Opening the door, she tiptoed inside. Rumpled sheets beckoned from the bed. Dylan’s clothes littered the floor, but the man himself was absent. Thank heavens.

Her feet paused beside his discarded jeans. A pair of boxer-briefs lay next to them. She almost picked up both items, under the guise of tidying up, but stopped herself.

She pictured him asleep in the bed, naked. The pillow carried a hollowed-out imprint. She imagined his sun-streaked hair mussed from his night’s sleep, a muscular forearm blocking the sunlight from his eyes. His broad shoulders and chest tapered to slim hips. The sheet covered his hips and groin. Barely. He’d turn over, dislodging the fabric...

Edging closer, she inhaled. The bedding carried his musky scent. Masculine… delicious. She shook her head at her own foolishness. What in the world was she doing? She had work to do, and it needed to be done. Now. While he was out.

It took only a minute to move a chair away from the window then bring in her ladder and tools. Perched on a middle rung, she dropped her screwdriver when a cell phone beeped on an end table.

Debating whether to answer it or not, she heard a splash from the bathroom. While she hovered, paralyzed with surprise, the bathroom door swung open. Dylan appeared, briskly dragging a towel across his wet body. He skidded to a stop when his gaze riveted on her gaping curiosity, then wrapped the luckiest towel on earth around his waist.

Close… so close to the whole enchilada.

“What are you doing here?” Dylan barked as he picked up the phone. Dark circles around his eyes gave him an owlish look. Except that she’d never seen an owl in a towel, of course.

“Hanging drapes.” A sweep of her arm indicated the obvious. “But don’t worry, I’ll go.”

“Hello,” he said into the receiver, motioning for Gracie to continue her task. “Yes, Uncle Arthur. I did call yesterday. I could use your help with something.”

She should leave. The chore wasn’t noisy, and it required her to face away from him, but all that was beside the point. She knew he was there. She knew he was engaged in a private conversation. And she knew he was the next thing to naked.

With just the right angle, she could see his buff chest and sculpted shoulders reflected in the window. The chiseled muscles sported an interesting array of cuts and bruises. She decided to stay.

“You know Jack Benning over at Latham, Benning and Brown, don’t you? I called him yesterday about a deed they handled twenty-five years ago for some Cordial Street property in East Langden.”

At the mention of Clay’s old address, Gracie’s ears perked up. While she pretended not to study him or listen in, she surreptitiously watched him inspect the worst of his bruises as he talked. She had to put every one of her medical instincts on hold to keep from taking the task into her own hands, but who was she kidding?

The thought of touching those solid pecs, running her fingers through the mat of damp chest hair, and stroking the ridges of his abdomen like a banjo had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with sheer, unadulterated lust. The onslaught of desire set her fingers trembling. A wall bracket slipped through her fingers, hitting the floor with a clank.

Shooting him an apologetic look, Gracie moved on to the center mount, determined to keep her hands and mind off of his body and under control. She could do it. If she could just keep her eyes off of him as well.

“They claimed attorney-client privilege and wouldn’t give me any details, but all the principles are dead. You think you’d have more success getting the information?”

With the final bracket removed, Gracie climbed off the ladder to retrieve the new ones. Of its own accord, her gaze returned to Dylan’s body. Why couldn’t he be scrawny and underdeveloped? A man with his looks and money shouldn’t be blessed with physical perfection, too. And he should never, ever be allowed to lounge on an unmade bed wearing nothing but a swatch of terry cloth.

With a pillow propped behind his back and a leg bent at the knee, he had the look of a Greek god waiting for a flock of handmaidens to feed him grapes, slather his body in oil, and lick his toes. Or other, more interesting, parts of his body.

After imagining herself in the role of most-favored handmaiden, Gracie realized the one-sided conversation had ended. Dylan had put down the phone and was watching her.

Watching her watch him.

Oops! Busted. A blush spread from her cheeks down to the soles of her feet.

The corners of his mouth quirked into a killer smile. One that revealed his perfect white teeth, unmasked a dimple in his right cheek that was deep enough to lose a finger in, and put a dancing light into eyes that were as inviting as sin, despite being black and blue and puffy from the fight the night before.

Her small reserve of resistance melted into a thick, viscous pool of desire. And she knew with sick dread that it must have the same effect on every woman who witnessed it. She vowed not to become his next conquest. He could go ahead and wow Tanya with it if he wanted, but Gracie was made of sterner stuff.

“Want to kiss anything and make it better?” he asked.

Yes! Her eyes lingered over a bruise on his washboard stomach.

“I’ve seen road kill that looked more inviting.” She hoped she sounded disdainful and uninterested instead of drunk on unrequited passion. “And I thought you didn’t want my help.”

Dumb. Stupid, really, to let him know how much that comment had cut her last night. To let him know that she even remembered it was foolish beyond permission.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want your help last night, Gracie. I said I didn’t need it.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest. His biceps and forearms bulged into display. Firm, corded. Strong, capable, comforting.

A quick hand to her mouth checked for drool. “Next time you get in a fight at McStone’s, make sure Marvin Gardens is on your side before you start swinging.”

“Marvin Gardens?” A more genuine version of the smile appeared. More endearing than sexy, but sexy nevertheless. “Is that his real name?”

“The name on his birth certificate is LeRoy. But during grade school, the name Marvin kind of stuck.” Gracie gathered her control and turned back to her project.

“He is big enough to build a hotel on.” Checking Dylan’s reflection in the window again, she watched him brush damp hair off his forehead. The movement elicited a wince and rotation of his shoulder in its socket. Muscles rippled like an earthquake down his chest and bruised ribcage. He froze, mid-ripple. “He’s not the LeRoy Gardens, is he? The landscape painter that’s been getting all the rave reviews in New York?”

“Yep. That’s our Marvin. His work is fabulous, isn’t it?”

“Incredible.” Dylan shook his head in wonder. “I went to one of his shows. One of my best friends is married to art critic Kara Enderley. She called his work ‘raw’ and ‘elemental’. The starting price on a canvas was around fifty thousand.”

“Yeah, we’re all really proud of him.” Gracie loved a good success story. “He was one of my mom’s art students way back when, but he had his own unique style and technique from the very beginning. Gran has a couple of his early paintings in the dining room. You should check them out.”

“I’ll do that.”

She risked a glance over her shoulder, then turned quickly away. He was entirely too comfortable with his state of undress to suit Gracie. “Were you soaking your wounds in the tub? How do you feel? Do you think you should have some look at you?”

“Someone’s looking at me now.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “You just can’t stand it, can you? You see someone who might be in pain and you have to play doctor.”

“I don’t play doctor, I am a doctor, just not the kind you need. If you don’t want my attention focused on you, get dressed. I’ll somehow manage to overcome the disappointment.”