“Here?” he murmured.
She shook her head.
“How about here?”
Another head shake.
“How about your ribs? You’ve got a nasty bruise here—”
“Ow!”
“Sorry. It doesn’t feel swollen, though. I think we can rule out internal injuries.”
She nodded.
Good. Great. Wonderful.
There being no further reason to touch her right now, he withdrew his hands and expelled a breath. For reasons that he didn’t care to explore, he felt a little shaky, but this was not the time to flake out, not when her temple was still oozing from a jagged cut that looked about two inches long.
“Okay. Let’s check your head—”
Those eyes blinked open, looking brighter.
Too bright.
“I’m cold.”
He could tell. If she kept up with the shivering, the whole sofa would be shaking soon.
“Let’s get you out of this wet coat.”
Cooperative for once, she rose up just enough for him to ease the soggy gray wool down her arms and off. She was about to collapse back against the pillows, but they weren’t done yet.
“You need to take everything off, Skylar.”
“D-don’t even try it.”
Perfect. Her teeth were chattering again, she was probably in shock or heading for shock, and she thought he was a pervert. Hell, maybe she was right. Though he intended to be gentlemanly about it and look away at any crucial moments, he’d hardly run screaming from the room if he accidentally caught a glimpse of, say, her breasts.
But she was injured and they didn’t have time for this yammering debate.
“Think, Sky. I can’t get you warm if your clothes are soaked.”
“I don’t—”
“Look,” he said flatly. “You can do it, or I’ll do it. Your choice.”
Her cheeks burned red hot.
“I should never have come here.”
“No,” he agreed, arranging the blanket over her upper body and arms to preserve any remnants of her modesty. A muscle began to tick in the back of his jaw, and there wasn’t a freaking thing he could do about it. Already he was contemplating the moment when Skylar left, leaving him in the darkness again, and the loss tasted bitter. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t like she was his to lose. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Staring at the outline of her arms beneath the blanket, trying to make sure she took the damn shirt off while simultaneously trying not to think about what she was revealing, he waited, giving her time for something he knew she’d never accomplish.
Sure enough.
She fumbled, taking forever with the top button, and there was no way she’d ever manage to undo one button, much less a row of them. Her fingers were way too cold and clumsy.
“Need help?” he asked softly.
Her expression murderous, she gave a sharp nod.
Ignoring the growing hum of his blood as it coursed through his veins, Sandro reached for the blanket so he could get her out of those clothes.
Chapter Four
Skylar wasn’t sure which was worse: the searing pain in her leg or the galling humiliation of being dependent upon Sandro Davies, a man who clearly didn’t want to be bothered with her and was probably regretting his decision not to let the killer tree keep her.
Then she risked another glance up at Sandro’s hard features and decided that, yeah, the humiliation was much worse. The pain, after all, would eventually go away.
How on God’s green earth had she gotten herself into this fix? It was all her fault for running out into the rain and driving off like a maniac. Well, no. Her fault went way beyond that. It was all her fault for coming out here to this storm-swept fortress of solitude to confront Sandro when it would have been easier to just mail him the paperwork handing over her half of the estate.
And, of course, it was her fault for not being able to forget his face and the time they’d met. Clearly, she hadn’t put her mind to it and tried hard enough.
Now she was paying the price. Served her right.
Hadn’t she known, the second that she knocked on the door, that this night was destined for disaster? Well, here it was. Disaster in the form of the brooding sexy man who hated her.
God, her head was spinning.
If things kept up like this, she’d be barfing on him soon, and wouldn’t that be an appropriate finish to this lovely trip to the Hamptons?
She winced and closed her eyes again, trying to will away the pain, the bone-freezing cold and the embarrassment. Unfortunately, the facial gesture sent a flash of pain pulsing from her temple through the top of her head. For added kicks, she felt the warm trickle of blood, as though the wound hadn’t quit oozing yet. Wonderful. With a weak moan, she reached for the spot with shaky fingers, meaning to do something with it, maybe press or rub the cut into submission.
Sandro forced something soft (a handkerchief?) into her hand.
“Use this.”
His hand on top of hers, he guided the cloth into position and pressed down. It hurt. A lot. This, in turn, kicked off another wave of nausea and, to her further shame, the hot sting of tears that insisted on leaking out the corners of her eyes.
“You’re not crying, are you?” he murmured.
If there was any sort of a god at all, he/she/it would punish this bastard—severely and repeatedly—for taunting her in her moment of weakness.
Taking a shuddering breath, she pulled it together.
“No,” she snapped. “I never cry.”
“Good. Let’s work on your clothes before you get hypothermia.”
Without further ado, he reached under the bottom of the blanket and started on the top button of her shirt, which he undid with a brisk efficiency that made her wonder how often he undressed women without looking. Ha. Dumb question. The rest of the buttons followed, and soon he was pulling the edges of her shirt apart.
She could feel the fluffy tickle of the soft blanket brushing against her skin, but his fingers never touched her flesh. Was he avoiding that contact?
And why, with everything else going on, was she hungry for it?
