Running Blind by Cindy Gerard

is.”
    She hoped so, because between the stitches and the torn skin, it looked as if he’d been run through a meat grinder.
    â€œYou sure you’re up to finishing this?” he asked.
    â€œAbsolutely not.” She forced a tight smile. “But one way or the other, it’s going to get done. Let me know if I hurt you.”
    He grunted. “That ship has already sailed.”
    Because there was a hint of a smile in his voice, she relaxed a little, swallowed back her queasiness, and went to work.
    Another heavy silence settled between them. The longer it stretched, the more difficult it was to break it, and the more aware she became of the intimacy and all the tactile sensations.
    Did he feel them, too? Did he feel the way his skin heated everywhere she touched him? The slight tremble when his heat tingled though her fingertips? The rise and fall of their breath that inexplicably matched in rhythm?
    She was very close to him now. And very glad she was behind him, so he couldn’t see her staring. Couldn’t see her gaze fix on the strong column of his neck, the softness of his hair, which was a little too long to be neat but fell perfectly against that tender skin behind his ear.
    He sucked in a sharp breath, and she realized she must have hurt him.
    â€œSorry.”
    He looked over his shoulder at her. “You’re doing fine.”
    She quickly pulled her gaze away from those intense brown eyes and concentrated on her work again.
    After carefully cleaning the wounds, she covered the area with a large gauze pad, then secured it with surgical tape. Finished.
    Except for his leg.
    Just wanting to be done and out of here, she dropped down onto her knees in front of him.
    â€œSeriously?”
    His exasperated tone brought her head up, right in line with the V of his crotch.
    Oh. That was why there was gravel in his voice.
    She was a smart woman, so why wasn’t she using her head? Why hadn’t she thought about the sexual undertones of kneeling directly in front of him?
    Because she’d been too busy thinking about sex with him.
    â€œUm . . . maybe you could—”
    â€œRedress the leg myself,” he interrupted firmly. “Get off your knees, Buttercup.” He held out his right hand and helped her to her feet. “Never thought I’d say that to a woman.”
    Upright again, she straightened her skirt, searching for something to say, something that didn’t make her look like a bigger fool.
    â€œYou want to grab a shirt for me?” he asked quietly.
    â€œSure.” Glad to put distance between them, she practically sprinted to the file cabinet, opened it, and pulled out another black T-shirt.
    He held out a hand, but she hung on to the shirt. Back under control now, she meant to show him that she wasn’t a blushing schoolgirl falling prey to hormones.
    â€œLet’s not do that whole ‘I don’t need help’ thing, okay?”
    That actually got a sheepish grin out of him. And made her breathe a little easier. And made her knees a little weaker when he said, “Let’s do this.”
    He lifted his right arm so she could slide the sleeve over it. But when his hand popped through the shirt sleeve, it connected firmly with her left breast.
    They both pulled back as if they’d been zapped by an electric fence.
    â€œSorry,” he said. The wild look in his eyes told her he really was. It had been an accident.
    â€œMy fault,” she said, trying to act as if his touch hadn’t affected her. But her suddenly taut nipples said she lied. “Let’s just get this over your head, and I’ll get out of your hair.” And back to a place called sanity.
    Somehow, they got him into the shirt without further mishap. Then she hurriedly gathered up the leftover supplies and headed for the door.
    â€œWhy’d you do this?” he asked, stopping her from leaving.
    â€œBecause I knew you wouldn’t take