Her heart lurching, she seized his free arm. He leaned hard against her, ready to collapse, and a new trill of panic swept her. If he pulled her down with him, she’d be where she was before, trying to lift the veritable muscled mountain off the beach.

She hung her parka over his broad shoulders and wrapped her arm around his trim waist. “Okay, it’s not too far to climb.”

Although it was, considering the injured man’s shaky condition.

They stumbled up the rough path, and she glanced down at his poor feet, taking a beating on the icy rocks. Every step could be his last, she worried, while he clung to her as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

When they reached the short path to her back door, she intended to rush him inside, call for help, get him warm—not necessarily in that order—but instead, she froze in place several feet away from the edge of the small brick patio.

The back door was standing wide open, the wind banging it against the house.

“I locked it,” she said under her breath. “I know I locked it.”

Despite the overwhelming panic that filled her, she had to get the injured man into the protective shelter of the house. With trepidation, she walked him the rest of the way, and once inside, she led him through the kitchen. No sign of an intruder. But her spine remained stiff with tension.

The injured man lifted his nose and smelled. He tilted his head to the side as if he was listening for the same thing she was—sounds of the housebreaker.

She hurried the man to the velour sofa where he collapsed in a ragged heap, his expression slightly dazed. She had to get him warmed up. But she had to make sure no danger could threaten them inside the house. Glancing toward the hall and the three bedrooms, she listened. No sound of anyone rummaging through any of the rooms.

Sleet continued to pour on the roof, the sound a loud roar, which could hide the presence of someone moving around inside. She grabbed the wool afghan at the end of the couch and covered the injured man’s lap, the parka still draped across his shoulders and pink ski cap stretched tight on his head.

“I’ll turn on the heat and get some more blankets for you,” she said to him, without taking her eyes off the hallway to the bedrooms.

First, she was calling 9-1-1 and getting a knife for protection. She patted his shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for his response, instead hastening to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out her largest carving knife, although it was about as dull as her butter knives. Too bad she couldn’t get to her gun. With weapon in hand, she grabbed her phone, punched in 9-1-1, and lifted the receiver to her ear. No signal. She tried again. Same thing. Hell, what else could go wrong?

Shivering in her wet, icy clothes, she shut and locked the back door. When she turned, she gulped back a scream. The battered man was standing in her kitchen, looking even bigger, taller, nude again, and still blue. He moved as silently as the cat she had once shared the house with until it took off for parts unknown.

“My god, you need to rest on the couch and…and I’ll turn the heat on and…”

His indomitable gaze lowered to the knife in her hand.

Mouth dry, her heartbeat quickened. “I…someone broke into my house. I think.”