No, God. God, please—
Screaming for her life, she stomped on the brake.
It was already too late.
Chapter Three
In the space between when he opened his mouth to shout “Nooo!” and when the last of his voice was swallowed up by the wind’s fury, the hundred-year-old oak that Sandro had climbed as a boy and loved his entire life reached out to swallow Skylar’s car whole.
Which was further proof that horror caught up with him, even when he wasn’t at war.
And here he’d thought he’d seen the worst sights the universe had to offer back in Afghanistan: a new widow, collapsing to the cold and muddy ground, screaming for her husband; the remnants of a suicide bomber who had, seconds before, been a teenage kid without enough fuzz to justify a shave; a blood-matted dog crawling by the side of the road, whining for help that would never come.
Yeah, that was bad.
This was worse.
He’d opened his mouth and spewed venom. His actions had led to reckless behavior. Thanks to him, someone was hurt, possibly dead.
But not beautiful Skylar, God. Not her.
He sprinted flat-out, propelled by the unmistakable pop of her air bag and the endless blare of her horn, his arms and legs pumping so hard he could almost feel the sinew ripping from the bone.
And then he was there, at the car, only he couldn’t get anywhere near it because that fucking tree had her caught in its lush green clutches and didn’t look like it’d let her go without the threat of a chainsaw.
“Skylar!” he shouted, desperate to see her through the leaves and the water sluicing down the driver’s side window. There was no breath in his lungs and his throat seemed to have tightened down to the size of a needle, but her name kept pouring out of him. “Skylar!”
He dove in through the branches, oblivious to their clawing scrapes as they sliced through his skin. There was a ripping sound—his shirt, maybe—and then the searing heat of something trickling down his side and arm mixed with the cold rain. A final lunge and he had the handle in his hand. A flick of his wrist and the dented door gave way with a resistant squeal, revealing, among other things, a mess of car innards that obscured her lower body.
“Skylar!”
A moan answered him.
She was alive.
A shudder of relief loosened some of the strain through his shoulders, letting him think more clearly.
Okay, soldier. Assess the situation.
She was leaning back against the headrest, soaking wet, panting and shaking, either with shock or cold. A trickle of blood ran down one temple as she struggled against the air bag and turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were glazed but she’d had the sense to put on her seat belt before she did her bat-out-of-hell routine.
“Jesus.” He looked her up and down in a grim search for more serious injuries. “Are you okay?”
Her mouth worked, trying to form words around her chattering teeth. She seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“I th-think so.”
“Let’s get you out of here.”
He reached for the seat belt, which was lashed so tight across her body it was a wonder she hadn’t been sliced on the diagonal.
If he could just—
That lush mouth of hers firmed into a mulish line and she batted his hands away.
“I’m n-not going anywhere with you.”
Yeah, okay. He deserved that and more. But still—
“You can’t stay here.”
“T-try me.”
He stared at her, studying the fine arch of her brows, the perky tip of her nose, the prominent apples of her cheeks, the dimple on the right side of that mouth and the quiet strength and pride.
She was something, all right. Really something.
But of course he’d known that since he first laid eyes on her.
He opened his mouth, I’m sorry and please forgive me on the tip of his tongue. Both trapped, as usual, behind that wall he could never climb.
“I’m—” he began.
“A b-bastard?” she said. “A mean SOB? A jackass?”
“All of that.” His voice went hoarse with shame. “More.”
“I’m not a bad person.”
“I know.”
He really did know. No one could see her wounded pride and dignity in the face of fire and think otherwise. And those accusations he’d thrown at her back in the house? Defense mechanisms, pure and simple, all designed to get rid of her as soon as possible. Because it was dishonorable to look at the woman his dead brother had wanted to marry and wonder what her mouth tasted like and how loud and hot he could get her if he pressed his tongue to the sweet spot between her thighs.
He’d never been a dishonorable man. He wasn’t going to start now.
“I’m sorry, Skylar.”
“A-are you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She shivered again, reminding him that he needed to get her inside and warm, needed to have a doctor check her for injuries. “D-do you think you could get me out of here?”
“Yeah.” Reaching for her, he took her smaller hand in his, marveling at its softness and strength. Touching his dead brother’s ex-fiancée felt good. Really good. Too good. “I can do that.”
“Hurry.”
“Call 9-1-1,” he yelled at the already soaked Mickey, who maintained his vigil atop the front steps.
Mickey waved to let him know he’d heard, then disappeared back into the house.
Now Sandro had a choice to make at this crucial juncture.
Follow the basic rule of trauma injuries and leave her where she was until official help came, or try to get her out himself.
Taking a quick glance at the holy hell unleashed all around him, he decided that they could call for help all they wanted to, but that didn’t mean it’d get there anytime soon.
Since she didn’t seem to have any spinal injuries, he decided he’d get her out himself. And while he did that, he’d pray that he wasn’t exacerbating any hidden but dire internal injuries she may have.
Great. He had a plan.
Only the damn car didn’t want to let her go. Or maybe the killer tree was to blame. All Sandro knew was that what had formerly been the dashboard was now crushed and pressed down around Skylar’s lap, refusing to budge, and the more he couldn’t free her, the more panicked he became.
