Page 5 of Undoing His Innocent Enemy (Hot Winter Escapes)

But as he knelt in front of her again, to take off her sweatpants, his hair flopped over his forehead again. She yearned to sweep the unruly waves away from his face, so she could see more of him, because however annoyed he was, he also fascinated her. Those pale, piercing eyes and the sharp angles of his face were not softened at all by his rugged, unkempt appearance. Although she’d only ever had the urge to photograph wildlife before now, she would love to photograph him, because there was something about him that seemed untamed despite the sophistication of his home.

She resisted the urge to touch him though, because her fingers were still cramping and she barely had the strength to stand—let alone lift her arm. Plus, she got the definite impression from his taciturn behaviour, he would not welcome her touch.

He remained silent as he continued to strip her out of the heavy clothing with brutal efficiency until all she wore were her panties, her bra, her thick woolly socks and the skintight thermal tights, which left very little to anyone’s imagination.

She used all her strength to fold one arm across her breasts, feeling hideously exposed all of a sudden. And vulnerable. But her whole body was so shattered it was hard to muster a blush—even though, being Irish and a redhead, blushing was one of her superpowers.

What was worse than feeling naked in front of him, though, was feeling like a burden. She hated to be a burden—had always been self-sufficient, ever since her father had left and her mother had spent her evenings crying herself to sleep when she’d thought Cara and her brothers couldn’t hear her...

Why are you thinking about your deadbeat da again?

The thought echoed through her foggy brain.

Luckily, she was too tired to muster the energy to be embarrassed about her dependence on Mr Grumpy as he leant past her to strip back the heavy duvet and then scooped her up and laid her in the middle of the enormous bed.

He tucked the quilt under her chin as she continued to shudder and shake. She still couldn’t feel her feet, but her fingers and face were starting to burn as the blood flow returned.

The sheets smelled of laundry soap and a tantalising combination of bergamot and pine.

‘I’m going to get a heated blanket and something hot to drink,’ he said, his gruff accent a strange transatlantic mix of American and Scandinavian. ‘We need to raise your temperature. Don’t sleep or I’ll have to wake you.’

She managed a nod, before watching him stride from the room.

As he disappeared through the doorway, she forced her gaze back towards the magnificent view through the room’s glass wall.

The shaking had downgraded to a shiver when he finally returned. Somehow, she’d managed to keep her eyes open, even though the rest of her had melted into the mattress.

He perched on the edge of the bed, then tugged the duvet down to place the heated blanket next to her skin. He broke a heat pack over his knee and placed it under her neck. She flinched as he bundled her up in the blanket and quilt.

‘I-it h-hurts,’ she said, blinking furiously to hold back the tears scorching her eyes.

She’d rather die than cry in front of this guy.

‘I know,’ he said, but didn’t offer any words of comfort or reassurance.

Your bedside manner really sucks, fella.

The antagonistic thought galvanised her despite her misery, at least a little bit, as he lifted her into a sitting position, banded his arm around her back and then reached for the hot mug he’d brought in with the blanket and heat pack.

As she inhaled, the scent of him got trapped in her lungs, and she realised the tantalising aroma of bergamot and pine belonged to him.

Why did recognising his scent feel stupidly intimate? And make her feel even more compromised and vulnerable?

‘Drink,’ he ordered as he pressed the mug to her lips.

She gulped and spluttered, her tongue numb and her lips chapped. He ignored her grunts of protest, which somehow made her feel less compromised, keeping the mug pressed to her sore lips until she had consumed nearly half of the hot sweet mint tea.

At last, he let her lie down and took her temperature again.

As he checked it, the sharp frown on his face levelled out, a fraction.

‘Ninety-five.’ He stood, making her even more aware of his height.

He was so tall, his rangy body intimidatingly muscular. Whatever he did for a living, he was not idle.

All the better to rescue you with, Cara. Be grateful.

‘Looks like you’ll live,’ he added, with a lack of enthusiasm that might have stung if she had been able to muster anything other than the deep desire to sleep for several millennia.

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