is.â
She hoped so, because between the stitches and the torn skin, it looked as if heâd been run through a meat grinder.
âYou sure youâre up to finishing this?â he asked.
âAbsolutely not.â She forced a tight smile. âBut one way or the other, itâs going to get done. Let me know if I hurt you.â
He grunted. âThat ship has already sailed.â
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 couldnât see her staring. Couldnât 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.
âSorry.â
He looked over his shoulder at her. âYouâre doing fine.â
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.
âSeriously?â
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 wasnât she using her head? Why hadnât she thought about the sexual undertones of kneeling directly in front of him?
Because sheâd been too busy thinking about sex with him.
âUm . . . maybe you couldââ
âRedress the leg myself,â he interrupted firmly. âGet off your knees, Buttercup.â He held out his right hand and helped her to her feet. âNever thought Iâd say that to a woman.â
Upright again, she straightened her skirt, searching for something to say, something that didnât make her look like a bigger fool.
âYou want to grab a shirt for me?â he asked quietly.
âSure.â 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 wasnât a blushing schoolgirl falling prey to hormones.
âLetâs not do that whole âI donât need helpâ thing, okay?â
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, âLetâs do this.â
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 theyâd been zapped by an electric fence.
âSorry,â he said. The wild look in his eyes told her he really was. It had been an accident.
âMy fault,â she said, trying to act as if his touch hadnât affected her. But her suddenly taut nipples said she lied. âLetâs just get this over your head, and Iâll get out of your hair.â 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.
âWhyâd you do this?â he asked, stopping her from leaving.
âBecause I knew you wouldnât take
Maggie Brendan
Barbara O'Connor
Jan Washburn
Terri Blackstock
Norah Simone
Barry Kemp
G.P. Taylor
Alan Cumyn
Linda Barnes
Lisa Jackson