She shook her head, her hair hanging down in limp strands around her face. She was lying—he’d seen the bruise on the side of her face—or maybe shock was setting in and she really didn’t know what he had or hadn’t done.
She hadn’t been raped—Claude/Claudia’s affectations didn’t include sexual desire of any sort, unless he had to establish an alibi, which was some blessing. He had no idea how long Claude had her—from the time she’d left him at his computers to the time he finally realized something was wrong could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours.
And what the hell had happened to his usually infallible instincts? He’d never missed danger when it was lurking—he had a sixth sense for it, finely honed.
But he knew the answer. It was Evangeline. She threw everything off. He spent so much time worrying about her that he could no longer trust his instincts, and so he’d ignored them.
He slid his arms around her and scooped her up quite easily. She hadn’t been eating enough—she was lighter than she had been in Italy, lighter than she’d been a few days ago. He was going to have to feed her. Fortunately New Orleans had the best food in the world.
“This might hurt,” he said, and once more she gave that rusty laugh as he set her into tub, the steaming water coming just up to her breasts. She was still shivering, and he realized it wasn’t the cold that was the problem, and all the heat in the world wouldn’t fix it.
It took him less than a moment to slip out of his clothes, and he doubted she was even aware of it, aware of anything until he slipped into the tub behind her and pulled her against him. He expected her to struggle, to complain, to lash out, but she sank back against his chest as if it was where she belonged, resting her head against his shoulder as he put his arms around her. For the first time he felt some of his own tension begin to drain away, felt his heartbeat slow, his adrenaline sinking back to normal levels, and he slid down in the tub, taking her with him, leaning his head back against the porcelain edge. He could feel when her trembling slowed, stopped, when her icy skin warmed. He knew when she became aware of his hard dick pressing against her backside, and he expected her to sit up, to push away from him in disgust. She didn’t move.
He took the soap from the tray beside the tub, wetting it before he touched her arm with it, letting her get used to the feel of his hands, of the soap. After an initial start she relaxed again, and he soaped her, slowly, lazily, her arms, her stomach, her breasts with their tight little nipples . . .
She was warm. The water was steaming—why were her nipples hard? He rubbed the soap around one soft, plump little breast, rubbing his thumb against the nipple, and he felt the reaction slip through her body.
He stopped thinking—he’d thought enough during the last four days. He let the soap slide down her stomach, between her legs, and she deliberately lifted her hips, spreading her thighs for him as he soaped her, gently, tenderly, when he wanted nothing more than to turn her over and put her astride him, shoving up inside her and fucking her until his mind went blank. He set the soap back on its dish, then put his hand where the soap had been, parting her folds, his fingers sliding down, circling her clitoris, waiting for her protest.
She was mute, tense, demanding, and he knew what she needed, knew how to take care of her. After all, hadn’t that been what he’d been doing for the last five years, mostly from a distance? This wasn’t about his own needs; it was about taking care of her, the woman who’d been dragged into his clusterfuck of a mess by accident. Taking care of her and then letting her go.
He wanted to go down on her, but she didn’t need that. He could do this much for her, as he used his thumb, circling, pressing against her.
She climaxed quickly, arching her body, her only sound a soft, keening wail. Merlin didn’t move—the smart dog knew that sound. Bishop wasn’t going to think how he knew—there’d been no one in Evangeline’s life since her rat of a fake husband.
He could rub against her—it wouldn’t take much to bring him off as well. Death always did this to him—brought the need to affirm life on its most elemental level. She might not even notice.
But he wasn’t going to. He let her fall back against him, weak, limp from her climax. He slid out from behind her, climbing out of the bath. For a moment he considered wrapping a towel around his waist to hide his throbbing erection, but he decided, fuck it. She’d seen a cock before; she’d seen his cock before. Besides, she wasn’t in any condition to pay attention to it.
He knelt by the tub with a washcloth, dipping it into the hot water and carefully washing her muddy face. She winced, and he moved more gently, clearing away the dirt to expose a cut, surrounded by a huge bruise on her left cheekbone. He picked up her wrists, darkened by bruises. The places where the thin, strong rope had cut through her skin were closing, and her ankles were only bruised.
He could sense her looking at him, but it was too dark for normal people to see much, and she wouldn’t know the utter rage that suffused him. “Will I live?” she said, trying for humor and failing.
“You will,” he said. “If I could, I’d kill him all over again.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Her voice wasn’t shaking, but it was small, quiet.
Bishop wasn’t sure of anything in this world, including how he felt about this woman, but a lie was easier. “Absolutely positive.” It would take a miracle for Claude to survive, and Bishop didn’t believe in miracles.
And he needed to go someplace and jack off. “Do you need help washing your hair? It’s caked with mud.”
Slowly she shook her head, reaching up to touch her matted strands. “No,” she said, “I’ll be fine. You go do what you have to do.”
Did she have any idea he needed to get away from her before he hauled her out and took her on the bathroom floor? Probably not—she still held a certain naïveté despite all she’d gone through.
“Good,” he said, and moved away from her. Merlin stayed to guard her, though the dog’s reactions were still a little off from the drugs Claude had fed him. It was sheer luck the dose hadn’t been lethal—Claude wouldn’t have given a shit if he’d killed him.
The rain was still pouring down, though the lightning had died back, and the distant rumble of thunder told him the storm was moving off. He stepped out into the night, letting the cool rain wash down his body, reaching for his cock. But then he laughed. He could jerk off a dozen times and still be hard for her. Why waste his time?
He managed to find a pair of shorts in the darkness, and he pulled them on before heading back to the pitch-dark bathroom, his libido under stern, albeit rebellio
us, control.
She was leaning back against the bathtub, her hair clean, her eyes closed, sound asleep. The water had to be cooling by now, and he didn’t want her to get another chill, so he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her drowsy body and holding her against him, all wet and soft and smelling like gardenias.
He was going to carry her into her bedroom, settle her in, but one look at the open window changed his mind. Instead he took her to his room because he knew the bed was big enough, the sheets were clean, and it had a comfortable chair where he could sit and watch her. Merlin padded along behind them as he nudged open his door.
He managed to pull the covers down while he held her, and a moment later he set her on the mattress, watching as she curled up sleepily, all defenses and prickles. He pulled the covers up, and she let out a soft sigh and sank back into a deeper sleep. So much for any lingering fantasies that she’d put her arms around his neck and pull him down with her. She needed sleep more than anything. And he’d given up, hadn’t he? The more he touched her, the more he needed her, and he couldn’t afford to need anyone.