“Glass also has sodium carbonate,” she said.

“I think that’s…” Sam paused, struggling to concentrate. “… Na2CO3.” He studied the front of the shirt and shook his head. “I can’t show you sodium carbonate. Dangerous territory.”

“What about calcium oxide?”

His gaze scanned the shirt until he found it. He shook his head. “I’d have you on your back in about five seconds.”

They both started at the harsh metallic ring of the doorbell, a Victorian hand-turn style.

Sam left the bed with a groan, moving slowly. “When I said I wasn’t going to make any moves on you—” He opened the door and stood at the threshold, pulling in a couple of deep breaths. “I was planning for it to be a reciprocal arrangement. From now on, hands off. Got it?”

“Yes, but how are you going to take care of me if—”

“Not my hands,” Sam said. “Yours.”

* * *

The doorbell rang a couple more times while Sam made his way downstairs. Heat and arousal played all through him, making it impossible to think straight. He wanted Lucy, wanted to take her slowly and stare into her eyes as he moved inside her, and make it last for hours.

By the time Sam reached the front door, his temperature had cooled sufficiently to allow for clear thinking. He was confronted by his brother Alex, who looked more irate and underfed than usual, his frame rawboned beneath loose-fitting clothes. Clearly Alex was not blossoming in the aftermath of divorce.

“Why do you have the fucking doors locked?” Alex demanded.

“Hey, Al,” Sam said curtly, “it’s good to see you too. Where’s the key I gave you?”

“It’s on my other key chain. You knew I was coming over this morning—if you want free work done on your house, the least you can do is leave the door unlocked.”

“I’ve had a couple other things on my mind besides waiting for you to show up.”

Alex brushed by him, carrying a vintage metal toolbox. As usual, he headed straight for the kitchen, where he would pour himself a scalding cup of black coffee, down it without ceremony, and go to whatever part of the house he happened to be working on. So far he had refused to take any money for his labors, despite the fact that he could have gotten a fortune doing the same work for someone else. Alex was a developer, but he had started as a carpenter, and the quality of his craftsmanship was impeccable.

Alex had spent hours on the house, skinning walls, repairing cracks in plaster, restoring wood molding, hardware, flooring. Sometimes he redid work that Mark or Sam had already finished, because no one could ever match his exacting standards. Exactly why Alex was so willing to expend so much of his energy on the house was something of a mystery to the other Nolans.

“I think it’s his idea of a relaxing hobby,” Mark had said.

“I’m all for it,” Sam had replied, “if only because he doesn’t drink while he works. This house may be the only thing keeping his liver from turning into Jell-O.”

Now, as he watched his younger brother cross through the hallway, Sam thought that the signs of stress and drinking were catching up with him. Alex’s ex-wife, Darcy, had never been what anyone would call a nurturing kind of woman, but at least she’d gotten him to take her out to eat a few nights a week. Sam wondered when Alex had last eaten a full meal.

“Al, why don’t you let me fry you a couple of eggs before you start working?”

“Not hungry. Just want coffee.”

“Okay.” Sam followed him. “By the way … I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the noise level down today. I’ve got a friend staying here, and she needs rest.”

“Tell her to take her hangover somewhere else. I have some trim work to do.”

“Do it later,” Sam said. “And it’s not a hangover. She was in an accident yesterday.”

Before Alex could reply, the doorbell rang again.

“That’s probably one of her friends,” Sam muttered. “Try not to be a dick, Alex.”

Alex shot him a speaking glance and headed to the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Sam returned to the front door. The visitor turned out to be a curvy little blonde dressed in capris and flats, and a sleeveless button-down shirt knotted at the waist. With her buxom build, her big blue eyes, and her chin-length golden curls, she looked like an old-fashioned movie starlet, or maybe a Busby Berkeley showgirl.

“I’m Zoл Hoffman,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought some of Lucy’s things. Is it an okay time to visit? I could come back later—”

“Now’s a great time.” Sam smiled at her. “Come on in.”

Zoл carried a huge pan of muffins that sent out a warm sugared fragrance. As she came inside, she tripped over the threshold and Sam automatically reached out to steady her.

“I’m a klutz,” she announced cheerfully, a buttermilk-blond curl dangling over one eye.