Things went smoothly until it was time for him to ease the shirt past her shoulders and down her arms, when he hesitated.
Some devil made her open her eyes.
To her keen shock, he was staring at her, and their gazes connected with a jolt. A trick of the light put half his face in shadow, hardening his features until his straight nose was a knife’s blade and his high cheekbones might have been sculpted from marble. His lips had thinned, creating the threat of cruelty, but a mouth that lush could never be anything other than sensual.
His expression was intense but otherwise unreadable and impenetrable. What made him so intent? Anger? Fear? Frustration? Who the hell knew? She’d have better luck catching the next flight to Egypt and trying to get a bead on the Sphinx’s mood.
She stilled, her pain forgotten.
He cleared his throat, looking away.
“Sit up for me.”
She did. Well, she tried. But the slight change in elevation set off another ripple of wooziness, and the whole exercise quickly turned into more than she could handle. But before she could slump back against the pillows, Sandro went to work. One of his strong hands slid around to the small of her back, keeping her in a seated position and soothing as it went, and held her steady while the other hand ran across the bare skin of her shoulders, easing the shirt down one arm, then the other.
With the wet cold gone, all she could feel was the heat of his fingers. They felt like heaven, spreading warmth, energy and strength in a radius that went far beyond the point of contact.
She almost cooed with stolen pleasure.
Was this why she’d wanted him to touch her? Why she’d needed it?
A twinge snapped her out of it.
“Ow,” she complained.
“What?”
“My ribs.”
What was she doing? What had gotten into her? Heat spread across her cheeks; at least she wasn’t quite so cold, so that was progress, eh? With her free hand, she clutched the blanket to her chest, making sure it didn’t slip.
It was all the protection she had, and they were close enough to kiss.
Focus, Sky, she told herself sternly.
She opened her mouth, with something about keeping her underwear on hovering on the tip of her tongue, but his hands were already on the move again. They slid to the center of her back and met at the clasp of her bra. One flick of his wrists and the thing came loose, and then the straps were falling over her shoulders, just begging to be tugged off.
Keeping his lids lowered, he obliged. She flowed with him, turning from side to side to get her arms free—
“Hey! Whoa! What’s going on in here?”
Mickey was back, but Skylar couldn’t take her eyes off Sandro’s intriguing face. There was the quick flash of his eyes, the infinitesimal tightening of his jaw, and then he was easing her onto the pillows and moving back into his own space farther down on the sofa. He took a minute to adjust the blanket over her torso again, and then he was back to business.
“You’re just in time,” he told Mickey, who was hovering in the doorway with a bunch of stuff on his lap. “You got those scissors?”
Mickey couldn’t seem to get his jaw off the floor.
“I, ah…yeah. I got ’em right here. I got everything.”
Sandro stared at him, one eyebrow heading north with growing impatience.
“Were you planning to hand them over?”
“Sure.” Mickey wheeled all the way into the room. “Here you go.”
“Great. Thanks.” Sandro rose and strode over to help Mickey put the stuff on the table. “And could you get us some ice? For her head.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Mickey wheeled around for the door again, but not before hesitating and shooting Skylar a look that was long, curious and speculative. “You got it.”
Skylar hitched the blanket higher, up to her chin.
Sandro, tracking Mickey’s line of sight, frowned.
“Now would be good,” he said sharply.
Mickey swung back around to Sandro, looking amused now, judging by the wry curl of his mouth.
“Happy to get out of your way anytime you want, boss,” he said. “Just ask.”
He rolled out, disappearing into the darkness again, and Skylar could swear she heard a chuckle echo down the hall. When he was gone, she had to work hard to look in Sandro’s direction.
He didn’t seem too anxious to meet her gaze, either.
Turning away from her, he reached behind his neck and, in one swift movement, yanked off his sweatshirt along with the T-shirt over his head. The next thing she knew, she was confronted with gleaming brown skin and the toned and rippled physique of a man who’d received at least twice his share of beautiful genes when God was divvying out the world’s supply of attractive.
There went all of the air, sucked right out of the room.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Here.” With jerky movements that only underscored the flex and play of those glorious muscles, he tossed the T-shirt, which had managed to stay dry under the bulky sweatshirt, to her. “Do us all a favor and put this on.”
Fumbling—it wasn’t every day that she witnessed God’s creative brilliance in full force and effect quite like that—she managed to catch it before it whacked her across the face. But then another distraction arose.
In the half second before Sandro stood and pulled the sweatshirt back on, she glimpsed a horrific scar, raised, puckered and glaring across the smoothness of his skin, extending from the middle of his back, down through that perfect six-pack and disappearing south of his waistband in front.
Skylar gasped, surprise and concern making her nosier than she’d normally be.
“My God. Your scar—”
But Sandro had already stalked off, disappearing into the shadowy edges of the room beyond the lamp’s glow, and she heard the clink of a glass and the splash of liquid. Then he was back, passing her a Big Gulp portion of scotch in a crystal tumbler and keeping one for himself.
