He won’t tell me again. Holding my breath, I lift my chin and pad over, stopping at the corner of the table.
He points at the space in front of him. “Here.”
I step closer, trying not to show him how standing in the vise of his legs makes me feel like a rabbit that’s stepped into a snare.
Tipping back his head, he studies my face. “Feeling better?”
Unable to help myself, I wring my fingers together. “Yes.” My gaze slips to the words inked on his skin, but everything blurs together.
“You’ve got some color back in your cheeks. How’s your breathing?”
“Fine.”
He drags his gaze to my chest, and this time, he openly stares at my breasts. A spark of heat flashes in his brown eyes. He could’ve easily concealed it, but he lets me see. I can only guess for what reason.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie, crossing my arms over my chest. Anything to keep him otherwise occupied.
There’s lots of space to move back, but he doesn’t put distance between us when he gets up. He’s standing so close our bodies are flush together. He’s towering over me, staring down at me with his hair falling over one side of his face.
He washed. The smell of disinfectant doesn’t cling to his skin any longer. His hair is damp, smelling of spring grass and mountains. My gaze slips to his naked chest. The disks of his nipples are contracted. He’s chiseled like a statue, like Michelangelo’s David who has turned from marble into flesh and bone.
My head barely reaches his shoulder. I have to crane my neck to look at his face. The stubble on his jaw is darker. How will it feel if he rubs his cheek over mine? I give an internal start. That thought did not just run through my mind.
His eyes tighten with awareness. It’s minute but enough to tell me he knows. He waits. His arms hang patiently at his sides. Those big, veined hands are deceptively relaxed. His strong, slender fingers are loose, motionless, but he’d flex them into fists or curl them around a throat in the blink of an eye. A man like him is always ready. Always patient. Waiting for me to make the first move.
I take a step back. “What time is it?”
His face is a mask again. He only lets me read what he wants me to see. “Close to five.”
The sun will be up in half an hour. If he’s a man of his word like he claimed, he has to let me go soon.
He doesn’t push or challenge me. He goes to a cupboard and takes out a can of baked beans. “It’s not much, but it’ll fill your stomach.”
Turning his back on me, he takes a flip knife from his pocket to open the can. His back muscles ripple. Despite the gunshot wound in his shoulder, his actions are strong. He doesn’t show a stitch of discomfort.
I can’t help from asking, “How do you do it?”
He shoots me a glance. “Do what?”
He looks so devastatingly hot, my mind battles to separate ethics from admiration. Maybe admiration is the wrong word. Maybe it’s just pure old lust, a biological female reaction to his male beauty and virility. “Carry on like you’ve never been shot.”
He shrugs and turns back to serving the canned food on a plate. “Habit.”
“You don’t have any other bullet holes in you, so you can’t be used to it.”
“I’m used to the pain.” A floodgate of questions opens up in my mind, but my thoughts go quiet when he adds, “Just like you must be used to the sensation of suffocating.”
Involuntarily, my throat closes up, responding to the empathy in his voice, showing him how accurate his assessment is.
“Want a drink?” he asks, walking with lazy strides to the cooler box and taking out two bottles of beer.
Grabbing the bottles in one hand and the plate and a fork in the other, he carries my breakfast to me. He dumps the plate on the table and holds my eyes as he twists the caps off the beers.
Pushing one into my hand, he says, “Cheers.”
I take the bottle automatically. It’s lukewarm in my sweaty palm. The fact that it’s no longer cold must mean he’s been camping out here for a while. I watch with mesmerized fascination as he lifts the bottle to his lips, tips it back, and swallows. His throat moves in a disturbingly male way, reminding me how alive a woman can feel in a man’s strong arms.
Nope. Not the direction my thoughts should be taking. I look away, anywhere but at him. My gaze falls on the book on the table, the one he’s been reading. The title catches me by surprise. It’s a textbook about political economy.
“Seeing something interesting?” he asks in a low voice.