by Judi Fennell
“I’ll do it. Be right back.” Adrenaline gave her the strength to sprint out to the car. She was going to collapse when it wore off.
She grabbed the spare towels from the dash, her keys from the ignition, and locked up. The car wasn’t much, but there was no need to tempt Fate or teenagers into stealing it.
She returned to the room only to be greeted by a spray of water as Livingston ruffled the rain from his feathers.
“Sorry about that.”
She shrugged, tossing the damp towels onto the maple veneer dresser. “It doesn’t matter. I’m already wet.” She locked the door behind her, the burst of energy waning. “Speaking of which,” she crossed to the bed, “we need to get these clothes off him. He’s already soaked the sheets. That can’t be good.”
The gash on Rod’s temple didn’t look good either, but at least it had stopped bleeding. The cut on his leg, however, was another matter. It looked as if his knee had snapped the window handle off.
“Get the bottle out of his pocket.” Livingston hopped onto the bed.
It was one thing to talk about taking a guy’s clothes off to keep him from catching pneumonia; it was another thing entirely to slip her fingers into his pocket to grab the lump that was right there next to something she didn’t really want to be grabbing.
She tried to force her fingers onward, but her hand kept clamping shut as she got close.
“Come on, already, Valerie. I’d do it myself, but the beak’s not equipped for grasping something that shape.”
Val tried again, but there was just something so, well, personal, about slipping her fingers inside his clothes.
“Let me take them off, and then I’ll get it.” The shorts had to come off anyway, right?
She slid his shirt just above his navel and reached for the button above the fly.
He’s commando beneath there, remember?
Yeah, it wasn’t any easier to undo his clothes than it’d been to root around inside them.
She picked up one of the towels from the dresser and laid it on his flat, washboard, six-pack, totally sculpted, no-ounce-of-fat abdomen—not that she was thinking about anything other than his injury, really—took a deep breath, then did the lightest-touch, four-finger-button-opening that would’ve made any courtesan proud.
She draped the towel over his groin, then worked the shorts down his legs, focusing on his injured one so she wouldn’t focus on what she really shouldn’t be focusing on anyway. She removed his shoes and slid the shorts off, the lean hip-to-toe muscle she remembered from this morning right before her eyes.
She gulped.
“Come on!” Livingston stomped one of his webbed feet. “Stop ogling. He needs the shirt off.”
“I’m not ogling.” Liar. “I’m trying to assess the damage.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Just get his shirt off so we can get the oil on him.”
“The oil?”
“The stuff inside the diamond bottle, remember?”
“I don’t think we should put oil in a cut, Livingston. It can get infected.”
“Not with this oil, it won’t. I told you, you need to trust me. Now get his shirt off before he gets a chill. I don’t know how rainwater will affect him—I mean, we don’t want him to get pneumonia.”
Val maneuvered the shirt up Rod’s chest and worked it over his shoulder. The warmth of his skin tickled her nerve endings while the scent of rain-drenched masculinity tickled her senses.
Mind back on the problem, Dumere.
At least her exhaustion had abated, so that was a good thing.
Rod groaned as she slid his arm through. She lifted his head, gingerly working the shirt over it and trying not to jostle him. She ran to the other side of the bed and slid the shirt off his other arm, cleaning the blood off, no matter what Livingston said.
Rod shivered.
“You need to get him to the other bed where it’s dry.” Livingston ordered, oh-so-helpfully.
“And how do you expect me to do that?”
The bird cocked his head backward, then forward quickly, as if he were brushing something from the top. “Same way you got him in here.”
“Really. And what, pray tell, are you going to grab to help?”
The two of them looked at the naked man.
Uh, oh. She really shouldn’t have done that.
He was a fine, fine specimen of the species. A long, lanky, muscled vee from broad shoulders to tapered waist, the deep line by his hips highlighting his six-pack. Long, muscled thighs and well-defined calves… if not for the rainwater trickling down her cheek and onto her lips, the inside of her mouth would have gone dry.
As it was, her stomach was quivering with each inch she perused.
“Hello? Valerie? Do you want him to get sick?”
She closed her eyes and willed her tongue not to splat on the floor when she responded. “I was the one who wanted to get him to a hospital. It’s your fault we’re here.”
“I’m not going to have this argument with you. Move him to the other bed so we can deal with his injuries. What? Have you never seen a naked man before?”
“Of course I have.” Just not one like him, that’s all.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that moving him is going to put his, er, naked parts against me.”
“So? They were against you before if you recall, just with a layer of fabric between them. You still have your clothes on.”
True. However, her clothes were plastered to her body and would be no help whatsoever in disguising said naked parts as they rubbed against her.
“What is it with you Humans and your hang-ups about nudity? You don’t see avians and animals making a fuss about it.”
“I don’t have a hang-up about nudity.”
“Then prove it by getting him onto that bed before he gets something the oil can’t cure.”
Right. Rod was unconscious. She wasn’t a lecher for pete’s sake. Move the guy to the bed. Don’t think of it as moving the naked guy to the bed.
