Page 79 of Dangerous Secrets

He lay two fingers over her left breast. Ah, there it was—fast and thready, but a definite beat. He rocked back on his heels, still crouching beside her.

Jesus, what now? He’d had basic medic training. If she were bleeding from a bullet wound, he’d know precisely what to do. If she had a broken bone he could probably set it, if she needed stitches he could do that, too. But this was beyond him.

“Charity,” he said softly, then louder. “Charity!”

Christ, she was barely breathing. Her nostrils were pinched and white, her muscles completely lax.

This wasn’t good. She was run down anyway. Her cheekbones were sharper, that sharp little chin more pointed, collar-bones more prominent. She’d lost weight and she hadn’t had that much weight to lose in the first place.

Damn, he should have played this differently, but how? How do you tell a grieving widow—Whoops! Husband not dead after all! Big mistake, sorry about that. Hey, shit happens.

Nope. There was no way he could have revealed himself without shocking her in a big way. And no way he could keep her from going to Worontzoff’s tonight without revealing himself. What was he supposed to do—send her emails from beyond the grave? Leave her messages written in lipstick on her bathroom mirror?

No, this had to be done in person.

The story of his life—only one possible hard road to take, dead ahead, with narrow walls and no side streets. The only way out was straight through. No alternatives, no detours.

Charity moaned and he watched her face carefully as a little color crept back in. Thank God she wasn’t paper-white any more. She was coming round.

He’d have poured her a finger of whiskey and forced her to drink it, but that fuck Worontzoff had already made her drink vodka. With nothing in her stomach, that much alcohol would knock her right back out. And besides, he didn’t want to leave her side.

She moaned again, her hand flexing inside his. He lifted her torso up, keeping his arm around her back for support.

Unexpectedly, her eyes opened. No coming-around process, no fluttering of eyelids, so he’d have a chance to prepare. Just those beautiful light gray eyes, closed one second, wide open the next.

She looked frightened, lost.

“Nick?” she whispered. She lifted her hand, tentatively. It trembled. She moved it slowly toward his face, as if she were pushing her hand against a waterfall. Slowly, slowly closer.

Finally, she touched his face, gingerly. As if touching him might burn her. Cheekbone, temple, jaw. Reassuring herself bytouch that he was here, alive. As if the evidence of her eyes and ears weren’t enough. A little line appeared between her ash-brown eyebrows. “Is it you? How can it be you?”

Nick slid his other arm around her knees and rose with her in his arms, frowning at how slight she felt. After just a moment’s hesitation, he sat down on the couch with her still in his arms.

This next part was going to be . . . tricky. Before he even got to the part where he convinced her not to go out tonight, which was like climbing Everest, he had to hack his way through thorny woods, ford raging rivers, cross blazing deserts.

Worse. He had to tell her that every word he’d ever spoken to her was a lie.

So he knew he was in for an uphill battle and the best way to deal with that was to tell her the truth—or as much of truth as he could—while touching her.

His words had been lies, but his body hadn’t lied. Not once. Every time he touched her, every time he slid into that lovely, warm, welcoming body, his body’s delight was genuine. No lies there.

Touch is a powerful tranquilizer, soothing animals and soon-to-be furious women. He was going to need every advantage he could get.

He sat them down in the corner of the couch, Charity’s back against his right side, her legs stretched out. Her eyes never left his. One shaking hand was on his shoulder, kneading his shoulder muscle.

“You’re alive,” she whispered finally. It wasn’t a question.

Nick nodded, watching her face. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m alive.”

She blinked and shuddered. “I’m going crazy, like Aunt Vera. You can’t be alive. I buried you. I’m hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not hallucinating. You’re touching me,” Nick said. He bent to kiss her cheek. “You can feel me. I’d pinch youto make you believe, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you in any way.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. She drew in a deep breath and sat up straight in his lap.

Ouch. Right over his hard-on.

Yep. Unbelievably, with all this heavy stuff coming down, danger on the horizon, Apaches outside the gate, he’d got himself a hard on.

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