Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [89]
He was an observant bastard, she thought. “Just bruised it a bit,” she said, reaching her hand up and flexing her fingers. Or trying to. They felt stiff and swollen.
“Get on the bed,” he said.
There was a sudden uncomfortable silence in the room as both of them remembered the last time he’d said those words to her. And then he broke the spell.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he added. “I just want to look at your hand.”
She did get to her feet, but not on the bed. “You don’t need to look at my hand—it’ll be just fine. Where are the clothes?”
He tossed one of the larger bags to her, and she made the mistake of trying to catch it with her bad hand. It dropped on the bed, but at least she’d managed to swallow her cry of pain.
“I assume you’re going to take over the bathroom for another hour and a half,” he said, dropping the rest of the stuff on the other bed. His bed, presumably. She was nothing special, he’d said.
“Just long enough to get dressed. I’m sure you’re just dying to primp.”
“What I’m dying to do is get these clothes off me and clean my wound. It’s a lucky thing I managed to steal a jacket from the front office—I could hardly walk around Wal-Mart with a bullet wound. Though if I could anywhere, L.A. would be the place.”
She’d forgotten all about his wound, and she felt conscience-stricken. “Do you need any help?”
“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