She pulled down the sheets on the dry bed, then went back to Rod and rolled him to the edge of the bed, some judicious towel maneuvers protecting everyone’s modesty. Working him to a sitting position was a bit more challenging, but the towel pooled right where it was supposed to. Hiking him once more onto her back, she focused her thoughts on the three steps between the beds, then turned around, ready to ease him onto his back.
The towel mocked her from the floor. It must have slid off when she’d stood him up.
“Livingston? The towel.”
The noise Livingston made might have been a snort, but at least he didn’t say anything. He hopped over and grabbed it in his beak, fluttering to the bed behind her and Rod.
“Gotcha covered,” Livingston said around the towel. “Or actually, I guess it’s him I have to cover.”
She lowered Rod to the bed, holding him upright until she felt the brush of Livingston’s feathers against the back of her thigh. Then she turned and eased Rod backward.
The towel was at eye-level as she bent down to swing his legs onto the bed.
The huff she released had nothing to do with the image of what was beneath that towel and everything to do with lifting his long, toned legs onto the bed.
Really.
Moving the man as much as she had in the last fifteen minutes could only be called exertion. That’s why her breath was coming in short, quick puffs. It had nothing to do with the manic butterflies in her tummy.
“Now for the oil.”
Val amended her position on seagulls and, more specifically, talking ones: they were right handy to keep one’s mind on the task at hand.
She picked the pockets in Rod’s shorts, feeling like she was invading his private space as she removed the diamond bottle. It caught the lamplig
ht, the facets sparkling with a prism of colors, the oil inside flowing with the consistency of melted honey.
She pulled the stopper, and the smell of coconuts and almonds and something tropical wafted from within. “There’s not a lot here.” She walked to the bed.
“You don’t need a lot. A drop on each of his temples, and one on his leg. Put each drop on your finger and work it in.” Livingston hopped onto the pillow by Rod’s head. “Start here. We need him to be conscious.”
Val took a deep breath and tipped a drop of golden liquid onto the pad of her finger. What kind of mumbo-jumbo was this? Honestly, if she weren’t being directed to do this by a talking seagull, she’d think it was insane.
And that last sentence showed how close she was to being insane.
“So, do you think JR had anything to do with those hay bales?” Why not add to the insanity…
Livingston closed his eyes, a look of pain spreading across his face.
That she realized it was a look of pain worried her. Did insanity start with the ability to converse with seagulls or being able to read their expressions?
She pinched herself again, half-hoping she wouldn’t feel it. Then she wouldn’t be insane, just asleep.
Or maybe delusional.
Ouch.
“Think it? No. I know JR’s behind this. And I’m pissed at myself for not outthinking him.” Livingston stomped both feet. “Can you please get that oil on him already?”
“Oh. Right.” Taking a deep breath, Val brought her finger next to the mess at Rod’s temple. “Are you sure he shouldn’t get stitches?”
“Valerie, just put the oil on it.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat and transferred the oil to the middle of the gash.
She gasped as it was wicked in.
“What?” Livingston raised his head so that he looked like an egret, trying to see over Rod.
“Nothing. It’s just that it… well, it almost looked like it got sucked into the cut.”
“Good. That’s supposed to happen. Now do his other temple.”
Valerie repeated the process, amazed to see his skin absorb the oil as quickly on the uninjured side.
The bird tamped the bedcovers as he hopped to Rod’s legs. “Now his leg.”
Val was still trying to process the odd reaction to the oil as she looked at his leg. It definitely needed stitches. And that window lever was metal. He might end up with tetanus.
But Livingston said he knew what he was doing.
The fact that she was taking medical advice from a seagull should have had her running, screaming, for the hills. Sadly, there weren’t any close by, so she had no option but to do as he said.
She tipped the bottle sideways and collected another drop. Then another. Two should be better than one, right? She shook her head. Was she actually starting to believe this might work? Or really, really hoping she wouldn’t have to explain a comatose man with lockjaw tomorrow when he didn’t wake up?
Taking another deep breath, Val steadied her hand as she slid it toward the injury, rolling her shoulders before making the initial contact.
Again, the oil was wicked off her finger as if it were a pod returning to the mother ship.
The argument for insanity was growing.
Livingston dropped onto the mattress. “Whew. That’s done. Okay, now put about five drops in your palms and rub them on both of his legs. Thigh to toes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It’ll help the oil work.”
“But he only injured one leg.” She put the stopper in the bottle.
“Valerie, just do it. Gods, woman, you need to learn to have a little faith.”
In a talking bird. She was listening to a bird about treating an injured man, and he was talking about her having faith. What was wrong with this scenario?
She set the bottle down. “Livingston, I don’t know what makes you think this is going to work, but he needs a doctor. God only knows what damage I did by putting oil into open wounds, but we have to get him to a hospital and—”
“How do you think your ankle healed so quickly?” Livingston said, irritated.
