by Sarah Morgan
He didn’t care if she thought him rude. Better to be rude now than have to extract himself later.
Another legacy of his marriage was his aversion to over-polished, high-maintenance women. His relationship with Selina had been six months of sex followed by an elaborate wedding and then two years of bitter arguments that had culminated in an acrimonious divorce.
At her insistence he’d attended two sessions of marriage guidance counselling, ostensibly to ‘learn about himself’. What he’d learned was that he didn’t like his wife any more than she liked him.
He’d also learned that he was better off alone.
He was too selfish to make a commitment to a woman.
He liked his life too much to sacrifice it for a relationship.
He glanced across the gallery again. The door remained closed, so he moved on. No doubt they were locked in a romantic moment, promising to love each other for ever.
With time to kill, he prowled around the gallery. He knew Skylar worked in a variety of mediums, but it was only as he studied the pieces on exhibit that he reluctantly began to appreciate the range and extent of her talent.
He paused by a large painting, recognising the rocky coastline of Puffin Island. He was no expert, but even he could see the composition was good. She’d captured the feel of the island perfectly—the sweep of sandy bay, the movement of the sea and the threatening hint of a storm in the sky. Looking at it, he could almost feel the salty spray on his face and hear the plaintive call of the gulls.
He felt a pang of longing for his cottage on the wild north coast of Puffin Island. In a week he’d be going back there, and he’d be staying for a month. Long enough, he hoped, to finish a draft of his book. He was looking forward to the solitude.
The painting had a red sticker, which meant that someone had bought it.
Good choice, he thought, and then he saw the tall, elegant pot in a dazzling shade of cerulean blue placed under a spotlight against a whitewashed wall.
Instantly he was transported to Greece. He could almost feel the heat and smell the scent of wild thyme and jasmine.
Of all the pieces in the room, this was the one he would have chosen to take home. He could see at a glance that its inspiration was a combination of Greek mythology and early Minoan ceramics. Skylar had artfully combined the old with the new and created a piece of startling beauty.
The crowd thinned a little more, but there was still no sign of Skylar.
A movement in the street caught his eye and he saw a tall, dark-haired man stepping into a waiting car.
Recognising him, Alec frowned. Why would Richard Everson be leaving alone?
He waited for Skylar to come running after him, wearing that skin-tight silver dress and a megawatt smile, but the car pulled away with only one passenger.
Ignoring the voice inside him that reminded him it was none of his business, he moved silently across the gallery towards the door he’d seen her enter.
He tapped lightly, received no answer and opened it anyway.
The room was empty.
It was clearly a storeroom. There were paintings against the wall, a table stacked with boxes, and—
A body.
Shit.
‘Skylar?’ In two strides he was by her side. ‘What the hell happened here? Speak to me. Are you—?’
He tilted her face and his hand came away sticky with her blood.
Her beautiful white-blonde hair was streaked with it, her lips bloodless in a face drained of colour.
His heart pounded. Whatever he’d expected to find, it hadn’t been this.
‘Sky? Open your eyes.’
He tried to scoop her up, and then dodged as she swung her fist towards his face.
‘Touch me and I swear the next thing you feel will be my stiletto in your balls.’
She slurred the words and Alec swore under his breath and captured her wrist in his hand before she could do him serious damage.
‘You might want to work on that pick-up line, princess.’
Her eyes fixed on him and focused. Confusion changed to recognition. ‘What are you doing here? Did you come to gloat?’
‘I saw Richard getting into a car and came to check on you. Good thing I did. I’m taking you to hospital.’
Questions rose in his mind. What had happened? Why had Richard Everson walked out, leaving her like this?
He delved in his pocket for his phone. ‘I’m calling an ambulance. And the police. Did he do this?’
‘No. I fell. And I don’t want you to call anyone.’
She struggled to sit up, her efforts giving him a glimpse of long legs and silk underwear.
