by Snow, Nicole
He’s right.
Not that it makes it a bit easier.
Drawing in a deep breath of air, I feel life returning to my body. I test my legs, making sure they can hold me before I take a step back and turn away from him.
Then I lick my lips, preparing to tell him he’s right, but the roughness of gravel, the taste of dirt, make me cough. Another familiar metallic taste has me licking my lips again.
Yep. I’m bleeding. Somewhere.
I wonder how awesome this day can get?
Because I think it’s pretty flipping awesome. I think it must be Opposite Day, somewhere, in whatever part of the world where 'awesome' means torturing Bella Reed out of her mind.
Using the tip of one finger, I touch my lips, my nose. That’s where the blood oozes from. I trace lower. My cheek is on fire.
Ouch. I wince when I feel the gravel embedded in my skin.
“Assholes,” I mutter harshly.
Drake tugs on my arm. “Hey, look up. Look at me.”
I shake my head, not wanting him to see my face before I have a chance to wash away the damage, the mess, the blood.
He pulls harder, though, twisting me toward him until there’s no choice.
“Shit. Come inside. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
It’s not the worst idea in the world.
But a shrill snort sounds, and then another, so I twist past him to where Edison now stands, craning his big black head out toward me.
I pull my arm from Drake’s hold and wrap both of them around Edison’s neck.
“Oh, bud,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. So sorry. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay if I have anything to say about it.”
He leans against me softly, calmly as if to say, “You think I’m not okay? Puh-leaze. I’d have run them over.”
“We have to call the sheriff,” I tell Drake. “We need to report this.”
“We will,” Drake says. “After I get you inside and cleaned up. See how badly you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bull. I know fine, darlin’, and you’re not it.” He loosens the rope on Edison’s neck. “You hit the ground so hard you nearly rolled. You’re coming inside, and I’m gonna have a look. That’s what I’m here for.”
I chew my lip. It doesn’t make sense why he keeps sounding oh-so-concerned after his cover was blown. But he does for some reason.
Whether he cares or not, he’s my only real option. The closest urgent care is thirty miles away.
Sighing, I release Edison so Drake can pull the rope over the horse’s head. “I don’t even know what I tripped over.”
“Trip wire.”
“Trip – huh?” Sure I misunderstood, I ask, “What do you mean, wire?”
“A trip wire. Crafty fuckers planted it where you wouldn’t see. I’ll make sure you don’t trip over it on the way back to the house.” He pats Edison then takes hold of my waist with both hands. “Tell Edison to wait at the barn. I’ll lock up the corral after I get you inside.”
My brows knit together. The more I find out, the less this makes sense.
Why the heck would anyone booby trap the ranch over stealing an ancient horse?
“I can get inside on my own, thank you very much, but where’s this trip wire?”
“There.” He points with one hand. “It’s stretched across the driveway, tied to the two pine trees. I yelled at you, told you it was there. Almost had a hold of you when you hit it and went down, but I was a second too late.”
I try, straining my eyes through the dark, but don’t see anything. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s filament line, fishing line, so nearly invisible. Nearly down now, the bastards drove right over it on their way out of here.”
I shake my head. “How’d you see it?”
“Habit. Training.” He forces me to take a step. “I won’t let you trip again.”
“Um, okay. But I don’t think I’ll forget this any time soon,” I say, still searching for the line. A soft, thread-like glimmer appears as we start walking. Then I see it, barely hanging above the ground. I also see skid marks.
Mine, from when I impacted. “Did you say you yelled? I didn’t hear you.”
“Yeah, no surprise. You were too focused on running.” He stops, pulls out a pocket knife, and cuts the line. “I’ll pick it up in the morning.”
A stinging in my knee makes me flinch as we start walking again. “Why would they do that? Put up a trip line? Why would they even want to steal a thirty-year-old horse?” I glance over my shoulder. “No offense, Edison.”
He’s trailing at a distance, farther from the barn than he should be.
“Why’s he following?” Drake asks.
I shrug. “Because that’s what he always does when he knows things aren’t right. He’ll go back to the barn when we get in the house, though. I’ll bring him his candy cane later.”
Later, because right now, I really need to sit. I’m starting to hurt all over. My arms, my hands, my knees, my face.
The few steps to the porch hurt, especially my right knee.
As soon as we’re inside, the flight of stairs to the bathroom fills me with dread. “I’m going to use the bathroom off the kitchen.”
Drake doesn’t reply, but his hold on me tightens. He has one arm around me, holding my hip, and the other on my arm.
I don’t mind.
Just like I hadn’t minded when his hold helped me up the porch steps. I must’ve hit the ground hard enough to jar something loose in my head. There’s no good reason I should take any comfort in this stranger touching me, holding me, leading me, but...
But I do.
Whatever Drake Larkin really wants, he’s still a tattooed god. And right now, his Hercules grip is the only thing between me and a face full of floor.
I make it as far as the kitchen before the sharp ache in my knee forces me to rest. “I’ll sit down at the table for a minute.”
He doesn’t go bugged-eye or anything, but now that we’re in the light, something about his face says I must really look like hell.
Awesome. Opposite Day Awesome.
