oh. I went to school with Delaney, Delaney Brown, and with Parker. Well, Parker was a couple years behind us. And, you, sort of. For a little while.”
She shifted for a closer look at him. Dense, disordered brown hair that needed a style and trim by most standards. Clear, quiet blue eyes surrounded by a forest of lashes. Straight nose, strong mouth in a thinnish face.
She was good with faces. Why didn’t she place his?
“I knew most of Del’s friends, I think.”
“Oh, we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But I tutored him once, when we were studying Henry the Fifth.”
That clicked. “Carter,” she said, pointing at him. “Carter Maguire. You’re not marrying your sister, are you?”
“What? No! I’m a stand-in for Nick. She didn’t want to do the consult alone, and he got held up. I’m just . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, actually.”
“Being a good brother.” She patted his knee. “Think you can stand up?”
“Yeah.”
She straightened, held out a hand to help him. His heart did another little dance as their hands met. And by the time he’d gained his feet, his head was beating the drum for the rhythm. “Ouch,” he said.
“I bet. Want some aspirin?”
“Oh, only enough to beg.”
“I’ll get it. While I do you can sit down on something that isn’t the floor.”
When she went back in the kitchen, he started to, but the photographs lining the walls caught his eye. Magazine shots, too, he noted, and had to assume them hers. Beautiful brides, sophisticated brides, sexy brides, laughing brides. Some in color, some in atmospheric black and white—and