She wasn’t. Hadn’t been in years. Had vowed she never would be again. One of the few lessons from her youth she hadn’t needed to learn more than once. Weakness was exploited. Every time.
And Parker’s coddling was a constant condemnation, a relentless reminder that but for his interference, Georgia would be dead. That when it came down to it, she’d needed the rescue.
“You okay?” Parker asked quietly as he sank onto the edge of the single—because of course there weren’t any doubles available—queen-size bed.
She didn’t turn toward him, the weight of his gaze slow and heavy with misplaced concern across her back. “Fine.” She rolled her shoulders, wishing she could cast off Parker’s worry as easily as she loosened the cold’s grip on her muscles. She sighed. She just didn’t have it in her to let Parker continue to fuss over her. To treat her as if she were fragile or broken or in need of protecting.
She wasn’t.
And she resented that once again, doing her job had irrevocably changed the way a man saw her.
Only hours earlier, she’d reveled in the attention of a guy who, despite his genetic predisposition for chest-pounding and the general belief that he Tarzan she Jane, had found her—a marine better at marksmanship than makeup—attractive, not in spite of, but because of, her competence.
All blown to hell with a single hallway brawl. Parker’s regard shouldn’t matter—she’d spent a good portion of the last several hours trying to convince herself that it didn’t—but the bottom line was that the only thing that hurt worse than her battered body was her bruised ego.
And really, she should have been prepared for the blow. Isaac’s egotistical response to her saving his life had been annoying. Hurtful when he’d allowed it to come between them and ultimately used as one of the many reasons he ended their relationship. But Parker’s careful handling, the way he treated her as if she were one stress point away from fracture—it rankled just as badly. She wasn’t fragile, didn’t need a soft touch or a constant reminder of how close she’d come to failure. How close she’d come to death.
God, but this job had screwed with her head.
What she needed was a hot shower, a handful of ibuprofen, and a soft mattress. Judging from the lumpy bedspread, she figured she might have to settle for two out of three. Palming a Snickers out of the pile of processed food, she weighed her options.
Knowing sleep wouldn’t come easily, if at all, she put the candy bar in the pocket of her coat, lest she kill Parker for eating the only thing she considered edible; scooped the medical supplies back into the bag; and made for the bathroom. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Don’t leave the room.”
She closed the door on Parker’s cloying concern. Slowly, as if the entire world were desperate to stand on her last remaining nerve, the door swung open. She pushed it shut on a sigh, waiting for the click of the catch. Satisfied she had at least some sort of barrier between her and the outside world, Georgia set to straightening herself out. First she’d deal with her ribs. If she had any energy left over, she could consider tackling her attitude.
Running the tap, she grabbed a hand towel and dumped it in the sink. She shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door, and slowly pulled at the edges of her sweater. Every muscle was sore and stiff, but raising her arms above her head was sheer agony. As she slid the ruined sweater over her head, tears, unbidden and unwelcome, stung her eyes. Easy part done, she let the fabric drop to the linoleum and braced her hands against the cold porcelain of the sink.
Breathe, Georgia. Just breathe.
She watched water run into the basin, steam rising in hypnotic curls, and tried to focus through the pain. How the hell was she going to get her Henley off, let alone separate it from her skin? From the moment she’d felt the bullet graze her side, she’d dreaded this. The wound itself wouldn’t be deep—she hadn’t lost enough blood to impact more than her mood—but it would be raw and ragged. She’d managed to apply pressure without Parker’s notice, but damn, her side burned and throbbed as if she’d stuck a Portuguese man-of-war against her skin rather than the sterile pads she’d fished out of the tiny first aid kit she kept in her bag. Over the last few hours, the pain had dulled to a low, angry throb—so long as she didn’t move. Delicately, she ran her fingertips along the edge of her shirt, biting back a grimace. Yep, dried to her skin. Awesome.
“Holy shit, Georgia!”
Parker’s startled exclamation had her tilting her head just far enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. Damn door must have swung open again after she hung up her coat.
“Get out,” she grunted, turning from him to conceal the wound. He didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to wonder if she was compromised, if she could still take care of them.