Well, so be it. I can’t exactly make it to the bathroom right now to clean up.
Not wanting him to know, I look at him and say, “So, you can go ahead and call the sheriff. The sooner we get something on file, the better.”
Drake says nothing. With his help, I lower myself onto the chair and take a deep breath.
Lord, I need it. My hands are on fire. I turn them over. Beneath the blood and dirt, there’s more gravel embedded in my palms.
“Let me get a washcloth and—”
“No.” I could laugh off my injuries if it was an accident. But this was deliberate. “Call the sheriff, Drake. I can handle myself. Please.”
Shrugging, he grabs a phone off the center island. His, no doubt.
He punches a couple of buttons and a moment later, says, “Shelia, it’s Drake. Someone tried stealing Edison. Yeah, Jonah’s old horse.” He pauses. “No. Not seriously. Bella took a bad fall, but I’ve got her. Once I check out her injuries, I’ll look at the cameras. One of them might’ve gotten a license plate. It was a black Ford pickup with stock racks.”
He pauses again.
If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d try to hear what Shelia says. Odd that he’d know the direct number of the sheriff’s dispatcher. I’ll have to ask him about that.
Along with a gazillion other questions. Like why the hell we’re married.
Believe me, I haven’t forgotten it for a second.
But question time can wait until after I get cleaned up. I pat my upper lip, gently because it hurts. There’s no blood on my fingertip, so my nose must’ve stopped bleeding. If that’s where the blood came from earlier...it could be my lip.
I touch it and flinch. It’s swelling fast.
Turning back to Drake, a dark scowl covers his entire face.
“Yeah. I’ll email you pictures from the data tonight,” he tells h
er. Then, after another pause, he says, “Got it. I’ll tell her.”
He clicks off and sets the phone on the center island.
That’s when I notice everything else there.
Bowls. Cheese. Onions. A grater. Tortillas. Meat thawing in the sink. Then a pan of neatly packaged Mexican goodness that looks ready to bake.
“Seriously? You were making those enchiladas?” I can’t believe it after everything else.
“That was the deal,” Drake says, walking around the island.
“Whatever, I guess.” I cock my head, hating how my stomach growls. “Uh...beef or chicken?”
“Beef. Depending how hungry you are, there’s plenty of chicken, too.”
My stomach growls again. Traitor. It clearly doesn’t care that I hurt everywhere.
And I’m not sure if I should be eating anything this man fixes.
“I’ll put the first round in the oven after I see how bad you’re hurt.” He turns on the water and pulls a large plastic bowl out of the cupboard.
Figuring the bowl of water is for me, I say, “I’ll go to the bathroom and wash up.” It’s off the kitchen. A half bath in the laundry room.
“No, you’ll sit right there.” He pulls a washcloth out of a drawer.
I should get up, but I’m not sure I can. My knee is throbbing.
I twist enough to see it, even though I have jeans on. Bloody jeans.
No wonder it hurts.
“Look at me,” Drake growls.
I lift my head. He gently swipes a warm cloth across my cheek several times, examining the area carefully after each wipe. Then he does the same on the other side, dunking the washcloth in the bowl of warm water on the table and wringing it out between each feathery touch.
It’s kind of amazing how gentle he can be.
I bite my tongue. Not because of the pain. Because I start noticing his aftershave halfway through this strange cleanup.
He smells as good as he looks. Strong. Masculine. Wind and earth and something like a hint of decadently aged bourbon.
It’s predictable, maybe, but it’s nice.
When he wipes my lips with the cloth, I have to fight to keep from flinching. Again, not from the pain. My lips quiver and I pinch them together.
He wipes my chin, forehead, nose.
I can’t take much more, feeling like a bruised little kitten under his touch, slightly drunk on his divine smell and gorgeous, focused eyes. He’s making me light-headed and I have no business feeling this.
When the cloth touches my cheek, a sting reminds me of my injuries. I pull my head back. “Are you almost done?”
“Hands. Let me see your hands.”
I hold them out. Drake grabs my wrist, spreads my fingers gently.
One by one, he dips them in the water and rubs my palms.
Talk about stinging. But not so hard it makes my toes curl, too.
That’s not the fall. That’s Drake Larkin, and I’m starting to freak over why I’m feeling anything besides an urge to rip his head off and run.
I’m torn right down the middle.
One minute, I feel like I just got run over by a truck every time he looks at me.
The next, I’m tingling in places that should not be the least bit twitchy.
Not for him. Not here. Not ever.
“All right,” he says softly, releasing my second clean hand and dropping the cloth in the water. “Now take off your shirt, darlin’.”
“What?” My face snaps up, into those blue eyes, suddenly like lightning striking head-on.
“Shirt, Bella.” He grasps one wrist and holds up my arm. “Need to see how bad you’re hurt under here.”
I hold the urge to fight when I see a knowing expression cross his face.
There’s no denying it. Spotty blood soaks through the pink and teal plaid material, a few inches from my elbow.
“Damn. I really like this shirt, too.” Sighing, I hold up my other arm. “Whatever. Do your thing, doctor.”
I shouldn’t have called him that. My face heats a little too much.