“Thank God you didn’t lose your balance completely,” Sam said. “I’d hate to have to choose between saving you or the muffins.”

She handed him the muffin pan and followed him to the kitchen. “How is Lucy?”

“Better than I would have expected. She had a pretty good night, but she’s sore today. Still on pain meds.”

“You’re so nice to take care of her like this. Justine and I both appreciate it.”

Zoл carried her va-va-voom figure in an innately apologetic manner, shoulders down and slightly forward. She was perplexingly shy for a woman with such flagrant beauty at her disposal. Maybe that was the problem—Sam guessed that she’d had more than her share of heavy-handed overtures from the wrong kind of men.

They entered the spacious kitchen, with its enameled stove set in a cream-tiled alcove, glass-fronted cabinets, and black walnut flooring. Zoл’s marveling gaze swept from the high trussed ceilings to the huge soapstone farmhouse sink. But her eyes widened and her expression went blank as Alex turned from the coffeemaker to face them. Sam wondered what she would make of his brother, who resembled Satan with a hangover.

“Hello,” Zoл said in a subdued voice after Sam had introduced them. Alex responded with a surly nod. Neither of them made a move to shake hands. Zoл turned to Sam. “Do you happen to have a cake plate I could set these muffins on?”

“It’s in one of those cabinets near the Sub-Zero. Alex, would you help her out while I go upstairs to get Lucy?” Sam glanced at Zoл. “I’ll find out if she wants to sit in the living room down here, or visit with you upstairs.”

“Of course,” Zoл said, and went to the cabinets.

Alex strode to the doorway just as Sam reached it. He lowered his voice. “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to spend chitchatting with Betty Boop.”

From the way Zoл’s shoulders stiffened, Sam saw that she’d overheard the remark. “Al,” he said softly, “just help her find the damn plate.”

* * *

Zoл found the glass-domed plate in one of the cabinets, but it was too high for her to reach. She contemplated it with a frown, pushing back the curl that insisted on hanging over one eye. She was aware of Alex Nolan approaching her from behind, and a hot-and-cold chill went down her spine. “It’s up there,” she said, moving to the side.

He retrieved it easily, and set the plate and dome on the granite countertop. He was tall but rawboned, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. The suggestion of cruelty on his face did nothing to detract from his profligate handsomeness. Or maybe it wasn’t cruelty, but bitterness. It was a face that many women would find attractive, but it made Zoл nervous.

Of course, most men made her nervous.

Zoл thought that with the task done, Alex would leave the kitchen. She certainly hoped he would. Instead he stayed there with one hand braced on the countertop, his expensive watch gleaming in the light from the multipaned windows.

Trying to ignore him, Zoл set the glass plate beside the muffin pan. Carefully she extracted each muffin and set it on the plate. The scent of hot berries, white sugar, buttery streusel, rose in a melting-sweet updraft. She heard Alex draw in a deep breath, and another.

Darting a cautious glance at him, she noticed the dark half-moon indentations beneath a pair of vivid blue-green eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in months. “You can go now,” Zoл said. “You don’t have to stay and chitchat.”

Alex didn’t bother to apologize for his earlier rudeness. “What did you put in those?” He sounded accusatory, suspicious.

Zoл was so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “Blueberries. Help yourself, if you’d like one.”

He shook his head and reached for his coffee.

She couldn’t help but notice the tremor in his hand, the dark brew shivering in the porcelain cup. Instantly Zoл lowered her gaze. What would cause a man’s hand to shake like that? A nervous condition? Alcohol abuse? Somehow the sign of weakness in such a physically imposing person was infinitely more affecting than it would have been in someone of smaller stature.

Despite his irritable behavior, Zoл’s compassionate nature asserted itself. She had never been able to pass by a crying child, a hurt animal, a person who looked lonely or hungry, without trying to do something about it. Particularly a hungry person, because if there was one thing Zoл liked better than anything in the world, it was feeding people. She loved the obvious pleasure that people took in tasting something delicious, something carefully made and nourishing.

Wordlessly Zoл set a muffin on Alex’s saucer while the cup was still in his hand. She didn’t look at him, only continued to arrange the plate. Although it seemed very likely that he would throw the offering at her, or say something derogatory, he was silent.