“You’re bleeding.” His voice went up an octave, and worry speared his brow as he strode into the bathroom, crowding them into a space not nearly big enough for one.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “I was bleeding. Now I’m standing here talking about it.” She waved a hand toward the door. “I’ll be out in a minute. Go do . . . whatever it is you do. Put the new SIM cards we bought in the phones.”
“I already did.”
“Then take apart the TV, design a rocket ship on a napkin, I don’t care. Just . . . go.”
She felt like a bug beneath a microscope, ready for dissection and discussion. Nothing good ever came from that kind of scrutiny.
In a move that should not have shocked her, Parker didn’t leave. “You’re bitchy when you’re hurt and tired—hungry, too, I bet.”
His lips quirked in a way that shouldn’t charm her.
“Good thing we got you that Snickers.”
“Which I’d love to eat, so if you could just . . .” She made another shooing motion with her hands. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, and you can take a shower or whatever.”
“Yeah, sure you will.” He pulled his hoodie over his head, his T-shirt riding up with the movement and exposing a line of abdomen that promptly broke out in goose bumps. Tossing his sweatshirt through the door, he approached her. “Let me help.”
Over her dead body. She went to take a step back, caught her knees on the toilet, and went down hard. Thankfully the universe’s depraved sense of humor seemed to have cut her a break—the lid was down. Before she could stand, Parker was there, taking a knee and crowding her in.
“I’m fine. I’m just going to soak it a bit, then the rest should be easy,” she protested, hiding the wound with the palm of her hand.
Parker regarded her for a long moment, studying her as if she were an interesting puzzle he couldn’t quite put together.
“Tell you what,” he said. “You raise your arms above your head, and I’ll go back out there and disassemble the alarm clock.”
“I said television.”
“Yes, but I might want to watch cartoons later.” He grinned. “Come on, Georgia, arms above your head and I’m out of your hair. Shouldn’t be too hard. Most people do it every morning. So . . .” He placed his hands on her knees, the warmth of his skin slicing through her damp denim and warming her. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”
She released a long sigh that might have, if she hadn’t been so damn tired, aspired to be a laugh. She could raise her arms . . . if she absolutely had to. But they both knew it would be unnecessary agony. Despite every instinct that told her to take care of herself, to treat her own injuries, and to conceal anything that could be used against her, something in the way Parker squeezed her knee, in the way he teased instead of coaxed, put her at ease. As he stared at her, the bold blue of his eyes warm and steady, she let herself fall into his hands.
“Okay, then.” He twisted, rose, and pulled the hand towel out of the sink. Turning off the water and wringing out the cloth, he said, “You’ll be happy to know that while most of this place is a bargain-basement dump, the water heater is a total champ.”
“Great. Dibs on first shower.”
Parker knelt
in front of her, fingering the edge of her shirt. “Maybe we can share.”
As her mouth dropped open, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, he pressed the warm weight of the towel to her side, stealing any reply she might have made. Jerk.
“Just going to hold this here a second or two, let the water soak your shirt. In the meantime, feel free to join me in anticipating our shared shower shenanigans.”
“Never gonna happen,” Georgia said, breathing through the fresh wave of agony.
“Aw, now where’s your imagination?” He pulled the towel away from her side, tossing it back into the sink behind him. “Give it a try.” Gently, he pulled at the cotton around her wound, working the edges with a delicate patience she’d never have attributed to him. “Just think. It’s steamy, and everything’s wet. And why, yes, Georgia, water is rolling down my eight-pack.”
“Now you’re just delusional.” She snorted. “The only eight-pack you’ve ever had was in your fridge.”
“Sure about that, are you?” He grinned, mischief seizing his mouth and making his eyes sparkle. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the way he was all boyish playfulness one minute, then 100 percent focused intent the next. Charming. Devastating. Mischievous. Compelling. It was a well-choreographed dance, effortless and entirely unique to Parker. And damn but it made her want him to drop the towel and put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her lips.
So very dangerous, this man who knelt before her. She wondered if he even knew.
