Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) by Monette Michaels Page A

compartmentalizing when necessary, and running for one’s life made compartmentalization very necessary. The burning and throbbing had become almost normal, a background scatter reminding her she was alive. But when she moved abruptly, well, ouch was too mild a term.
    Pulling together the scraps of her dignity and what little courage she could muster from her ragged psyche, she spoke in her return-the-materials-or-else librarian voice, “You can uncover what you need and leave the rest covered.”
    Chill. This is Vanko. Not the devil.
    She knew that, but it was more than memories of Demidas ripping away her clothing that troubled her. She was afraid to expose too much skin to this man…too much of herself in any way, shape, or form. While she trusted him to keep her physically safe, Vanko was dangerous in other ways—far more so than any man she’d ever met.
    Vanko snorted and shook his head. A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead, making him look all mussed like a little boy. She fought the pressing itch in her fingers to smooth it back. He was not an innocent little boy; he was a man. All man.
    “The blouse must come off,” he said in his no-nonsense, I’m-the-boss tone. “It’s a rag as it is and blood-covered. I have a very nice, clean, black T-shirt you can wear when I’m through bandaging you. You’ll be much more comfortable in it.”
    Now he was humoring the crazy injured lady. That pissed her off.
    Before she could even marshal further arguments or utter a cutting retort, Vanko lifted her away from the pillows with one arm behind her back and stripped the remnants of her blouse off. The two temporary pads covering the wound, front and back, came off with the garment, leaving her in a sheer demi-cup bra and her skirt which was still unzipped from when he’d first treated the wound in the Hummer.
    Embarrassment would have to wait until later. Right now pain ruled.
    She bit her lip to keep from crying out as hot tears streaked down her cold cheeks. The makeshift pads had stuck somewhat to the open wound, the dried blood acting like Superglue. Even though Vanko had pulled everything away quickly, the pain was indescribable and made her queasy. She swallowed hard and then cursed under her breath in a mixture of English and Russian.
    “Had to be done. Sorry.” Vanko gently lowered her back to the bed. He wiped away the tears streaming down her face with his thumbs. “Your use of Russian curse words is admirable. We must compare favorites…once you’re feeling better.”
    His words and matter-of-fact tone struck her as funny. Elana half-chuckled, half-sobbed, and finally sniffed loudly in an attempt to master her out-of-control emotions. “I’m sure you have a more comprehensive list than mine.”
    “Most likely. I’ll be happy to share it with you.” He smoothed sweaty hair off her forehead.
    His fingers were cool and soothing which struck her as odd since the rest of him was putting off heat like a bonfire. She resisted the urge to rub against his fingers. The more he touched her, the more she liked it—more than she wanted to admit.
    “Now a shot of a pain killer to help cut your pain, yes?” he murmured. Again he might have voiced it as a question, but it came off as an order.
    Elana wanted to refuse on principle, to assert some control over what was happening, but the pain had become a ravenous beast threatening to eat away at what little was left of her dignity.
    “A mild one, please.” She lifted her head and instantly regretted the motion. The room swirled even though the rest of her was flat on the bed. “So dizzy. Sick to my stomach.”
    “Not surprising. You’ve been shot. No real sleep in over a day. You’re most likely dehydrated and hungry.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss over her cold, clammy forehead before she could move away or even protest.
    “So, you may use your so-eloquent colloquial Russian on me if I hurt you.” Then he straightened and efficiently gave her