What was wrong with a man when even the sight of a woman bleeding on his floor couldn't excite him to action? A dusting of gray threaded through dark brown hair in dire need of a good clip. Thin lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and little comma-shapes bracketed his wide mouth. Looking up past his expensive shoes, she could see the subtle changes a decade had wrought. Justin Powell closed the book he'd been carrying and came round the side of the desk. The easy, imperturbable voice was the same, as was his loose-limbed build and disheveled good looks. Ten years had passed, but it might have been yesterday that she'd last seen him. "Which carpet?" he asked, looking about for her. He wore shirtsleeves, the white cuffs rolled halfway up sinewy, tanned forearms, the collar open at the throat. The reflected image of the tall man who'd walked into the library abruptly stopped, caught in a pool of bright mid-morning sunlight. She pushed her spectacles back into place and turned her head to look at the unbroken window. "If you do not want blood all over your carpet, I suggest you call a physician," Evelyn called out from where she lay flat on her back.
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