“Any idea what was used?”
“Used?”
“What kind of ink?”
“No.” He cleared his throat before going on. “Tattoo ink, I guess.”
“They protect your eyes while they did this?” she asked, and he snorted in response.
“Not exactly.”
“Did you consent to having your eyelids tattooed?” she asked, knowing this wasn’t the sort of question you asked a man this big, this badass.
His eyes shot open, and George fought not to step back.
Oh dear God, his face.
“Have we met before?” she asked, wondering where she’d seen those eyes; the high, flat cheekbones; the perfectly shaped mouth outlined by dark stubble that made her fingers itch disconcertingly.
“Don’t think so, Doc. I’d remember if we had.”
George blushed at what she thought might be a compliment even as she continued to study him.
Those wide cheekbones, a sharp nose, and an obstinate-looking jaw made her think this wasn’t a man who’d easily ask for help. Layered over his striking features were the ravages of life: those lids marred by black ink, a scar bisecting a cheek and disappearing into short, dark hair.
But most intimidating—and appealing—of all, were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, perfectly in keeping with those dark looks. They were wide and hard. Just like the rest of him, she thought, with a hiccup of something sharp and hot and previously dormant in her abdomen.
“You have others?” she asked, ignoring the unwanted twinge with a quick step back.
She wouldn’t allow herself even a glance as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. She saw the ink on his arms only peripherally, barely looked at how it contrasted so dramatically with the bright-white cotton of his T-shirt. He reached to take that off too, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm, immediately removed.
His golden skin was covered in tattoos, starting at his hands and crawling over solid shoulders to seep through his tee, dark enough to look like a design on the surface of the white cotton. He was wide, his arms long and strong-looking. She didn’t say anything for a time, caught up in ink and muscles and the crisp-looking hair of his forearms.
He finally broke the silence. “You get it now?”
“I’m sorry?”
He fisted his hands, knuckles up. “Kinda urgent. Ma’am.”
Ma’am. She hadn’t been called that in ages. It made her feel like she’d been bad, chastened—the way she’d felt the one and only time she’d gotten pulled over for speeding.
“I see.”
“Can we get started today? I’m on a bit of a deadline.”
She considered it, her feelings divided. On the one hand, she had the perfectly normal urge to make him better, to help. But on the other hand was this overwhelming whoosh of something…uncomfortable, disconcerting.
Attraction? Was that it? It had been so long since George had felt anything even remotely physical toward a man that she wouldn’t recognize it if it came in and bopped her on the head. Or punched her in the gut, more likely.
She shouldn’t bring this man into the back with her. Shouldn’t be able to picture him splayed across an examination table, shouldn’t feel the need to get a closer look, inviting intimacies with just the two of them here—all alone in the clinic with this beast of a man. Not only that, but once most patients found out how much it cost to get their ink removed, as opposed to put on, they got angry.
Would this man get angry? She narrowed her eyes at him, trying hard to picture that.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr.—”
“Blane. Andrew Blane.”
“Mr. Blane, I’m alone here as you can see and—”
“Look, Ms.…”
“Doctor. It’s Dr. Hadley.”
“Right. Doctor. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay whatever it takes. I’ve just got to get these taken off. The sooner the better.”
“I understand it’s urgent, Mr. Blane, but tattoo removal is a long process. It’s never instantaneous. And, even so, I can’t guarantee that you’ll—”
“Please. Please, Doctor.” The words, even in that low, coffee-rich voice, reeked of desperation.
And George Hadley was a sucker for desperation.
She glanced again at his face and saw, besides the obvious, no real threat there. Yes, he was big, tattooed, and scarred, leaning on the counter, hands thick and capable-looking, but his vibe wasn’t threatening.
With a sigh, she stood up and, as much as she could with their disparate heights, spoke directly to him. “You’re an intimidating man, Mr. Blane. Forgive my hesitation.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked in a voice too low to be hers.
A corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, and George had to look away from a smile that was positively annihilating.
“Yes, Doctor. I promise you’re safe with me.”
“All right, then, Mr. Blane. Let’s get you taken care of. You can fill in the paperwork while I get things set up.”
In an effort to recoup some sense of professionalism, she grabbed a new client packet and pushed through the swinging door, holding it open for him and then going back at the last minute to grab her lab coat off Cindy’s chair.
* * *
Clay watched as the doctor moved around the room, setting things up quickly and efficiently. That was how she appeared—like someone who didn’t waste extraneous time on things. That hair, short and blond, looked easy to maintain rather than stylish, and her face was devoid of makeup. All business, which he kind of liked. And fresh in a way he didn’t think he’d ever seen in real life. Fresh like a shampoo commercial or toothpaste. Only real.
And the way she looked at him… When was the last time someone had looked at him like that? Like he was just a guy. A patient. A man. In the hospital, he’d been an agent, under heavy guard, riddled with bullets, fighting for his life. But even the nurses and docs who knew exactly why he was there gave him a wide berth. Because of how he looked.
