Driven by Fire (Fire 2)

She really wanted to stand on her own two feet, but the feel of the blood sliding down her skin and Soledad’s horrified little squeaks only added to her dizziness. She started to sink back, and Matthew Ryder simply did the unthinkable and picked her up in his arms.

“Put me down,” she gasped.

“Don’t be an even bigger pain in my ass than you’ve been already,” he said tersely, starting up the curving front stairs with Soledad keeping pace with them. “Once you get cleaned up you’ll feel a lot better.”

If she didn’t throw up first. The thought of vomiting all over him filled her with mixed emotions. On the one hand, it would be completely embarrassing, and on the other, it would be perfect revenge for his lack of sympathy. In the scheme of things she didn’t like vomiting, so she did her best to swallow her bile, despite the slight bounce as he carried her up the long flight of stairs. She just wanted to go home and go to bed, but Ryder seemed to have other ideas.

“Press your head against my chest.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

“Why should I?” The last thing Jenny wanted to do was cuddle up against him. She could already feel the beating of his heart and the warmth of his skin against hers as he mounted the stairs, and it disturbed her. She didn’t want to think of him as a living, breathing man—he was too tempting when she was much better off thinking of him as the enemy.

“Because otherwise you’ll bleed all over the goddamn carpet.” His rough voice was heartless. “We just had this place decorated, and I don’t need your blood leaving a trail up to the bedrooms.”

“Why, how thoughtful of you. I’ll do my best not to bleed on you as well.” Her voice was admirably cool.

“Too late for that.”

Having someone carry her was a strange sensation, she thought. It made her feel safe, protected, wiping out her instinctive feelings of distrust. He was so strong and warm that she wanted to burrow against him, looking for comfort, but she did her best to simply press her bloody head against his shoulder without rubbing against him. “You’re probably used to people bleeding all over you.”

“Not really. I usually shoot them from a distance.”

That left her speechless. Soledad was with them, a worried expression in her big eyes, and Jenny leaned forward, wanting to reassure her, when Ryder simply pushed her back against his shoulder, holding her there as he reached the top of the landing. “Worry about yourself, not your little waif.”

“Is there something I need to worry about?” She couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. “I thought this was just a graze.” Suddenly she began imagining all sorts of things: her head split open, her bleeding to death in his arms.

“It is. It won’t take more than a few minutes to get you cleaned up and bandaged, and nothing’s going to happen to your protégé while I take care of it.” He turned and looked back at Soledad. “Why don’t you go on ahead into the room on the left? There’s a TV in there, and if you look hard enough you’ll find the Spanish-language channels.”

“Don’t be a racist!” Jenny said fiercely. “Soledad’s English is excellent.”

“I was being practical, not a racist. She can watch PBS or soap operas for all I care. You’re more than enough to deal with right now—I don’t have the time or patience to put up with her.”

Jenny sucked in her breath, ready to tear into him when a sharp stabbing pain hit her right between the eyes, and she let out a pathetic whimper. She was going to die after all.

“I thought the headache would hit sooner or later,” he said smugly. “Don’t worry, it’s only normal when you have a bullet graze the side of your head. I’ll clean you up, wash away the blood, and find some ibuprofen for you. Unless you want something stronger—I can get you that too.”

“Ibuprofen will be just fine. As soon as it kicks in, Soledad and I will leave you in peace and head back home.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes flew open in dismay.

“You’re not going anywhere until I find out who the hell shot at you.”

She ground her teeth. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t. I just don’t like people shooting holes in my house. That ridiculous historical committee is going to pitch a fit.”

“Knowing New Orleans, I expect most of these houses have had their share of bullet holes,” Jenny pointed out.

“True enough.” He carried her into one of the rooms, angling her body so she didn’t whack her head on the doorway, and Soledad had disappeared. Jenny closed her eyes again, the sight of the room swinging around making her dizzy, and she didn’t open them again until he’d set her down.

It was a bathroom the size of a bedroom. The giant marble tub opposite her must have been original to the house—they didn’t make bathtubs that size anymore. She was sitting on the commode, and Ryder was rustling through the drug cabinet, pulling out bottles and bandages and littering the marble vanity.

It was then she realized that he was going to have to put his hands on her—on her face. There was something unbearably intimate about it—the touching of one’s face was a gesture reserved for lovers and parents. Ryder was neither.

“I can handle it,” she said quickly, trying to dismiss him.

Ryder simply ignored her. “You won’t be able to see the extent of the wound, particularly with all that blood. Don’t be a baby, Parker. I know how to treat gunshot wounds and you don’t. Unless you’ve been more involved in the family business than I realized.”