Page 19 of Marrying the Enemy

“And so what if my grandmother preferred someone else? She fell in love. Your family didn’t have to steal—yes, I said ‘steal,’” she stressed as he shot her a warning side-eye. “They pulled some questionable stunts, cutting the Winslows out of all their shared assets. That was profiteering from a war they instigated. Maybe, once they stole everything, they could have let up? There was no reason our fathers should have been involved, let alone our generation.” She pointed between them.

For a few moments, there was only the buffeting wind and the rattle of the awning and the heavy patter of rain on the roof. The light was fading, making the shack seem colder than it really was.

“My father and his brother were twins,” Dom said flatly. “Dad never got over losing him. He needed someone to blame. To hate.” He picked up another can to shake it, but didn’t open it, only set it aside with a grimace of discontent.

Something in the dourness clouding his face made her wonder what sort of father that had made Thomas Blackwood.

“Let’s look at your ankle,” Dom said abruptly.

“Why?”

“I want to play doctor,” he claimed with a fake smile.

She knew he was taunting her, but she couldn’t help her reaction of both tension and, deep in her belly, anticipation.

The ice pack, which was the instant, disposable kind that she’d snapped to activate when she’d realized her ankle was sprained, had long lost its cooling properties. Now it was purely for decoration so she tried to bring her ankle into her lap.

Dom turned toward her and caught her leg behind the knee, burning her bare skin with his hot palm.

She reflexively tried to jerk away.

“Would you stop?” He scowled at her.

“I can do it myself.”

“I’ve removed one of these before,” he assured her and started rolling down the rim of the condom.

“Can you not?” She brushed at his hand.

“What?” he asked with tested patience. “I’m trying to help.”

“You’re getting your kicks by taunting me. I don’t like it.”

“Just let me see what we’re dealing with.”

She tsked as she let him work the condom down and off. He let it fall with the ice pack then gently cradled her calf and heel while he carefully tested her range of movement. His thumb lightly explored the faint blue swelling.

“Hurt?”

Only in her chest where an ache of yearning pulsed.

“Not too much,” she said huskily, wishing she could cure herself of this intense reaction to his clinical touch.

“Keep it elevated.” He propped her foot on the edge of the front counter. “Is there a first aid kit? We should wrap it.”

“I didn’t see one. Stop!” she ordered as he started to remove his shirt. “Use a sarong.”

“These sleeves are stretchy. I was going to cut one off.” He shrugged and shook out a pink-and-blue sarong before tearing it in half lengthwise.

Eve silently promised to pay for whatever they used while they were here, then succumbed in silence while Dom took up her leg again. He began winding the strip of cotton from the base of her toes toward her ankle. Perhaps he had played doctor a time or two. He seemed to know what he was doing, keeping the fabric taut and neat despite the tricky bend around her heel.

He was being very matter-of-fact about it, too, which made the tendrils of arousal that wound through her all the more agonizing. When he tucked the tail in and set her foot back on the counter, she was both relieved and swimming in renewed awareness.

“I’m trying to defuse the sexual tension when I say those things.” His golden eyes seemed to visibly spark as he met her gaze. The air between them crackled. “It doesn’t work.”

He felt it, too? That actually made hers worse. She swallowed a protest that would have been a lie while a wicked swirling sensation in her stomach pooled and slid like quicksilver. She stared stubbornly past him, out the window.

He picked up another can, put it down.

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