“Stop yakking and drink up. You need it. Cheers.”
With that, he tossed back his scotch, reached for a lethal pair of scissors that looked like they doubled as hedge trimmers and eyed her leg.
Whoa. Skylar’s head swam again, this time with the surplus of things happening that she needed to stop. ASAP.
“Don’t come near me with those scissors—”
His brows flattened.
“And forget about the scotch. I’m not drinking it.”
No way, Jose. The last thing she needed right now was to ingest something that would make her loopier and lower her resistance to…she didn’t even want to think about it. Not that she thought Sandro or Mickey would take advantage of her; she’d stake her life that they were honorable men who wouldn’t dream of hurting a woman. It was just that her thoughts and feelings veered off in unsettling directions where Sandro was involved, especially when he touched her.
That implacable and unblinking gaze of his nailed her between the eyes and held until some of her defiance melted away and she began to squirm. Then she began to feel foolish, which pissed her off. How could she win here? Matching wits with him was like being in a staring contest with an eagle.
“I’m trying to take care of you,” he quietly reminded her. “Do you understand that? Do you even know why you’re disagreeing with me, or is it just a reflex?”
That did it. Now officially feeling like an idiot, she looked away, raised the glass, and drank.
The effect was immediate. Fire sizzled down her throat like a lit fuse, hit her belly and made a shock wave of heat pulse through her body. She coughed…wheezed…and drank again, draining the glass, which she thunked on the coffee table.
Buzzing pleasantly, she glared at Sandro, who gave her that quirked-brow look of cool amusement.
“Happy?” she demanded.
“I’m delirious with glee.”
The liquor quickly took over (at least that’s what she’d tell herself in the morning), lowering her inhibitions and making her recklessly embrace her desire to rattle his cage.
Thus, she dropped the front of the throw, flashing her breasts at him as she threaded her arms through the T-shirt and yanked it down over her head.
Her reward? The sharp hitch of his breath.
Leaning back against the pillows, she risked a quick glance at his openmouthed face. He looked stunned, much to her immense satisfaction. Most likely he was dismayed that someone with such negligible cleavage had the nerve to flash anyone, but still. The reprieve from his nonstop commands felt good. For a millisecond.
Then the intimacy of his still-warm shirt against her bare breasts hit her in a rush, bringing her far too close to him. Her head was a constant throb of pain and her leg screamed, but she could still smell the clean musk of him, and the subtle scent of leather wrapped in something spicier and more exotic.
It was almost like being folded into his arms, and that was something she didn’t need to think about. So she focused on overcoming the immediate crisis, which was about to get much worse, pain wise.
“Let’s go,” she barked.
Sandro blinked and snapped back to attention. Resuming his position on the sofa at her hip, he gently inserted the scissors’ tip beneath the waistband of both her panties and jeans and began to cut along the seam. His expression was grim, his focus absolute. So careful was each snip that she never felt the cold steel of the blades, not even once.
At last he came to the bottom, exposing her bleeding calf. He stared down at it, his jaw tightening, and then reached for one of the washcloths and rubbing alcohol that Mickey had provided.
His gaze flickered up the length of her body to her face.
Whatever he’d seen? Wa
sn’t good.
“This will hurt,” he warned, placing a towel beneath her leg. “I need to really clean it. We don’t know how long you’ll be stuck here, and I don’t want to take any risks with infection—”
“Just do it,” she muttered wearily, closing her eyes and covering them with her arm. “Get it over with.”
Foolish words. He poured alcohol over the wound and she jackknifed up with a sharp yell of pain. If he’d used a sword to sever her leg below the knee, it couldn’t hurt worse than this.
Somehow, she choked the agony back, locking it away.
In that horrible moment, when she wanted to scream and sob with the torture, she remembered Tony, Sandro and all the other soldiers who’d fought overseas, endured true hardships and been injured or killed.
This, on the other hand, was nothing, and she would not cry like a five-year-old.
So she gritted her teeth, gasping for breath.
“I’m sorry,” Sandro murmured, over and over again, sounding choked and distraught, his emotion totally at odds with the cold-eyed raptor’s gaze he’d unleashed on her a minute ago. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry, Sky. I’m sorry—”
Sweating now, clammy, she clenched her muscles against the pain and tried not to vomit. She also resisted the urge to check the injury herself and see how much her leg now resembled a lamb shank. Thank God she couldn’t see it. That would probably put her right over the edge.
Still, she needed to know.
“How bad is it? Don’t lie.”
“You need stitches. A lot of them.”
“But how—”
“Mickey was a medic. A very good medic.”
She blinked. Frowned. “But he said—”
“We were joking.”
Well, thank goodness for small favors. There was no anesthetic available, no sterile hospital or qualified surgeon to make sure she didn’t end up with a Frankenstein scar, but at least Mickey had some medical training after all and knew how to stitch a wound.
“Get him in here.” Her chest heaved, straining against the twin efforts of talking and managing the pain. “And get me some more scotch.”
Sinful Seduction: The Davies Family Book 1 Page 4
