Page 32 of Love on the Rocks
His firm mouth quirked up a bit as he poured disinfectant on a sterile compress. “If by BS, you mean a Bachelor’s in Seduction, then you’re right.”
I snorted. “That’s the last thing you are. Good looking in a very predictable sort of way, maybe. But seductive, no.”
He leaned over me, hands pressed to the chair one either side of my legs, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing. He cocked an eyebrow. Then without breaking eye contact, he slowly, gently slid my sandal off.
He held it up by the leather straps—the same shoes he’d admonished me for wearing the other morning—and gave me a look that clearly meant “I told you so.”
Before I could react, he caught the soft fabric of my skirt and began inching it farther up my legs. “Are you done having me list my qualifications?”
I nodded, unable to breathe, let alone form words. His hands hovered above me, mere millimeters from my skin. My breath hitched and the air between us hummed. How was it possible that I already felt him, and he hadn’t even laid a finger on me? His eyes met mine. “Can I touch you now?”
Fuck. It took all I had not to moan. I hated him, and I hated myself more for wanting him to touch me, even if it was in the most clinical of ways.
“Go ahead,” I gritted out and squeezed my eyes shut.
This does not excite me, this does not excite me.
It turned out I was a liar because the moment his fingers touched my leg, it felt like I’d been hit by lightning, white heatsplintering through my veins. If I could have melted into the examining table, I would have. Instead, I hissed and jerked.
His eyes met mine again. “That hurts?”
“Mmmm.”
“What were you doing up there anyway? And in these shoes. Don’t you own any sneakers?” He frowned.
“I was trying to find a spot with decent cell phone reception,” I admitted before I could stop myself. His disapproving dark eyes flicked up to mine. “What? It’s very important for my work.”
“Move your toes,” he ordered. I glanced down at my bare foot, pleased that I’d gotten a pedicure right before coming to Greece. At least my toenails looked nice under my bruised ankle. There was no real pain when I moved them, nor when he took my foot into his large, warm, slightly calloused hands. Holy fuck! Why was this so exciting?
“It’s not broken,” he said finally. I’d all but forgotten about the pain until that point. Numb to anything but the fluttering of my stomach as I stared at the veins on the backs of his hand, the small tattoos on his fingers. “It’s bruised and sprained. Might take a couple weeks to heal. So . . .”
“So?” I prompted.
He frowned as if he’d been struck by a thought he didn’t like and dabbed disinfectant on a compress, pressing it gently against my wounds. “You might want to call your employer and tell him you need to fly home. What good will you be to them here? Are you going to oversee the construction of that monstrosity they want to build from your bed?”
“Oh, right. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s been your goal to get rid of me since I stepped off the ferry.” He stiffened, and I knew I’d hit the nail on the head. I sat up and started to pull down my skirt. “I already told you I don’t give up that easily.”
“Whoa, I’m not done.”
“I can clean myself up, thank you very much. I don’t want you looking at my bare legs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen a lot more than just your bare legs.”
“Argh! You did not just bring that up.” I pushed him away and started to stand up biting my cheek to keep from crying out when my foot touched the cold tile floor.
“Look, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Let me disinfect these wounds and wrap your ankle. I can’t let you hop out of here like this.”
He was right. I was powerless in this situation. Hopping away in a huff didn’t seem like a very dignified response to his provocation. I climbed back on the table and let him have his way with me.
“You’re really going to stay here just to spite me,” he said quietly as he wrapped my ankle. He was surprisingly gentle for such a big brute. With his thick eyelashes lowered and a lock of wavy hair falling over his forehead, he suddenly seemed softer, younger, even a bit remorseful? No, I had to be imagining that.
“Don’t give yourself so much credit. It has nothing to do with you. I’m very determined, okay?”
“Yeah, so I’ve learned.” He tied off the bandage. It fit snugly, and already the throbbing had lessened. “You’re one hard-headed woman.”
“Is that a Cat Stevens reference? Are you going to break out your guitar and start singing now?”
He smiled and shrugged, sitting back in his rolling chair to study me. “I’m willing to admit I underestimated you. I thought you’d leave after the first night in that . . .” He hesitated like he’d said too much.
