Master of El Corazon

‘Conor, really, I’m perfectly fine. You don’t have to carry me.’

He glanced down at her. ‘I don’t,’ he said in a tone that she recognised all too well, a tone that said Conor Martinez was in charge and everyone else had better stay out of the way. ‘But I’m going to.’ He smiled a little in a way that softened the hard-edged command. ‘Why don’t you just enjoy the ride, querida?’

She stared into his eyes. They had gone back to the colour of emeralds again, although now that her face was only inches from his she could see that the irises were flecked with gold.

‘Arden.’ His voice was soft. ‘Put your arms around my neck, OK?’

It was such a simple suggestion, but the intimacy in the way he was holding her would somehow be heightened when she looped her arms around him. It was easy, breathtakingly easy, to imagine him carrying her not to her room but to some soft, secret corner of the garden where he would make love to her for hours and hours.

‘Arden?’

His mouth was only inches from hers. A tremor went through her. Yes, she thought, oh, yes ...

She swallowed hard, then did as he’d asked. Conor nodded.

‘Good girl.’

His stride was long and steady; he carried her as if she were weightless. And it felt-it felt wonderful to be in his arms this way, to feel the steady beat of his heart against hers, to smell the early-morning scents of soap, man, and horse, to feel the warmth of his body under her hands.

Her heart gave an unsteady thump. Conor glanced down at her and smiled in a way that made her foolish heart skip a beat again.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll be fine, querida. I would never let anything happen to you.’

But something had already happened to her, and he was the cause of it. Conor was—he was—

Arden screwed her eyes shut. No. No, she wouldn’t think that way.

‘Querida?’ Her eyes flew open. ‘What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?’

Dumbly, she shook her head, then buried her face in Conor’s shoulder as the room tilted. He muttered something harsh and his arms tightened around her as he strode into the house.

‘Inez!’ he roared.

The housekeeper came scurrying into the foyer, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Her dark eyes widened as she took in the scene before her.

‘We need two aspirin. And an icepack,’ Conor barked in Spanish as he mounted the stairs. ‘And phone for the medico. Tell him to come at once!’

Arden’s room was cool and shadowed, the blinds and curtains drawn against the ascending sun. Conor carried her to the bed, sat her down gently and held her in the curve of his arm while he plumped the pillows behind her. Then he eased her back against them and switched on the bedside lamp just as Inez came bustling in with a glass of water, a packet of aspirin, and an ice pack.

‘Gracias, Inez. Now,’ Conor said, ‘let’s get a better look at that bump.’ He clasped Arden’s shoulders, drew her towards him until her head was against his chest. Arden closed her eyes and listened to the steady beat of his heart as he carefully parted her hair with his fingertips, then stroked lightly over the swelling on her skull. ‘Does that hurt?’

It did, a little. But being in his arms more than compensated for the discomfort. His touch was soft and tender, and suddenly she recalled how he’d touched her moments before the accident, his hands moving across her bare breasts and arousing her to hot, honeyed passion...

She scooted back against the pillows. ‘Honestly,’ she said with a shaky laugh, ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Conor smiled. ‘But we’ll let the doctor make it official.’

‘No,’ Arden said quickly. ‘I don’t need a doctor, Conor. If you’d just—’ If you’d just leave me alone, before I make a fool of myself, she thought shakily, but that wasn’t what she said. ‘If you’d just let me get some rest—’

‘Not until after the doctor’s checked you over.’ Frowning, he leaned towards her and framed her face with his hands. ‘Let me see your eyes.’

‘My eyes?’ she repeated foolishly as his face drew level with hers.

‘One of the ways you check for concussion is by seeing how the pupils react to light. Look towards the lamp, please.’

‘Conor, really, my eyes are fine—’

‘They’re not fine.’