“No, thank you,” he said, sounding horrified. “I can manage a field dressing as well as anyone, and if the bullet hit anything vital the wound would be hurting a lot more and I’d be doing a lot less. Just go in the bathroom and change into your clothes so I can get on with it.”
She wanted to call his bluff, strip off the sheet and take her time putting the new clothes on, but there were some things even she was afraid of. Whether she was afraid of what he’d do, or what he wouldn’t do, she couldn’t be certain.
She grabbed the bag, holding the sheet around her, and marched to the bathroom, doing her best to ignore him as he sat on his own bed and began to peel off the stolen jacket gingerly.
He’d shown a decided lack of imagination when he’d been at the discount store, and she could only be glad. Plain cotton underpants and bra, two sets, a pair of jeans, a couple of plain T-shirts and a zippered sweatshirt. Socks and sneakers as well. She hadn’t worn clothes like these since she’d lived in upstate New York. She’d forgotten how comfortable they could be, even starchy and brand new. For the first time in years she felt like herself.
He’d even brought her a toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb and brush. She could almost be grateful, if she weren’t so busy being annoyed at how exact he’d been on guessing her measurements, including her size ten feet. She managed to get the comb through her tangles, and simply braided her hair once more. Long hair was great when you had a stylist on Park Avenue and time enough to fuss with it. Not so good when you were on the run for your life.
She stepped back into the bedroom and stopped, frozen.
He was sitting on his bed, shirtless, dabbing at the raw, bloody streak on his shoulder with cool efficiency, and Genevieve couldn’t move. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him without his clothes on—he’d stripped down when they’d had sex on the island, and he’d had no particular modesty walking around when he’d dragged her from the swimming pool.
Ah, but then she’d been distracted by what was below his waist.
He had broad, slightly bony shoulders, with the kind of lean, muscled body that radiated health and strength. He was tanned from the tropical sun and undeniably gorgeous, and she was sorry as hell she had to see that.
“Do you need help?” she asked. The last thing she wanted to do was touch him, touch that tanned, golden skin.
“I can manage. I brought you some food. Saltines and ginger ale. I’ve heard it’s excellent for morning sickness.”
“I’m not pregnant,” she snapped.
“I’m delighted to hear that. I certainly didn’t think you were. However, it’s the cure for an upset stomach either way. And I got you a bucket of ice. Stick your hand in it and it’ll bring down the swelling.”
“Then can I touch you?”
He laughed. Her request seemed to surprise him, it certainly shocked her. “Don’t try it unless you have something extremely kinky in mind,” he said.
That shut her up. She went back to her bed, plumping the limp pillows behind her, and sat down, shoving her hand into the plastic ice bucket. There were few things she hated more than putting ice on an injury, but she had more sense than to argue.
“Serves you right,” he said, carefully applying a disinfectant to the furrow on his shoulder. He was having a hard time bandaging it, and her own fingers were icy, but she sat back and said nothing. When he was finished he stood up, and examined his handiwork in the mirror. She could see the trace of faint scratch marks along his beautiful back.
“What happened to your back?” she asked. “An old wound? Scars from being tortured?”
“You did,” he said.
And she remembered. Holding on to him, digging her fingers into his skin as she arched into a frenzied, uncontrollable response, and she felt the color flood her face.
“Oh, God,” she muttered weakly.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said in his cool voice. “My fault. I was the one who made you come.”
He wasn’t making the situation any better. She was nothing special, she reminded herself. Maybe he was used to having women claw his back, the marks still showing countless days later. The very idea made her sick with a kind of primitive rage that couldn’t have anything to do with jealousy.
“How long do we have to stay here?” She could be proud of how unaffected her voice sounded, even though she could feel the heat on her cheeks.
It wasn’t getting any easier. He stood u
p, unfastened his jeans and stepped out of them, totally oblivious to her reaction. At least he was wearing some kind of underwear—pale blue, a cross between boxers and briefs. His cock was also pushing against the fabric. He glanced down at his obvious erection, then back at her.
“Does getting shot turn you on?” she said, struggling for a way to defuse the situation.
“Not particularly,” he said, flipping the covers back on his bed and stretching out. He was just as pretty lying down as he was standing up, and Genevieve was not happy.
“Can we turn out the light?” Her voice was caustic. “Now that you’ve finished parading your assets around I’d like to get some sleep.”
Again that smile. “You really are the most annoying female I’ve ever met,” he murmured, switching off the light.