Her body was the biggest work of art in the place, he thought, and averted his eyes.
It irritated him that he found her attractive.
‘You’ve had a nasty blow to the head. You need to stay where you are.’
‘People need to stop telling me what I need. I know what I need. Crap.’
He turned back to look at her and saw she’d closed her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Do you have a twin? I’m seeing two of you.’
‘That’s not good.’
‘You’re not kidding. One Alec Hunter is bad enough; two is my worst nightmare.’
He took it as a good sign that she recognised him. ‘I’m relieved you’re still able to make a joke.’
‘It’s not a joke.’
He gave a grim laugh. ‘I know I’m not your first choice of rescuer, but unfortunately I’m all there is.’
‘Then it’s a good thing I don’t need rescuing.’
He wondered if she had any idea how badly she was hurt. ‘Let me take a look at your head before you stand up.’
Leaning her back against the leg of the table, he gently moved her hair so that he could take a closer look at her injury. He’d been on expeditions to some of the wildest parts of the world and his first aid skills were more than competent.
‘You don’t need stitches, but you have one hell of a bruise and you might have concussion. I’m taking you to hospital.’
‘I’m not going to hospital. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. They might take a photo.’
He felt a rush of impatience. ‘Don’t worry—you still look beautiful, and I’ll make sure they only get your good side.’
The look she gave him should have fried him to a crisp. ‘I don’t care how I look, dumbass. I care about what questions the press might ask. And I care even more about seeing their theories expounded in public. But it’s always good to know I’m the fortunate beneficiary of your good opinion. You can leave now. I appreciate you checking on me. I hope you break your nose on the way out.’
He breathed deeply. ‘It was a stupid comment. I apologise.’
She gave a weak laugh. ‘Wow! Now I am worried. I’m hallucinating—or hearing voices or something. Because for a moment there I thought I heard you apologise. I don’t suppose you’d do it again? This time on your knees?’ She gave a weak laugh. ‘Just kidding. Go, Alec. You’re done here. Off the hook.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Why? You think I’m vain, a waste of space. Why would you care what happens to me?’ She closed her eyes again. ‘Newsflash: when a girl hits a crappy part of her life she needs friends around her—not someone who is going to make her feel more crappy.’
He ignored that. ‘Do you feel sick?’
‘Yeah, but it will pass as soon as you’ve left. Don’t take it personally. You’re just not my type.’
It was a relief that she could still take a swipe at him.
‘Good to know. Come on, princess, let’s get out of here.’
‘Princess? Did you seriously just call me princess?’ She cracked open one eye. ‘Are you trying to wind me up?’
‘Yes. If you’re spitting mad, at least I know you don’t have brain damage.’
‘You don’t think I have a brain. How can I have brain damage if I don’t have a brain?’
; Her muttered retort was so much in character that his concern eased slightly.
‘In case you do have a brain, we need to get you checked out. If you don’t want an ambulance we can take a taxi.’
‘Why are you helping me? You hate me. Hence the reason you call me princess.’
‘I seem to remember that last time we met you called me an asshole, so you’re not exactly complimentary.’
‘Asshat—not asshole.’
‘I think the exact phrase you used was “Professor Asshat”.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to get a taxi and bring it round to the back entrance. I’ll make sure no one sees you.’
He wondered who she was protecting. Richard Everson or herself?
He stepped out into the snowy street. For once luck was on his side and he hailed a taxi almost immediately. Instructing the driver to wait, he walked back through the rear entrance of the gallery and was surprised to find Skylar standing up and clutching the table for support.
He couldn’t believe she was on her feet. ‘I told you to stay where you were. I’m going to help you.’
‘I don’t need you to help me. My dress is covered in blood. It’s ruined.’
She was shivering, and Alec removed his coat and covered her up.
‘Your dress is the least of your worries.’
‘Not true. We princesses are very particular about how we look. We never know when a handsome prince might come riding by.’
