Someone groaned, as if in pain.
Annabel swung her legs out of the bed. She had to find out what was going on. She gathered the covers as she stood up, wrapping them around her like a giant toga.
The bedroom door was locked. While she was undressing the night before, she had found a big, old-fashioned key on the dressing table and used it to lock the door. She hadn't done so out of any fear of Cole Brady; chances were, he had another key just like the one she'd found. But it had made her feel better anyway, semi-paranoid modern-day urban dweller that she was.
Now she snatched up the key from the table and fitted it carefully into the lock. She turned it, then grasped the knob. Easing the door open, she peered through the gap into the hallway.
The hall was empty. She stepped out of the room, listening intently for more sounds. None came, so she started toward the stairs. The moan she had heard had definitely been one of pain. Someone was hurt downstairs. Even if it was a burglar, Annabel couldn't stand by and not investigate. Old habits died hard, and she was in the habit of helping people.
On the other hand, she didn't want to be foolhardy. She looked around the upstairs hallway for something that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. With a grimace, she wished she had the pepper spray that was back in her apartment.
She kept moving, her barefooted steps silent on the carpet runner. When she reached the stairs, she lifted the bedspread and sheet she had wrapped around her, so that she wouldn't trip over them, and started down.
Another sound came from below. Somebody had dropped something. Annabel froze halfway down the stairs and listened. Silence descended once more on the house.
She started moving again, one careful step after another. When she made it to the bottom of the curving staircase, she glanced to her left and saw a door that led into a parlor. Inside was a fireplace, and next to it a gilt-covered stand with a couple of pokers. She stole quickly into the room, grasped one of the pokers, and lifted it out of its holder. It was heavy, but the weight was reassuring in her hand. To someone who could swing a Pulaski for hours on end, wielding one little fireplace poker didn't pose much of a challenge.
She thought the sounds she'd heard had come from the rear of the house. She went back to the main hall and turned in that direction. Ahead of her was a door that no doubt led to a kitchen.
The door had no knob; it was the type that swung back and forth. Annabel tightened her grip on the poker with her right hand and used her left to clutch the bedcovers closer around her. Then she lifted her right foot and kicked open the door. She lunged through, the poker raised high, and let out a yell.
Cole yelled, too, jerking back so that the chair in which he was sitting overturned and dumped him hard on the linoleum floor.
Annabel stood there, the poker still poised over her head, paralyzed by surprise. All she was able to do was say quietly, "Oh, my God."
"Annabel?" Cole said, his voice stunned.
Slowly, she lowered the poker and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. His feet, clad only in socks, were pointing toward her, and beside the table stood a pair of high-topped, heavy boots. Nearby, lying on its side, was a leather fireman's helmet, with its high crown, short front brim, and long, down-curving rear brim. Cole must have dropped the helmet accidentally, Annabel realized, and that had produced the clattering sound. He was still wearing a long leather coat and was covered with soot and grime. His thick brown hair was askew and his face was streaked with ashes. He looked like a man who had just spent a long exhausting night fighting a fire.
"Oh, Cole," she said as the poker slipped from her fingers and thumped onto the floor, just missing her bare toes, "I'm so sorry." She took a step toward him, but her foot got tangled in the dangling covers and she tripped, nearly falling.
Cole scuttled backward against the stove. "Annabel, it's all right," he said hurriedly. "Don't worry."
"But I could have killed you. I thought you might be a burglar."
"Nope, just me. Ah . . . do you think maybe you'd better go back upstairs and get dressed?"
She looked down at herself, remembering that she was naked under the bedspread and sheet she had clutched so haphazardly around her. She started backing up and nearly tripped again. "Just . . . just stay there," she said. "I'll be right back!" She turned and practically ran out of the room. The covers flapped behind her, and a sudden chill on her bottom told her that the sheets were not wrapped as tightly around her as they could have been. In fact, it was likely she'd just given Cole quite a view.
"Can I get up off the floor?" he called after her, his tone mocking.
"Oh!" She didn't know whether to be embarrassed, angry, or just sorry.
She fled up the stairs and down the hall, clutching what little was left of her dignity—and the bedcovers.