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Jane covered her eyes and didn’t drop her hand until the door shut. After many years in medicine and surgery, she was pretty clear on the “Thou Shalt Not Mack on Your Patients” part of the Hippocratic oath.

Especially if the patient in question had kidnapped you. Christ. Was she really living this?

Moments later the toilet flushed, and she expected to hear the shower come on. When it didn’t she figured he was probably having a smoke first—

The door opened and the patient came out, waving like a buoy on the ocean. He grabbed onto the bath’s jamb with his gloved hand, his forearm straining.

“Fuck…I’m dizzy.”

Jane flipped into full doctor mode and rushed over, putting aside the fact that he was naked and twice her size and that she’d eyed his ass like it was up for sale about two minutes ago. She slipped an arm around his hard waist and tucked herself against his body, bracing her hip for the onslaught. When he leaned on her his weight was tremendous, a load that she barely got over to the bed.

As he stretched out with a curse, she reached across him for the sheets and caught an eyeful of the scars between his legs. Given the way he’d healed up without a trace from her operation, she wondered why those had stuck on his body.

He whipped the covers from her with a quick jerk of the duvet, and the comforter settled over him in a cloud of black. Then he put his arm over his eyes, the thrust of his goateed chin all that showed of his face.

He was ashamed.

In the quiet between them he was…ashamed.

“Would you like me to wash you?”

His breath stopped, and when he was silent for a long time, she expected to be refused. But then his mouth barely moved. “You would do that?”

For a moment she almost replied in earnest. Except then she had the sense that would make his awkwardness worse. “Yeah, well, what can I say, I’m going for sainthood. It’s my new life goal.”

He smiled a little. “You remind me of Bu—my best friend.”

“You mean Red Sox?”

“Yeah, he’s always got the comeback.”

“Did you know wit is a sign of intelligence?”

The patient dropped his arm. “I never doubted yours. Not for an instant.”

Jane had to catch her breath. There was such respect shining in his eyes, and all she could do as she took it in was curse to herself. There was nothing more attractive to her than when a man was into smart women.

Crap.

Stockholm. Stockholm. Stockholm—

“I would love a bath,” he said. Then he tacked on, “Please.”

Jane cleared her throat. “Okay. Right.”

She went through the medical supply duffels, found a large bedpan, and headed for the bathroom. After she filled the basin full of warm water and grabbed a washcloth, she went back out and set herself up on the bedside table on the left. As she wet the little towel and squeezed off the excess, water chimed through the silent room.

She hesitated. Dipped the washcloth again. Squeezed.

Come on, now, you opened up his chest and went into him. You can do this. No problem.

Just think of him as the hood of a car, nothing but surface area.

“Okay.” Jane reached out, put the warm cloth to his upper arm, and the patient flinched. All over. “Too hot?”

“No.”

“Then what’s with the grimace?”

“Nothing.”

Under different circumstances she would have pressed, but she had her own problems. His bicep was damn impressive, his tan skin revealing the very cords of the muscle. The same was true of his heavy shoulder and the slope leading down to his pectoral. He was in sublime physical condition, not an ounce of fat on him, lean as a Thoroughbred, muscular as a lion.

When she crossed the pads of his pecs, she paused at the scar on the left one. The circular mark was embedded in the flesh, as if it had been pounded in.

“Why didn’t this heal smoothly?” she asked.

“Salt.” He fidgeted as if encouraging her to get on with the bath. “Seals the wound.”

“So it was deliberate?”

“Yeah.”

She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and awkwardly leaned over him to reach his other arm. When she drew the cloth downward, he pulled away. “Don’t want you near that hand of mine. Even