Bullshit. It wasn’t his looks; it was his demeanor. No matter where you came from, spending every waking hour as a dirty-ass biker rubbed off on you eventually. But this woman—
With a loud crack, the doctor pulled one of those sheets of paper over the exam table and tore it, breaking through his thoughts, then washed her hands at a sink before settling onto a stool and rolling it over to his side.
Even with those beads of sweat collecting along her hairline, she looked smart and in control. Not the kind of chick who’d ever touch him under normal circumstances.
“Okay,” she said, gathering the papers in front of her like a shield. “I’ll have the receptionist get anything we miss here today. She can also deal with payment next time you come in.”
“Don’t have insurance,” he said, thankful but surprised she’d actually agreed to take him in, alone like this. “Filled those papers in, but if we could…you know, keep this on the down low, I’d be grateful.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flew up to his, full of concern. “Are you in trouble?”
“I can pay. Just rather keep this quiet.” He swallowed, reading her as too much of a straight shooter to go for it. “If you don’t mind.”
After a quick scan of his body, she looked at him again, everything about her serious. Whatever she saw must have decided her, because she grabbed the papers he’d just spent five minutes filling out with bullshit and ripped them in half before throwing them into the trash. Clay’s brows lifted in surprise. Maybe not quite the Goody Two-Shoes he’d taken her for.
“Okay, Mr. Blane. Let’s see what we’re working with here.” Her eyes ran up his arms. She was clinical now, in charge. “You want all of these removed?”
“No, ma’am. I’m keeping the sleeves.” He indicated his face
. “But I could use some help with these.”
“Right. The eyes.” She slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses—sexy ones that framed her eyes, spotlighted the bright-green irises that he only now noticed—and stood, leaning in to stare at the ink on his eyelids. The neckline of her lab coat sagged enough for him to catch a glimpse of the skimpy tank top beneath. He ignored it, instead concentrating on her face, a perfect distraction from thoughts of the two deadly numbers etched onto his lids.
“It’s a relief you only want a few of these gone. You’ve got so much ink on those arms, we’d be here for years.” One small, white hand reached out, cupped the side of his face, and pulled at his skin. Firm and painfully gentle.
Trying not to breathe her in, Clay averted his gaze. None of the nurses in the hospital had looked at him with this much kindness. It made his throat hurt.
“These are quite crudely done.”
“Ya think?”
She glanced at him, eyes wide with surprise, and he pulled it back. No point offending the person he’d come to for help. Why was he being an asshole?
Because she’s pretty and nice, and I’m not used to that.
“Sorry. So, these too.” He held up his hands, baring knuckles that had seen better days—knuckles that itched with the ink of his enemies. Ink that couldn’t disappear fast enough, as far as he was concerned. One hand went to his neck. “This one and a few more.”
“Good. Black is good. And prison-style tattoos like this are generally easier to get rid of than professional work, so…I know it might not feel that way, but it’s actually a positive.” She smiled, cleared her throat, met his eyes, and held them. “I work with a lot of people who’ve been through some…hard times, Mr. Blane. And you…are you okay?”
“What? Yeah. Great,” he lied.
“I don’t want to pry, but if you’re in trouble… If you need help at all—” Her hand landed on his arm, soft and comforting, and something tightened in his throat before he shook it off.
“I’m fine.”
There were a couple of beats of quiet breathing as her eyes searched his. She was close to him now, lips compressed in a straight, serious line, and he could feel her wondering. Jesus, this was a mistake. He should go, before she freaked out and called the cops, who’d fuck everything up. “Where else, Mr. Blane?”
She sat back down and rolled a couple of feet away. When he caught her eye, expecting judgment, he was surprised to find more of that unbearable empathy.
In response, Clay stood up and pulled off his wife beater, looked straight ahead, and braced himself for the real judgment.
* * *
Before she could stop it, a startled oh escaped George’s mouth.
He was beautiful. Beautiful but tragic, his skin a patchwork of scars, old and fresh alike, intersected by ink that ran the gamut from decorative to distressing. After a few seconds, she felt the awkward imbalance of their positions and stood, which still put her only about chest high.
His was a chest unlike any she’d had the pleasure of seeing. Beyond the obvious—the ink and the damage—his shape appealed on a level her brain couldn’t even begin to understand, but her body seemed quite eager to explore. She eyed his pectorals, curved and strong-looking, solid and sprinkled with a smattering of hair, and that vertical indentation in the middle, just begging a women to slide her nose in there, to run it up to a finely delineated set of clavicles, where she knew he’d smell like man, and down to the apex of a rib cage and belly carved in bone and muscle and sinew. She wondered how he’d gotten all that strength and unconsciously lifted a hand to touch…
With a start, George pulled herself back to the room, to her job, to her livelihood, for God’s sake, and felt her face go hot.
Dear God, my ovaries are taking over.
Take George’s professional trappings away from her—things like paper gowns and background music and attending nurses—and you might as well throw her into a barnyard or a zoo or whatever uncivilized place her overheated brain had escaped to.
This is a patient, she firmly reminded herself.
Not a man. A patient.
She cleared her throat, pushed her glasses farther up her nose, and leaned in. Still too close, too much. She thought she could smell him. Probably his deodorant, although it was more animal than chemical—very light, but inevitable in the stifling heat—and a hint of something less healthy. Alcohol?
