"Huh?"
"Hold your breath." Before he could draw a sufficient one, she tipped the bottle and drizzled the liquor over the cut.
He blasted the four walls with words unfit to be spoken aloud, much less shouted. "Oh God, oh hell, oh—"
"Your language isn't becoming to a gentleman, Mr. Tyler."
"I'm gonna murder you. Stop pouring that stuff— Agh!"
"You're acting like a big baby."
"What the hell are you trying to do, scald me?"
"Kill the germs."
"Damn! It's killing me. Do something. Blow on it."
"That only causes germs to spread."
"Blow on it!"
She bent her head over his middle and blew gently along the cut. Her breath fanned his skin and cooled the stinging whiskey in the open wound. Droplets of it had collected in the satiny stripe of hair beneath his navel. Rivulets trickled beneath the waistband of his jeans. She blotted at them with her fingertips; then, without thinking, licked the liquor off her own skin. When she realized what she'd done, she sprang upright. "Better now?" she asked huskily.
When Lucky's blue eyes connected with hers, it was like completing an electric circuit. The atmosphere crackled. Matching her husky tone of voice, he said, "Yeah, much better. But warn me next time, okay?"
"I think that'll be enough to prevent any infection."
"I'd rather have risked infection. Although," he added in a low voice, "having you blow on me was worth it."
Because that flustered her, she raised her militant shield again. "Your eye looks terrible." The steak was now lying on the pillow where it had tumbled when she surprised him with her whiskey disinfectant. She picked it up by her thumb and index finger, holding it at arm's length. "This thing stinks to high heaven." Returning it to the Styrofoam tray, she rewrapped it in its plastic covering and tossed it into the trash can. "Stay where you are. I'll go get some ice."
Taking the plastic bucket with her, she left the room. Lucky liked the rear view of her too. Nice calves, nice bottom. If he didn't feel so bad…
But he did. During the fight, a rush of adrenaline had prevented him from feeling every punch. Now he was beginning to bruise in places he didn't even remember getting struck. His head was throbbing. He was feeling woozy, too, probably from the combination of the aspirin and that last shot of whiskey.
So while the thought of thawing Dovey was enthralling, he had to be content to fantasize. He certainly wasn't in any physical condition to take it further.
She returned with a bucket of ice, and filled the center of another washcloth
with a scoop of small cubes. Knotting the corners over it, she brought it back to the bed and gently laid the makeshift ice pack on his eye.
"Thanks," he mumbled sleepily, realizing that he might be a little drunk as well as hurt. Her hand felt so comforting and cool, the way his mother's always had whenever he was sick with fever. He captured Dovey's hand with his and pressed it against his hot cheek. She withdrew it and, in a schoolmarm's voice, said, "You can stay only until the swelling goes down."
A crude comeback sprang into his mind, but he resisted saying it. She wouldn't appreciate the bawdy comment right now. Besides, a reference to another swollen member of his body might be the very thing that would cause her to kick him out.
"I don't think I'll be going anywhere a-tall tonight," he said. "I feel like hell. This is all I want to do. Lie here. Real still and quiet."
"Good idea. You can have this room. I'll get another one."
"No!" he cried, dislodging his ice pack. "I mean, I can't take your room."
"Don't worry about it. It's paid for. It's the least I can do after what you did for me this afternoon."
"I'm not worried about finances," he said sharply. "But at least now you're admitting that I rescued you from Little Alvin and Jack Ed."
"Just so you could put in your bid for me?"
"Huh?"