“All right, let’s give this a shot.” Slowly, and with nimble fingers that barely grazed her skin, he rolled up her shirt, coaxing and tugging the few pieces that stubbornly refused to loosen their hold. Finally, with far less pain than she’d envisioned, he helped her slide each arm out of the sleeves, lifted the shirt over her head, and discarded it.
“Oh, Georgia.” The soft exhale of his sympathy tickled the newly exposed skin of her breasts. A flush of embarrassment crawled across her skin. She’d never planned to be half-naked with Parker—if she had, she certainly would have opted for more than the simple gray jersey of her T-shirt bra. She supposed it was fair, though, for Parker to see her this way. Stripped down, there was nothing flirty or feminine, sexy or seductive about her. Functional, yes. Boring, absolutely. Traits she was comfortable with and usually wore easily. But for Parker . . .
Inexplicably, when Parker looked at her, she wanted to be more. Alluring. Sexy. Can’t-keep-his-hands-off tempting. Would she ever feel like she was enough? Would lessons learned in foster care, in Isaac’s company, ever let her go? She pulled her arms up, fighting the urge to cover her chest. Parker caught her wrists.
“Shh.” He brought her hands down to her lap. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Parker, she realized, was entirely focused on the gash at her side and the livid bruises blooming across her torso. Gentle fingers skated the edge of one the size of a grapefruit, eliciting a shiver.
“There wasn’t time. And really,” she said, her embarrassment easing, “nothing could have been done. I’ll clean and bandage the gash, but the bruises will have to heal the old-fashioned way.”
“You need stitches,” he said, his voice hoarse. Shaking, he stood, wetting a fresh washcloth from the sink.
“Nah.” She tried on a smile, hoping to cut the odd tension filling the room like a heavy cloud of steam. He was angry, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why. “Nothing a Band-Aid or two can’t fix.” She smiled as he turned. “But if you want to kiss it and make it all better, go ahead.”
“It’s not funny, Georgia.”
Well, no, it wasn’t. But she could see he was winding himself into a first-rate fit, and over what? She’d had worse. “It’s just a graze, Parker. A bit of antibiotic ointment, and I’ll be fine.” Provided she touched absolutely nothing in this roach motel, anyway.
“Just a graze?” He rounded on her, resuming his position between her legs. “He shot you, Georgia. Shot you.” Agony destroyed his face as he set himself about the task of cleaning up her side. “He came for me, but he hurt you.”
“Hey,” she said, laying a palm against his forearm. She tried not to let the way his muscles, bunched and twitching with tension, distract her. “I’m okay. It’s my job to get between you and the bullets.” She stroked a finger along a ridge of muscle and up toward his elbow. “It could have been a lot worse, Parker. We got off easy.”
“I don’t consider this,” he said, carefully dabbing at the cut, “getting off easy. It should have been me.”
Georgia pulled away. Of course it should have been him. God forbid his fragile male pride suffer the indignity of being saved by a woman.
“Your ego will recover. And if it helps, remind yourself a woman didn’t save you; your paid bodyguard did.” She tried to stand, only to have Parker slap a hand on her shoulder and shove her back down.
“You think that’s what this is?” he asked, anger lending a frenzied, jerking motion to his movements as he reached for the alcohol and sterile gauze. “Some antiquated antifeminist bullshit? You think my self-esteem is so low that I can’t admit when a woman can kick my ass—or that I’m such a self-important prick I can’t admit when she’s saved it?”
Well, yeah.
“God, you’re a stubborn creature.” He sighed, letting the righteous indignation he wore so well slip away. “I’m mad because if I’d listened to you, if I hadn’t been so busy thinking things through, analyzing every angle, you might not have been shot at all.”
That was what was bothering him? Guilt? Concern? For her?
“It’s all I’ve been able to think about this afternoon. That if I’d listened, if I’d moved when you told me to, if we’d left, you wouldn’t be hurting and a man wouldn’t be dead.” He put a warm hand, still a little damp from the towel, against her cheek. Brushing aside a lock of hair, he said, “I’m so sorry.”