“Please take a seat on the table, Mr. Blane.” There, that would give her some much-needed distance. Doctor, meet patient. She waited as he stepped up effortlessly and settled himself with a crinkle of paper, perfect muscles shifting under tragic skin.
Burns and battle scars. Even the tattoos.
Most weren’t professionally done, except for the arms and one word she could see, curved at the top of his chest in scrolled lettering that skimmed his collarbones. Mercy, an oddly poignant blazon fluttering above the mess beneath.
“This one looks professional,” she said, reaching out toward the letters before stopping herself, her finger almost close enough to touch the crisp-looking hair. She’d have to touch him eventually, she knew. But better to do it with gloves on, laser in hand.
“That stays.”
Good, she thought, with the strangest sense of letting go inside. Just a tiny slide into relief that the man wasn’t all blades and bared teeth.
“And like I said, I’m keeping the sleeves. They’re…mine. Except for the clock.” He touched his wrist. “We can get rid of that.”
His hand moved to his chest, and he rubbed himself there. The move seemed unconscious, mesmerizing, the sound of his hand rasping over hair loud in the quiet room.
Mercy. What a strange banner for a man who looked like he’d been spared nothing.
“Got it. Keep Mercy and the arms,” she said with an attempt at a smile. She eyed those arms, where death and destruction appeared to play the starring role. A skull, covered in some kind of cowl with a scythe and what looked like oversize earrings, took up his right forearm. Higher, from shoulder to elbow, leered a mask, Mayan or Inca, and perfectly in keeping with his chiseled face. The other arm had darker imagery: a kilted man with a sword, wreaking havoc on what looked like a big wolf. A griffon sat, claws sharp and deadly, and around all of the violence, rooted in the clear-cut line of his wrist, was a complicated design made up of knots and what she thought were Celtic symbols. Crowning it all, an oversize cross covered his entire shoulder, overflowing into the ink on his chest and back, connecting the Mercy in front to his back.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Doctor, she almost wanted to correct him, because anything was better than ma’am. It sounded old, dried-up, sexless, which, on second thought, was probably more than appropriate. Although she didn’t feel sexless right now.
Christ, not at all.
For each tattoo, she went through her usual questions: How long ago had he gotten it? Had it faded? Was it professional? What kind of ink was used?
He didn’t know about the ink for two of them—the eyelids and knuckles—which wasn’t good. She’d had people come in with tattoos made from soot—a lot of those ex-cons—but his didn’t look quite so crude. People would use anything, anything at all, on themselves and each other. She’d once had a patient whose “ink” had been made from melted car tires. The memory made her shiver.
George glanced up to find him looking at her, his attention intimidating in its focus.
She ignored it. Back to his body.
Around his neck curved a black spiderweb, its lines thin and delicate, unlike the heavier areas where no ink had been spared.
“This should be faster than some of the others. The black and the…” She leaned in. “Huh. It looks sketched in. Very light. Interesting how shallow this one is. Looks professional.” Which was weird for a prison tattoo. She’d seen spiderwebs like this before, and they were a
ll prison tattoos.
He nodded, didn’t appear surprised in the least, and quirked that eyebrow again—his version of a smile. “Good eye, Doc.”
“And the rest? You want those gone?”
“All of ’em.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.”
“Don’t mind.”
Across his body, front to back, her gaze traveled, taking in every pit, every crag, every heartbreaking curve. What a tragic story—she’d seen bits and pieces of ones like it, but this—
Her eyes landed on a swath of discolored flesh marring his side—a burn, if she wasn’t mistaken—an elongated triangle, curved at the top like an—
“Oh no,” she gasped before her hand flew to her mouth to cover it. An iron. He’d been burned with an iron, the skin melted. “Who did this to you, Mr. Blane?”
When he didn’t answer, she went on, cowed and embarrassed at her outburst. She should be professional, should keep her shock to herself. Lord, if she couldn’t control herself enough to do that, she shouldn’t be seeing patients at all, should she?
Okay. Slow down, concentrate. In an attempt to control her breathing, to rein in her pulse, she closed her eyes.
Now. Open, professional, serene.
She continued cataloging the man’s sufferings. On his back were two perfectly round scars. Don’t react. Be a doctor. She kept her voice calm, steady when she said, “You’ve been shot.” In the back. “Are you safe now, Mr. Blane?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need help? There are people who—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupted, his voice harsh, the subtext screaming that she’d better let it rest.
After a few beats, she continued her perusal. An S, as intricate as the letters on his chest, but not nearly as dark, followed by a scrolled M along his spine and a C on his right shoulder blade, with a complicated set of symbols in between—a triangle, arrows, an eagle, a river. A skull. The whole thing making up a deadly coat of arms.
“They really laid it on here.” Her hand skimmed the picture, gently, barely touching. With a shake of her head, she went on. “I’ll be honest with you. This is a lot of ink. It’s going to take months, with gaps in between to heal. And it’s going to hurt. This red here, that’s not good. Red’s a lot harder to get rid of. The particles don’t break down as easily and—”
By Her Touch Page 2
