village’s peculiar brand of social chess. “Afternoons are never a good time. We’ve been booked up pretty solid all week.”
“I suppose it’s the season. Cold affects the poor mites, same as it does us. You wouldn’t believe how much my joints ache first thing.”
“Bitterly cold this morning,” he said, hoping to further sidetrack her digging long enough to finish off Hamish’s nails, so he could shoo her out before she got her teeth into anything meaty. As it was the cry of a distinctive baritone proved to be a far more diverting distraction that grilling him.
“Is that… Is that him?” she cried. Her beady eyes lit with excitement.
“Who?”
“Is he here? In the surgery!”
“I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t mock me, Ross Hatton. That fiend you call a friend. Christopher Skye.”
Denying Kit’s presence seemed rather pointless since he could clearly hear Kit shouting his name. A devil of a ruckus seemed to have begun in the waiting room. Mrs. Hawes began waggling her finger at him, but Ross released the now yapping Hamish into her arms and swiftly opened the door.
“Well, how rude…” Her words faded as Iris ushered Kit through the open doorway, with a tea towel clamped to his head.
Time froze and then split apart. Ross’s heart clenched tight at the sight of his friend’s ashen face. Blood coated the cuff of his jacket and had already seeped through the Working Dogs of Great Britain tea towel, turning the Border collie ox-brown. Iris bundled Kit into a seat and nudged the wide-eyed, slack-jawed Mrs. Hawes out of the door, shutting it firmly behind them.
“Lock it.” Kit’s words burst from his mouth as a snarl. Unquestioningly, Ross turned the bolt.
“What it god’s name happened? Kit!”
Kit pulled the cloth away from his face, causing a trickle of blood to roll down the side of his face and drip into the open neck of his jacket. “Get this off me.” He switched hands and pressed the cloth back to his brow before shaking his left arm so that his hand disappeared inside the sleeve. Ross grasped the soiled cuff and pulled. Beneath the jacket Kit wore a soot-black T-shirt, the collar of which was slashed open on the same side as his wound.
“Who did this? Jesus, we need to get you to A&E.”
“I’m not going. I’ve already had that out with Iris.”
“Is that what the shouting was about?”
“That and she said I was upsetting the animals.”
Pleased to find Kit his normal argumentative and masochistic self, Ross slapped him across the back. “Let me.” He poked tentatively at the cloth. The blood flow seemed to be slowing. The gash itself lay straight across the top of Kit’s eyebrow, virtually parallel to the silvered remains of a previous wound. It was straight and a good few centimetres long. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I’m not going.”
“What, you’re just going to sit there? It’ll leave a bloody enormous scar.”
“It will anyway.”
“It needs stitching,” he snapped back. Of all the crazy stunts he’d known Kit to pull, this had to be the most stupid and annoying. “Hospital. Police station. In that order.” He wasn’t being fobbed off over this. They could tell Evie later that he’d whipped himself with a yard of electricity cable to stop her worrying, meanwhile the bastard who was actually responsible wasn’t getting away with it.
“No.” Two big unblinking, dark eyes bored into him. Hell, the heat in that gaze. It was as if he were being sucked in, tempted, offered hell knows what if he’d just back down.
“You’re not—” He meant to say pulling your Mephistopheles act on me today , but the hot sparks had already started running up and down his neck, making the underside of his chin prickle. Kit was far too accustomed to being in control and manipulating moods to suit his purpose. Though how he could turn on the old sexual fire while sporting a head wound was utterly perplexing.
“You
“I suppose it’s the season. Cold affects the poor mites, same as it does us. You wouldn’t believe how much my joints ache first thing.”
“Bitterly cold this morning,” he said, hoping to further sidetrack her digging long enough to finish off Hamish’s nails, so he could shoo her out before she got her teeth into anything meaty. As it was the cry of a distinctive baritone proved to be a far more diverting distraction that grilling him.
“Is that… Is that him?” she cried. Her beady eyes lit with excitement.
“Who?”
“Is he here? In the surgery!”
“I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t mock me, Ross Hatton. That fiend you call a friend. Christopher Skye.”
Denying Kit’s presence seemed rather pointless since he could clearly hear Kit shouting his name. A devil of a ruckus seemed to have begun in the waiting room. Mrs. Hawes began waggling her finger at him, but Ross released the now yapping Hamish into her arms and swiftly opened the door.
“Well, how rude…” Her words faded as Iris ushered Kit through the open doorway, with a tea towel clamped to his head.
Time froze and then split apart. Ross’s heart clenched tight at the sight of his friend’s ashen face. Blood coated the cuff of his jacket and had already seeped through the Working Dogs of Great Britain tea towel, turning the Border collie ox-brown. Iris bundled Kit into a seat and nudged the wide-eyed, slack-jawed Mrs. Hawes out of the door, shutting it firmly behind them.
“Lock it.” Kit’s words burst from his mouth as a snarl. Unquestioningly, Ross turned the bolt.
“What it god’s name happened? Kit!”
Kit pulled the cloth away from his face, causing a trickle of blood to roll down the side of his face and drip into the open neck of his jacket. “Get this off me.” He switched hands and pressed the cloth back to his brow before shaking his left arm so that his hand disappeared inside the sleeve. Ross grasped the soiled cuff and pulled. Beneath the jacket Kit wore a soot-black T-shirt, the collar of which was slashed open on the same side as his wound.
“Who did this? Jesus, we need to get you to A&E.”
“I’m not going. I’ve already had that out with Iris.”
“Is that what the shouting was about?”
“That and she said I was upsetting the animals.”
Pleased to find Kit his normal argumentative and masochistic self, Ross slapped him across the back. “Let me.” He poked tentatively at the cloth. The blood flow seemed to be slowing. The gash itself lay straight across the top of Kit’s eyebrow, virtually parallel to the silvered remains of a previous wound. It was straight and a good few centimetres long. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I’m not going.”
“What, you’re just going to sit there? It’ll leave a bloody enormous scar.”
“It will anyway.”
“It needs stitching,” he snapped back. Of all the crazy stunts he’d known Kit to pull, this had to be the most stupid and annoying. “Hospital. Police station. In that order.” He wasn’t being fobbed off over this. They could tell Evie later that he’d whipped himself with a yard of electricity cable to stop her worrying, meanwhile the bastard who was actually responsible wasn’t getting away with it.
“No.” Two big unblinking, dark eyes bored into him. Hell, the heat in that gaze. It was as if he were being sucked in, tempted, offered hell knows what if he’d just back down.
“You’re not—” He meant to say pulling your Mephistopheles act on me today , but the hot sparks had already started running up and down his neck, making the underside of his chin prickle. Kit was far too accustomed to being in control and manipulating moods to suit his purpose. Though how he could turn on the old sexual fire while sporting a head wound was utterly perplexing.
“You
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