“It’ll wash out if we get it soaking fast enough.” He pulls the sleeve down over my wrist.
That causes the shirt to slip off my shoulder. Considering I have a tank top on, I shrug my shoulder, let him pull off the sleeve, and do the same when he grasps the other.
I examine both my forearms. They’re scraped from the gravel, but aren’t bleeding much anymore. “Not so bad. I’m not sure I need any attention here.”
Drake doesn’t answer. He takes his sweet time, grabbing my arms, dabbing at some of the longer scrapes with the washcloth. I’m holding my breath as his touch becomes second nature, firm and comforting and way too perfect.
The air sizzles out of my lungs in a shameful hiss when he finally drops the washcloth back in the bowl. My condition almost goes critical when he looks at me, his attention drawn by the noise.
Someday, I’ll write the book on how to embarrass yourself in front of supermen.
Grabbing the back of my chair, he pulls it farther away from the table, and before I realize what he’s doing, he’s got both my boots off.
Setting them aside, he looks at me and says, “Good, darlin’. Now the jeans.”
My insides jolt. “My – what?!”
“Jeans. I know your hearing still works.” He wraps his hands around my waist and begins to pull. “I’ll help you stand so we can –”
“No way!” I press my butt harder against the chair seat. “Drake, whoa. I’m not taking off my jeans in front of you.”
He stares, his face just a mask, totally undaunted. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Still not!” My blood runs so hot I’m almost overheating.
Who does this guy think he is?
“Drake...”
“Bella, quit squirming. The faster we get this done, the sooner we can eat. You know your knee’s banged up the worst. Let me help.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but my foot catches the leg of the chair. My leg barely bends an inch before that sharp stinging sensation rips up my spine. It’s like somebody planted an electrical current in my knee.
So I just look at him. The look he gives back is clear. These jeans are coming off.
“Help me. I’ll go to the bathroom.”
His hands are still on my waist, and his nose is only inches away. Worse, his lips are practically on mine.
“You aren’t going nowhere till I see how bad that knee is,” he rumbles. “Shit. If I’d known outside it was bleeding so bad, I’d have carried you in.”
Peachy. Another image I don’t need, being flung over Drake’s wall of a shoulder like this is some kind of crazy western romance novel or something.
He would have to say something like that, wouldn’t he? Kick this whole awkward attraction thing into overdrive.
I shake my head too fast. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Barely hurts. I’m sure it’s like my arms. The blood makes it look worse than it is.”
“Really?”
I nod.
“So where’s the blood coming from that’s dripping on your sock?”
“What?” I lean forward to see.
It’s the only ruse, the only opening, he needs. Taking advantage of my movement, he lifts me up in one quick jerk.
Pain flares up my leg, into my thigh, and down again into my shin. I suck in a breath to counter it and to keep from squealing.
“Barely hurting now?” he says.
“Screw you,” I snap. It hurts, honestly. Stings so bad I can’t even afford to kick him where it counts.
“Not today, darlin’. No time for sexy business.”
Oh. My. God.
My other knee almost gives out. It’s mostly Drake propping me up, running his hands up my legs, and then...then we’re doing this.
“Hold on to the table so I can unbutton your jeans.”
I reach for it, all right, because that sentence nearly destroys what’s left of my poo
r sanity.
Thankfully, an iota of common sense prevails. “I’m not that helpless! I’ll unbutton them myself.”
“Go ahead. Unzip, too. Then push them down.”
“I don’t need step by step instructions!” I almost shout it.
Other parts of me are far too well aware how close he’s standing next to me.
How his hands feel on my waist, supposedly to steady me.
How I’m about to drop my jeans, and be standing here, in front of this total stranger I’m married to, wearing next to nothing.
The shine in his eyes says he’s enjoying this. Of-freaking-course he is.
It can’t be that bad, can it?
Maybe I can even have some fun, leave him with a lovely view he’ll never see again. Of all my ass-sets, I know what men like best, even if I’m still a hopeless virgin.
Deviancy strikes. I’ve worn less at the beach.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Then, meeting his gaze, I unbutton, unzip, and push down my jeans for Drake Larkin.
8
Medic! (Drake)
Goddamn.
I know I’m in waist-deep the second those jeans start sliding down her thighs.
My jeans become too fucking tight.
I’m fighting hard to keep it all together, and now I’ve got one more surreal problem on my growing list.
The anger over those intruder fucks, whoever they were.
The concern over how she’s hurt, whether or not I’ll have to drive her a town over for stitches or not.
The uneasiness about what she might’ve done, locked up in Jonah’s office for hours. I’d half expected the sheriff to come knocking on the door earlier.
Now, Bella trembles beneath my hands as I slowly lower her to the chair.
The defiant gleam that flashed in her big green eyes a minute ago is gone, and the way she winces as her knee bends forces me to focus on something that won’t destroy my dick.
Her wounds. Right.
Not the silkiness of her skin, or the gold sun-kissed glow that tells me she wears shorts. Often.
Not the curve of her lush, haunting ass, or all the twisted things I’d do if she was under me, finding a new use for that spitfire tongue of hers.