‘Help me roll him onto his front,’ she instructed anyone who was listening. ‘Ayudar me...rodar...’
‘Leave him, please.’
Isla jerked her head up at the commanding voice, unprepared for the man who was bearing down on her. The cruise ship officer from before—as if her body hadn’t already prickled in awareness. She told herself it was just the heat—the downdraught that his body created as he moved closer—and nothing more.
Her eyes seemed intent on drinking in every inch of him, not least the epaulettes on his shoulders. A senior officer, at that. A first officer—practically the Captain’s right-hand man.
‘I take it he’s one of yours?’ she bit out, furious with herself. ‘Good—you can tell me his name?’
‘He is one of mine,’ First Officer McHotty growled. ‘And he clearly needs a doctor.’
‘I am a doctor.’
‘Is that so?’ He barely paused a fraction of a beat. ‘What I mean is that we have our own doctors to deal with our crew.’
‘Right, but they aren’t here, are they?’ Isla kept her eyes on the patient, her hands finding a good purchase. ‘However, I am here, and he’s bleeding out. So I suggest you help me roll him. And tell me his name. Oh, and what language does he speak?’
She sensed rather than saw the moment of hesitation as McHotty took in the scene for himself, but she was having enough trouble focusing.
Impressive enough from a distance, up close he was also possibly the most breathtaking specimen of a male that Isla thought she’d ever seen, as galling as that was to admit. He wasn’t classically handsome; that would have been too banal for the man. Instead there was an arresting quality about him, from the sharp, square jaw to the blade of a nose. His eyes were the richest, deepest caramel she’d ever seen, with a smokiness to match that raw masculine voice. And his body? Her brain refused to go there—she didn’t even want to start thinking about his body.
It was unfortunate then that her brain didn’t appear to be in control of anything right now. Despite all her silent cerebral protestations, her eyes slid—seemingly of their own volition—to the body crouched down beside her.
The powerful thighs brushing hers, and unwittingly sending little bolts of electricity through her. His pristine uniform clung like a lover to hewn muscle, from strong thighs, to contoured torso, to wide shoulders—no wonder he’d had little trouble besting the brawny would-be fighter.
If the world had stopped spinning, Isla wouldn’t have been all that surprised, and yet the entire interaction took less than a couple of seconds. Nonetheless, it galled her beyond all measure that her mouth felt parched as her eyes drank it all in. As if she’d never seen a man before in her life.
Only, if she were to be honest, she’d certainly never seen a man like this before. Surely the hottest male specimen to have ever walked the planet? And, judging by the doe-eyed females in the crowd, she definitely wasn’t the only one to think it.
Isla thrust the traitorous thought aside and forced her attention back to her unexpected patient.
‘What language, please?’ she repeated, as firmly as she could.
‘His name is Philippe. He can speak English.’
‘Okay, Philippe, I’m Isla, I’m a doctor, I’m here to help you. We’re going to roll you onto your stomach, okay?’ she warned, as McHotty crouched down beside her—so close that it made her feel altogether too many sensations in too many places, the heat seeping from his body into hers playing havoc with her insides.
Then he took the patient, rolling the muscle-bound hulk as if he weighed nothing.
The crowd collectively sucked in a breath.
A long, sharp shard of glass was protruding from the man’s left buttock, blood surrounding the area. There was no doubt that it had severed his superior gluteal artery.
As her new, unwelcome companion grabbed his walkie and issued another irate command for the ship’s doctor, Isla looked around for some material, eventually settling on her own chiffony scarf. Wrapping it around her hand, she prepared to grab the shard.
‘What are you doing now?’ McHotty demanded abruptly, dropping back next to her.
‘I need to remove the glass.’
‘If you remove it, won’t he just bleed all the more? Or can you tourniquet it?’
‘I can’t tourniquet his backside.’ She shook her head, drawing the shard out carefully. ‘And yes, the artery will need occluding.’
‘I suggest you would do better to leave it in place,’ he continued in a voice which bore little resemblance to a suggestion and entirely too much like a command. ‘Certainly until my ship’s doctor arrives.’
This last comment was clearly a slight. She’d heard them before; there was no reason this should rankle more just because it was coming from this stranger.
She forced herself to keep her tone even. ‘Your ship’s doctor is taking their time. Time this patient may not have.’