“My ankle? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything. Or have you forgotten that you sprained it? Have you ever heard of a sprain going away that quickly?”
“Maybe it wasn’t a bad sprain.”
“Or maybe it was the oil Rod rubbed on your ankle.”
“Rod didn’t—”
“Yes he did. I told him to. Remember that little ankle massage? You were cured. So finish the job already and put an end to the hospital argument. We aren’t taking him to one.”
Rod moaned, his legs sliding along the sheet, and guilt wicked down her spine every bit as quickly as the oil had been wicked into his cut.
What would it hurt if she did what Livingston wanted? She’d already come this far; what was one more oil application?
She unstopped the bottle and poured the oil into her palm, massaging it with the other one, then touched his injured leg. The edge of the towel rested in the crease of his thigh at his groin. Val tried to ignore it as she massaged the oil into the muscle there.
Sparks flicked up her fingers. Friction. That’s what it was. The oil was a conductor.
She cleared her throat, aware Livingston was watching every move. No, she wasn’t going to have her fingers slip beneath that towel to make sure the oil covered all of his leg. This was good enough.
“Don’t forget underneath.” Livingston closed one eye as she settled half her rear end on the edge of the bed.
“Underneath?”
“Yes, his entire leg. You might want to use that towel to move, uh, certain things so you can be sure the oil covers his whole leg.”
Oh, God, she had to slide her hands between his legs.
She wasn’t going to. That’s all there was to it and Livingston couldn’t make her.
“You do want this to work, right? You don’t want him to die?”
Damn talking bird.
Val took a deep breath and tried to pretend she was a nurse. Right. She could do this. He was injured. Maybe dying. The only thing keeping him alive was her ministrations. Nothing sexual about it at all.
Then the backs of her fingers skimmed his sac.
Like hell there was nothing sexual about it.
Her nipples hardened. She could tell because they were poking through her bra, fully outlined by her shirt. Thank God the bird had his eyes closed.
Val worked the oil in, trying—really—not to catch a quick feel, but hey, his sac was right there and there wasn’t enough room for her fingers and his naked parts to share the space and no way was she going to move them—with or without the towel.
Now why had she added that “without” part?
She tried to settle her breathing into the vicinity of normal and made quick work of that area.
Sliding her hands down the length of his thigh and over his injured knee didn’t really do much to dampen her awareness of his skin beneath hers. She felt every muscle, its strength, its shape. She could only imagine how his muscles would feel when he was using them to hold himself above her, pressing himself inside her…
The bird coughed, bringing her back to the here and now. Good thing, too, because she was moments away from jumping on the guy—which was so not a good idea, since he was A) injured, B) royal, and C) leaving. Oh, and D) unconscious.
She finished with a quick massage of his foot, then worked her way up his other leg, trying to concentrate on Livingston and not the warm flesh she was touching more intimately than she’d ever touched anyone.
Finished finally, in more ways than one, Val covered Rod with the blanket and headed to the bathroom to wash the oil from her fingers.
“You might want to put some on that c
ut on your leg,” Livingston said, his eyes still closed. “It’ll heal it. Like your ankle.”
Val stopped and looked at the blood dotting the slice on her leg. Looked at her ankle. Rotated it.
She slid a finger across the cut, a tingle following the path. Nothing burned, no searing pain, just a light buzz as if she’d poured hydrogen peroxide on it. Maybe there was something to the oil, but that didn’t negate normal first-aid care. Fine for Rod if Livingston wanted to take responsibility for sepsis, but she wasn’t willing to bet the farm—or her mom’s shop—on it.
She returned to the bedroom to change out of her wet clothes. Rod would have to sleep as he was because exhaustion had come back with a vengeance and she wasn’t up for wrangling him into any clothes. Since the other bed was soaked and she was going to share his, one naked person between the sheets was enough. Luckily, there was still another pillow his hair hadn’t soaked, so she was going to take a page from a 1950s sitcom and put the pillow between them. Good for keeping wayward parts from straying where they shouldn’t.
Val unzipped her duffel and reached in for a change of clothes. All she encountered was a soggy mess.
Oh, no. Livingston had dragged the bag in. It was cotton. Talk about wicking—the thing had soaked up puddles like a sponge.
Great. Two naked people in that bed.
Not gonna happen.
Val spread her clothes around the room, checked Rod’s bag, and found the same messy scenario, and pretty soon she had the room resembling a Laundromat where the power had gone out. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Now, as to what could be helped… her sleeping attire.
She returned to the bathroom, thankful to find two large towels for her concession to modesty. She wrapped one around her chest, securing it with a hair clip, and the other around her waist, tying the ends together. Better than shorts and a T-shirt, the impromptu outfit covered her from chest to toe.
“Valerie, can you open the door?” Livingston asked when she emerged, ready to hit the hay—oh, not a good cliché vis-à-vis their situation. “To pull that off, JR must have something big in the works, and I want to know what it is before we get moving in the morning. I’ll see you then.”
