‘I don’t particularly want to touch you either,’ I said, determinedly stamping out the tiny stabs of pain and lifting my chin and setting my jaw, because I was not letting this go. ‘But the last thing either of us needs is for you to get an infection.’
For one long moment, I thought he was going to continue to resist. I could practically see the war against common sense raging inside him, but then he turned more fully towards me, the glare in his eyes abating a fraction, and, judging by the slight slackening of his muscles and the harsh exhale of his breath, appeared to relent. ‘Fine.’
‘Do you have a first-aid kit?’
‘In the kitchen. In a cupboard, top left.’
‘I’ll go and get it. You sit down.’
Beyond relieved to have wonthatbattle at least, I went to see what I could unearth. When I returned to the inner hall we’d been occupying earlier I found Nick sitting on one of the side tables, which he’d cleared of the lantern and pulled away from the wall. Pain was etched into his expression and I reckoned that had the lighting been better I would have seen that beneath his tan he’d gone a little pale.
I set the first-aid kit down on the console table and moved to stand behind him. ‘Take off your shirt.’
He tensed. I swallowed hard. Despite the chaos rampaging outside, everything seemed very quiet and still in here. Apart from my pulse. That was racing. And pounding in my ears. I’d never stood this close to him before. I’d never been so achingly aware of the parts of my own body that were responding to the proximity and heat of his.
It ought to have been a blessing that I couldn’t see his face or watch him undoing his buttons, his long fingers deftly working the fastenings, inch upon inch of skin and muscle presumably being slowly revealed as he freed one and moved to the next. But it wasn’t. Because my imagination was conjuring up the visual anyway.
Then he peeled back the sodden shirt, slowly, carefully stripping it from his right side first and then the left, and I didn’t have to imagine. Right there in front of me was an expanse of smooth tanned skin that covered defined muscles I’d never have thought he could ever have possessed. The last time I’d seen his naked torso he’d been eighteen and lanky and storming off after I’d derisively told him he was beneath me. In the thirteen years since then he’d filled out. Andhowhe’d filled out.
He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his wet denim-clad thighs, and for a moment I just stared at the view, mesmerised by the way the flickering light of the lanterns cast dancing shadows over him and marvelling at the strength and power of his upper body. Until my gaze zoned in on the cut, which to my relief didn’t look as bad as I’d feared, and I snapped out of my stupor.
I had to stop ogling. My hands were no use curled into fists, even if that way there was absolutely no danger I might reach out and stroke him. If I leaned in any closer—all the better to capture his mouth-watering scent—I ran the risk of toppling right on top of him and he hardly needed further injury.
Inhaling deeply for one last heady hit of salty sweat, tropical rain and pure masculinity, I pulled myself together. Nick was effectively my patient. It was my role to patch him up. I needed to concentrate.
‘Be gentle with me.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, opening the box and extracting a bottle of alcohol, some of which I dabbed onto a wad of gauze. ‘But this is going to sting regardless.’
I touched the gauze to the edge of the cut and he flinched. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can. At least it’s stopped bleeding.’
‘I told you “profusely” was an exaggeration.’
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and focused instead on what I was doing. ‘Once it’s all cleaned up, I’ll apply some antiseptic cream and then an adhesive dressing.’
‘Look at you, Florence Nightingale.’
‘I do have some uses.’
‘Not just a pretty face.’
I froze. My pulse skipped a beat and then began to gallop. ‘Sorry?’
‘What?’
‘Did you just call me pretty?’
‘No. Ignore me,’ he muttered. ‘Come to think of it, I may well have suffered a bang to the head. I could have concussion.’
Ignore him? Like that was going to be possible. Whether he’d meant to or not, he’d paid me a compliment. Not a fact. An actual compliment. By his account, for the first time ever. It was dizzying stuff and bewildering as hell, and I wished I could see his expression and look into his eyes, no matter how unfathomable they might be, because what was going on?
‘Keep still.’
‘I’m not moving.’