Since it wouldn’t do her any good if he hyperventilated and passed out, he worked hard to look upbeat and unconcerned even though his heart was now chugging at a thousand beats per minute.
“Can you lean this way for me, Skylar? I’m going to reach under your arms and try to pull you out, okay? Skylar? Do you hear me?”
Still panting and shivering—actually, the shivering had now progressed to shaking, which was another reason for him to freak the hell out—she tipped her head up to look at him. The glazed layer was thicker over her eyes now, as though shock meant to lure her away from him and into some abyss.
“Skylar,” he barked, fighting the growing terror. “Focus. Stay with me.”
“I’m… I’m with you.”
She claimed she was with him, yeah, but her voice was other-side-of-the-crypt weak, and that was not reassuring.
“Lift your arms for me. Lean toward me. Can you do that?”
She tried, twisting at the waist and raising her arms with slow effort, as though each one weighed fifty pounds.
That was the best she could do, apparently.
She couldn’t free herself and couldn’t help him any more than that.
He didn’t have to be a medical genius to know that his time was running out. The ongoing lightning strikes illuminated her face enough for him to see that it was dull and colorless. This, in turn, opened up a whole new universe of fear.
What if she had a serious head injury? What the hell would he do then?
Hesitating, he weighed his options one more time. A quick glance at the sky revealed a swirling vortex that, with his luck, sig
naled the apocalypse, and a second glance at the monster tree across the road confirmed the worst. They weren’t getting out of here tonight and, unless the Navy sailed a cruiser up the coast right off the house and deployed a SEAL team to come ashore, no one was getting in to provide any medical treatment, either. Not tonight, anyway, and maybe not for days.
It was up to him.
Trying to be as gentle as possible, he put his hands under her arms and eased her…slowly…slowly…around and toward him, pulling her until her back was to his front and he could lock his arms around her chest and get more leverage. She squirmed a little, as though she wanted to help, but her head lolled and she was mostly deadweight.
Still, this was progress, and her upper body was pretty much clear.
“You okay?” he asked in her ear.
She stirred. “N-never…better.”
That cut through his fear just enough to make him grin. He had a tough one here. Pressing his face to her cheek—there was still some warmth to her flesh, thank goodness—he gave her a quick kiss, for luck.
“You’re awfully brave, ma’am. You sure you’re not a soldier?”
“J-just get me out of here.”
“Hold on.”
Planting his feet wide, trying to get some traction, he pulled. To his grateful astonishment, he felt the slide of her body, inch by slow inch, and he took one step back…another…and her hips and thighs were off the seat and out of the car and she was almost free—
She shrieked, letting loose the kind of high-pitched yell of pain he hadn’t heard since he left Afghanistan. Cursing himself, he eased up, ready to put her back on the seat and go at this another way, when she surprised him.
Twisting just enough at the waist, she wriggled and—
That was it. She was free.
He staggered, adjusting to her full weight. A shout of triumph rose to his lips and died a swift death when he saw her lower legs.
Oh, no.
Right leg? Kicking and scrambling for purchase on the cobblestones, trying to get her upright on her own steam.
Left leg? Stiff and lifeless, a mess of torn jeans and dark wet that could only be blood.
“You’re hurt, Sky,” he told her, shifting his grip to her waist and helping her put her arm around his neck.
“Really?” she breathed, her face twisted against the pelting rain and the pain. “That must explain the blinding agony in my leg.”
The sarcasm told him she was still coherent, which in turn told him that she might not have hit her head that hard, but this was no time for jokes. Who knew how much blood she’d lost already? He had to get her inside.
“I’ll carry you.”
“I can manage.”
“Stubborn, much?”
Opening her eyes, she managed a steely glare.
“Fine,” he snapped, tightening his grip on her waist and jerking his head in the direction of the house, which now seemed to be a good three miles away, if not farther. “Be my guest.”
Because he knew her dignity demanded it, he held on and kept his mouth shut while she let her bad leg drag and tried to hobble on the good leg. Hell, he even let her try another step, just to show how evolved he was. But on the third hopping lurch, she cried out again, a sharp yelp of pain that felt like it’d been ripped from his own soul, and that was when he hit his limit.
Enough was enough.
Without comment, he swung her off her feet and into his arms as easily as he could, which wasn’t easy enough. But at least they were moving now and he wouldn’t have to make any more abrupt movements.
She moaned, her head dropping back over the crook in his elbow, but her hand went behind his neck and she held on tight.
“See?” she croaked. “I told you I could do it.”
“You sure showed me.”
He hurried as fast as he dared, only his fear of slipping on the wet cobblestones keeping him from breaking into a run. Luckily, she wasn’t that heavy, or maybe his adrenaline had kicked so far into overdrive that it didn’t matter how heavy she was.
With the way he felt right now?
He could lift the tail end of a 747 if that was what it took to get Skylar free.
He took the shallow front steps two at a time and banged through the door and into the foyer, where Mickey, who’d been watching anxiously, waited for him.
“Nice save, boss.”