Ignoring the dig, he eyed her bruise. ‘Right now you look more like the heroine from a Hitchcock movie than a princess.’ Her hair was the glistening white-gold of a Caribbean beach in the sunlight. Even streaked with blood, it was her most striking feature.
‘Am I scary?’ She gave a faint smile and let go of the table.
She swayed, and he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the waiting taxi without pausing to ask for permission.
‘Oh, for— Put me down! I can walk.’
‘You’ll fall, and that will draw more attention.’ He tried to ignore the scent of her and the feel of her slender curves.
‘Whatever. If it validates your manhood, go right ahead and sweep me up—if you slip on black ice and put your back out, don’t blame me.’ But she stopped wriggling. ‘This is the point where you tell me I don’t weigh anything.’
He waited a beat. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say you weigh the same as a small hippo.’
‘You have no idea how much I hate you.’
‘I know exactly how much you hate me.’ He lowered her gently on to the seat of the cab. ‘Wait there.’
She eased herself into a more comfortable position.
‘Where are you going? To find a chiropractor?’
He didn’t bother holding back the smile. ‘I’m going to tell a few lies about where you are.’
Alec strode back into the gallery, found the owner, made up something that he hoped sounded plausible, picked up Skylar’s coat and bag and joined her in the taxi.
The driver looked at him expectantly. ‘Where to, mate?’
It was a question he hadn’t considered until now.
Alec looked at Sky. Her eyes were closed, the livid bruising darkening before his eyes.
‘Sky?’
She didn’t move.
His instinct was to ask the driver to deliver them to the nearest emergency department, but she’d begged him not to, and he understood now that it was because she didn’t want to risk the publicity.
He didn’t even know where she was staying. Was she checked into a hotel somewhere with Richard Everson?
‘Sky?’ He nudged her and her eyes opened slowly, as if she had lead weights attached to her eyelids.
‘Go away. I’m going to sleep—probably for a hundred years—and if you kiss me to wake me up I’ll kill you.’
Her eyes drifted shut again and Alec leaned his head back against the seat, wondering what he’d done to deserve this. He was kind to old ladies, and tried never to forget his mother’s birthday, but apparently someone still thought he needed to be punished.
Unable to come up with a viable alternative, he reluctantly gave the address of his own hotel.
The cab driver did a U-turn and Skylar’s head flopped against his shoulder. Alec tried to shift her away, but her body settled against his as if it had been custom designed to fit.
The only way to stop her sliding off the seat was to put his arm around her, and he did that with the same degree of enthusiasm he displayed when completing his tax return.
The coat he’d lent her was open at the front, and he saw that the silver fabric of her incredible dress clung to her curves like a body stocking. A perfectly wrapped Christmas parcel.
She had the face and the body of a Victoria’s Secret model.
He imagined unzipping that dress and revealing those curves and quickly averted his eyes.
No way.
Not only was she injured, and involved with someone else, but their relationship bordered on the adversarial.
Who was he kidding? They didn’t have a relationship.
So why did he suddenly want to strip her naked and bone her into next week?
What the hell was wrong with him?
Given the circumstances, his response bordered on the depraved, but knowing that seemed to make no difference. His body was a throbbing ache. He tried again to ease away from her, but she nestled into him. Immediately he was engulfed by the light, fresh scent of flowers.
He glanced down again, seeing the shimmer of her nails and the elaborate silver cuff on her narrow wrist that was obviously one of her own unique designs, forcing himself to admit the truth: he was turned on by a woman who set off every alarm in his body. The type of high-maintenance female he went out of his way to avoid.
And he was taking her back to his hotel room.
Last time he’d helped a woman in trouble it had ended badly.
He hoped the mini-bar was well stocked, because he was going to need every bottle in the fridge to get through the next few hours.
Merry Christmas, Alec.
ISBN: 978-1-474-03091-5
SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL
© 2015 Sarah Morgan
Published in Great Britain 2015
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
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erful