Easily, as if the movement were natural to her, as if she could remember the last time someone had showed such concern for her, Georgia let her forehead come to rest against his. Breathing in the scent of warm laundry and sunny afternoons, she opened her eyes and stared into his. “It’s okay, Parker. We’re okay. You couldn’t have known, and there’s no guaranteeing how things might have played out.”
He clenched his eyes shut, then leaned away, the muscles in his neck corded and bunched as if it were the most difficult thing he’d ever done. “Just . . . just let me take care of you, all right?”
At a loss, Georgia fought every instinct, every lesson that reminded her this was a bad idea. That allowing someone else to see her wounded, to see her weak, only led to trouble. She let herself nod, ignoring the way a shallow dip of her chin managed to send her stomach on a plunge worthy of the world’s tallest roller coaster.
“This is probably going to sting a little,” he said, soaking the gauze with alcohol. Carefully, his face pinched with regret, he pressed the pad to her side.
Biting back a moan, Georgia sank her fingers into Parker’s shoulder, holding on and riding the burn as best she could, reminding herself to breathe. Finally, he pulled away the gauze, satisfied the wound was clean.
Cool, gentle air caressed her side, bathing the cut and shocking her far more thoroughly than the burn of alcohol. Gently, Parker dabbed ointment over the cut, blowing cool air to dull the sting the entire time.
A whimper tore from her throat even as her eyes stung. She’d taken cuffs to the head, endured the vicious posturing of group homes, weathered the brutal days following Will’s death—all without any show of emotion. Tears, like dreams, were for the privacy of a bedroom and the silence of a pillow. But Parker’s gentle fingers and quiet concern for her comfort utterly undid her.
He glanced up, his eyes going soft and sad behind his glasses. “Oh, honey, hasn’t anyone ever taken care of you?”
Yes, she thought as emotion clogged her throat. Yes, there was a time when there’d been someone to kiss every scrape, to soothe every fear. And that was t
he problem. Remembering her parents, her mother’s grace and gentle touch, her father’s booming laugh and protective grip—it hurt. Hurt so much she did her level best to push away those memories, because the good memories, the ones of family, and certainty, and acceptance hurt so much more than the bad ones. Knowing she’d been loved—first by her parents, and then, in his own awkward, brotherly way, by Will, only reminded her of everything she’d lost.
Everything she’d never have again.
Parker didn’t say anything, though his expression changed to something . . . odd. Something determined and stubborn as he taped a fresh square of gauze over the cut and stood, offering her a hand. “Probably best not to get it wet tonight.”
“Probably,” Georgia croaked around the unnamed emotion blocking her throat.
“I’ll get you some ibuprofen and one of the bottles of water,” he said, and for the first time she watched as he stepped back and took in the whole of her, his eyes lingering not on the bruises but on the rise and fall of her breasts. With effort, he pulled his eyes to her face. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just go get those for you.”
As he turned, spontaneity and good old-fashioned want—God, did she want—had her reaching out, catching his hand.
He stopped, the effort it took to keep perfectly still bunching his shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Slowly, he stepped back, pivoting to face her. Scant inches separated them, exaggerating the difference in their height. Georgia tilted her head back, forcing herself to steady, to wait for his next move. Ages passed as she stood out in the open, exposed and vulnerable, her every breath loud in her ears.
Slowly, Parker brought a hand to her face, trailed the pad of a thumb across the goose egg on her brow.
On a breathy moan, part agony, part defeat, he laid his mouth to hers.
Why had he thought, for even a moment, he could touch her and not have her? From the second he’d laid hands on her, felt her tremble with hurt and confusion, he’d known he didn’t have the strength to keep his distance. That he needed to have her beneath him, moaning and trembling for far more pleasurable purposes. Ignoring all the reasons it was a bad idea, he gave in to the temptation that had ridden him since she’d first stepped into his kitchen and tunneled his fingers through her hair. Her curls, wild and ravaged by winter, snared him, welcoming him into their depths and refusing to let go.
Defenseless (Somerton Security #1) Page 8