“She ain’t saved yet, man.” Sandro headed down the hall toward the study with Mickey hot on his heels, arms pumping the wheels of his chair. They were halfway there before it dawned on him that he couldn’t see a damn thing. “What’d you do to the lights?”
“Tree took the power out,” Mickey said.
“That tree wasn’t messing around,” Sandro muttered.
“You got that right,” Skylar said.
“And the mural’s ruined. A window broke and the rain’s splattering it right now,” Mickey added.
Sandro never broke stride.
“We’ve got bigger problems to deal with right now than losing my mother’s Greek mural.”
“Greek?” Skylar said, wincing against the pain.
“She was a Greek scholar,” Sandro said. “Hence, the names.”
“I know.” She sagged into him, her strength exhausted and her head lolling.
“Uh, oh,” Sandro muttered. “Hurry, Mick.”
Mickey sped ahead, lighting the way with a couple of super-bright, battery-operated lanterns that he’d found somewhere, and arrived in the study first. Sliding the coffee table out of the way, he arranged a couple pillows and made room for Sandro to lay Skylar across the leather sofa.
Moving with the care of someone defusing a roadside bomb near an orphanage, Sandro lowered her, fully willing to die before he caused her any more pain. At last she was settled. He let her go and she dropped her arms, collapsing with palpable relief. Her eyes closed and she didn’t move, although her chest continued to heave with effort.
He wondered again about internal injuries.
That was when his training kicked in. It was showing up pretty late today, all things considered, but better late than never. He was no stranger to crises, and he could handle this one.
Even if he was dripping with clammy sweat despite the frigid rain.
Turning away from Skylar’s face, which was contorting again with pain, he focused on Mickey.
“Digital phone went out with the power, right?”
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “And my piece-of-shit cell’s got no signal.”
Sandro checked his own phone. Same deal.
This was bad news. They wouldn’t be calling any medical help lines to speak to a nurse tonight, would they?
“I figured.” He flashed Mickey a grim smile. “You don’t have any training in triage, do you?”
One corner of Mickey’s mouth hitched up, and he snorted. “Not me. I faint at the sight of blood. Why don’t I just call for a corpsman? That’s what they do in all the old war movies.”
“I knew I could count on you in a tough spot.”
“What can I do you for?”
“I’m going to need the first-aid kit and that bottle of Percocet in my medicine cabinet—”
Skylar stirred, frowning. “I’m not taking that.”
Unbelievable. Sandro glowered down at her. “You’ll take it.”
Those eyes of hers blinked open, a flare of brown fire. “I don’t need it.”
“You’ll need it when I have to cut off your jeans and see what that leg looks like.”
“You’re not cutting my jeans off—”
He turned back to Mickey, ignoring the rest of her protest.
“Get some blankets, too, and, hell, an extra belt or something. We may need to make a tourniquet. Scissors. Maybe some ice for her head. And the scotch. We’ll need plenty of scotch—”
“You want me to drink scotch with Percocet?” Skylar asked.
“The scotch is for us. How else are we going to get through the night dealing with you? That’
s it for now, Mick. Thanks.”
“You got it. And here’s a blanket to get you started.” Mickey tossed over a soft throw from one of the armchairs, left one of the lanterns on the coffee table, and rolled out of the room at top speed, disappearing into the darkness.
Sandro stared down at the patient, who stared back up at him, looking sulky and wary.
“What?” she demanded.
Sandro felt his mouth curl with unwilling amusement.
“You need to check your attitude. I outweigh you by about a hundred pounds, in case you didn’t notice.” He paused to give her time to argue, but she didn’t. “Right. I want to check your abdomen for internal injuries. I want to make sure that seat belt didn’t do any damage.”
“I’m fine. And you’ve got no medical training.”
“I’ve got enough medical training to see if your belly’s swollen.”
“It’s not. And we’re stuck here anyway, so what would—”
“I’d go for help, that’s what.”
This prospect seemed to take some of the vinegar out of her. She gasped.
“It’s not safe out there—”
“I know it’s not safe, which is why I’m not thrilled about going back out in the storm, but I’m happy to do it if the seat belt sliced your liver in half. So why don’t you let me check your belly and we can move on to bickering about another one of your body parts?”
“Fine.” Closing her eyes again, she jerked up the bottom of her coat and peeled back her shirt, revealing a wide swath of smooth flesh between the bottom of her black—black! —bra and the top of her low-riding jeans. “Hurry. I’m tired.”
Riveted by the sight of that caramel skin, Sandro experienced a flash of temporary paralysis. This was an emergency, true, but he’d have to be dead and cremated, with his ashes scattered to the four winds, not to notice the curve of waist as it flared to her hips, or the tautness of her abdomen, or the dip of her belly button, which, let’s face it, would be a fine place for a man’s tongue to explore.
Blinking, he recovered quickly and sat at her hip, facing her.
Right. Check for swelling, Davies.
Pressing firmly in what he hoped was a reasonable version of palpating, he made his systematic way from one side to the other, checking for sore or swollen spots and trying to ignore the sweet softness of her warm flesh.
Sinful Seduction Page 3
