she was bleeding. The cut stung now. There was blood everywhere, running down her arm in a crimson river, smeared on her hands and legs and feet, splattered all over the tile. Curling her legs up beside her, she clenched her teeth to try to control the sound they made and reached for a towel.
“He’s gone. I’ve got a buddy with me, and he’s looking around to make sure, but whoever did this took off when he heard us. You’re safe now, I promise.” His voice had gentled, had gone all soft and soothing as he watched her press the towel to her shoulder. He turned the knob, pushing at the door again. “Christy? Can you let me in?”
She was feeling slightly woozy, not quite on top of her game. Considering, she focused for a long moment on what she could see of him: untidy blond hair finger-combed back from his forehead, a slice of bronzed, handsome face complete with worried frown, large barehand, muscular bare knee and calf ending in a sturdy ankle rising above a boat-sized white sneaker: this, clearly, was not her attacker. She was really, truly safe. Relief grew inside her like a huge, expanding bubble.
The knob rattled as he pressed against the door.
“Christy. Let me in.”
It was an order this time, not a request. In her not-quite-all-there state, an order was what she needed. Drawing on the last reserves of her strength, Christy shifted and stretched a leg out to shove the wastebasket out of the way with her foot.
7
L UKE PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR, shot a lightning glance around, and hunkered down in front of her, his eyes filled with concern. They were blue, she registered absently. A bright, vivid, Carolina blue.
“Okay, let me see.”
His hand closed over hers as she held the towel to the cut. Moving her hand out of the way, he gently lifted the stained towel and looked down at her bleeding shoulder. His lips thinned. Replacing the towel and her hand holding it, he met her gaze. Like his mouth, his eyes were harder than before.
“It’s not that bad.” His voice was still soft and reassuring even though his eyes were not. “You probably could use a couple of stitches, though. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Christy shook her head. Now that the danger was past she was losing it, she realized with some chagrin. Her teeth were clenched so tightly that her jaws ached; if she unclenched them they would only chatter again. She was shivering, her breathing came shallow and fast, and she felt oddly boneless, like the jellyfish shehad seen rolling in on the tide earlier. The memory made her stomach clench.
“You sure?”
He was looking her over carefully from stem to stern. It was only then that she remembered what she was wearing, or, rather, not wearing. Basically, she didn’t have on much in the way of clothes. Bikini panties and a T-shirt were her customary sleeping attire. Tonight the panties were silky pink nylon. The T-shirt was a skimpy, thin-ribbed cotton tank, once neon green but now, thanks to numerous trips through the wash cycle, more of a squashed caterpillar shade. It molded itself to her breasts so that not the tiniest detail—like the reaction of her nipples to cold and shock—was left to the imagination. The sexiness of the non-outfit was mitigated by the fact that at the moment the garments, like the rest of her, were liberally adorned with blood.
“What happened?”
“I told you—he tried to kill me. He got in while I was asleep. He had a hatchet—” She broke off, unable to continue. Just as she feared, her teeth chattered, making embarrassing little clicking sounds.
“Is that what happened to your shoulder? He attacked you with a hatchet?”
“He tried to chop through the door.” She shuddered, then gathered her strength again to burst out with: “It was the man on the beach. The one who—killed that woman. He came after me.” Another shudder racked her. “He would have killed me. If you hadn’t come—”
“But I did come. He’s gone and you’re safe.” He
“He’s gone. I’ve got a buddy with me, and he’s looking around to make sure, but whoever did this took off when he heard us. You’re safe now, I promise.” His voice had gentled, had gone all soft and soothing as he watched her press the towel to her shoulder. He turned the knob, pushing at the door again. “Christy? Can you let me in?”
She was feeling slightly woozy, not quite on top of her game. Considering, she focused for a long moment on what she could see of him: untidy blond hair finger-combed back from his forehead, a slice of bronzed, handsome face complete with worried frown, large barehand, muscular bare knee and calf ending in a sturdy ankle rising above a boat-sized white sneaker: this, clearly, was not her attacker. She was really, truly safe. Relief grew inside her like a huge, expanding bubble.
The knob rattled as he pressed against the door.
“Christy. Let me in.”
It was an order this time, not a request. In her not-quite-all-there state, an order was what she needed. Drawing on the last reserves of her strength, Christy shifted and stretched a leg out to shove the wastebasket out of the way with her foot.
7
L UKE PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR, shot a lightning glance around, and hunkered down in front of her, his eyes filled with concern. They were blue, she registered absently. A bright, vivid, Carolina blue.
“Okay, let me see.”
His hand closed over hers as she held the towel to the cut. Moving her hand out of the way, he gently lifted the stained towel and looked down at her bleeding shoulder. His lips thinned. Replacing the towel and her hand holding it, he met her gaze. Like his mouth, his eyes were harder than before.
“It’s not that bad.” His voice was still soft and reassuring even though his eyes were not. “You probably could use a couple of stitches, though. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Christy shook her head. Now that the danger was past she was losing it, she realized with some chagrin. Her teeth were clenched so tightly that her jaws ached; if she unclenched them they would only chatter again. She was shivering, her breathing came shallow and fast, and she felt oddly boneless, like the jellyfish shehad seen rolling in on the tide earlier. The memory made her stomach clench.
“You sure?”
He was looking her over carefully from stem to stern. It was only then that she remembered what she was wearing, or, rather, not wearing. Basically, she didn’t have on much in the way of clothes. Bikini panties and a T-shirt were her customary sleeping attire. Tonight the panties were silky pink nylon. The T-shirt was a skimpy, thin-ribbed cotton tank, once neon green but now, thanks to numerous trips through the wash cycle, more of a squashed caterpillar shade. It molded itself to her breasts so that not the tiniest detail—like the reaction of her nipples to cold and shock—was left to the imagination. The sexiness of the non-outfit was mitigated by the fact that at the moment the garments, like the rest of her, were liberally adorned with blood.
“What happened?”
“I told you—he tried to kill me. He got in while I was asleep. He had a hatchet—” She broke off, unable to continue. Just as she feared, her teeth chattered, making embarrassing little clicking sounds.
“Is that what happened to your shoulder? He attacked you with a hatchet?”
“He tried to chop through the door.” She shuddered, then gathered her strength again to burst out with: “It was the man on the beach. The one who—killed that woman. He came after me.” Another shudder racked her. “He would have killed me. If you hadn’t come—”
“But I did come. He’s gone and you’re safe.” He
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