“Stay.” He pointed his finger and disappeared through the archway leading to her family room and staircase.
She stared after him. As if she could do much else. Her ankle now resembled an inflatable armband like the ones her son used for swimming. Nate’s footfalls thudded dully around Drew’s room, followed by several moments of silence. Then the floorboards in her bedroom above creaked. A dresser drawer rattled on its tracks.
He was in her room, pawing through her sensible panties and plain cotton bras.
She struggled to her feet and hopped to the stairs, each small jolt causing sweat to pop out on her forehead. Above, more drawers opened and shut. Prickles sped along her body, her skin flushing hot enough to melt metal.
Lauren balanced on one foot, hanging on to the bannister. “Nate?”
Footsteps clicked across the floor, and his head appeared around the doorjamb.
“I can get my own clothes later.” Her leg trembled with strain as she fought to stay upright.
Nate flicked off her bedroom light and jogged down to her. “Thought I told you not to move?”
Fingernail tips carved half-moon craters into her palm. Just what had he seen in those drawers? “I could’ve got—”
“Bathroom through here?” He pushed open the door at the foot of the stairs.
“Yes, but wait a minute, you can’t—” She hopped after him.
“Is this where you keep your towels?” He stood in front of her linen cupboard. “I couldn’t find any upstairs.”
“Towels?” she parroted.
“Yes, you’re soaking wet.”
His deep, patient voice decimated her poise to that of a tongue-tied schoolgirl standing in the principal’s office.
“Bottom shelf.” It was then Lauren noticed the clothes tucked under his arm.
Drew’s red and blue Superman pajamas, and her much-worn sweatshirt and yoga pants. No boring cotton underwear in sight. Thank goodness.
“Here you go.” He passed her a towel and placed the stack of clothes beside the washbasin.
“Thanks.” She buried her heat-stained cheeks in the soft folds and scrubbed at her hair.
Get with it, Lauren. He’s just being nice. Kind and helpful and nice. Nate Fraser certainly didn’t seem like the type of man to rummage in a woman’s lingerie for kicks.
She lowered the towel, her hope he’d become bored while she’d dried her hair dashed. Still there. Dominating the room, gaze steady as he draped a towel around his wide shoulders. As if he didn’t intend to leave any time soon. Short of knocking him unconscious with the nearby bathroom scales, she couldn’t imagine a way of removing him.
He opened the medicine cabinet. “Is your first aid kit in here?”
She nodded, and he plucked out a plastic container with a white cross taped to the lid.
“Now.” He leaned back against the washbasin, crossing his ankles and flashing a feral smile. “Can you manage removing those wet clothes by yourself, or do you need me to help?”
Blood napalmed the length of her body again. “I can handle it.”
“If you’re sure.” He rubbed the towel along the back of his neck with lazy strokes. Broad shoulders and defined pectoral muscles shifted beneath his black tee shirt with each up and down motion of his hand.
Lauren blinked. What on earth?
Nate turned and sauntered out of her bathroom.
Don’t. Have some pride.
But she couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping from the width of his back to his hips…and lower. The man possessed an A-plus example of a tight, male ass.
Lauren hopped forward and shut the door. She rested her brow against the cool wood until her pulse slowed from a crazy gallop to a respectable trot. Maybe she’d knocked her head earlier and now suffered from some weird form of concussion.
She stripped out of her wet shorts and tee shirt then perched on the edge of the bathtub to tug on the dry clothes. Alone, she would’ve remained in the bathroom for a few moments longer. But if Drew woke to find a strange man in their home, it could wipe out everything she’d worked toward these last two years.
Using the walls for balance, she grabbed the Superman pajamas and hopped all the way into the kitchen. Her gaze darted to Drew—still out of it, thank goodness. She looked toward Nate, who sat at her dining table, dark hair tumbling onto his brow, long, concert-pianist fingers rifling through the first aid kit. He plucked a tube of Arnica cream from the container and laid it beside a roll of elasticated bandage.
“Sit down, and I’ll wrap your ankle.” He pitched his voice low, flicking a glance at the couch.
“You don’t have to do this,” Lauren said from the archway.
“I’m happy to drive you to Bounty Bay’s hospital, if you’d prefer.”
A forty-minute trip each way into town. Plus curious faces, medical records, questions…
After one more look at her son, she slid her gaze back to Nate. “I don’t need to go to hospital for a sprained ankle.”
“So sit, and I’ll stick a compression bandage on it.”
She hopped to the seat opposite him and sat.
He held out his hand. “Foot.”
“Do you always administer first aid to strangers?” She tugged up the leg of her yoga pants and placed her left foot in his outstretched palm. Warmth soaked into her skin. She nearly squirmed.
Nate rested her heel on his knee. “Only the pretty ones, but not usually ones with big, vicious dogs.”
Lauren rolled her eyes, ignoring the shivers spiraling up her leg from the rough denim touching her skin. “Java’s not vicious.”
“Another misunderstood Rottweiler, huh?” He twisted the cap off the Arnica cream.
Wild flutters exploded inside her stomach. She didn’t want his touch, didn’t want him this close. Close enough that the enticing top notes of sandalwood in his cologne tickled her nose.
He must’ve felt her foot shift, as his green gaze jerked to hers.
“I’ll try not to hurt you again.”
Did he remember her overreaction on the road? Better he think her a wimp than suspect the real reason. “I guess I have a low tolerance for pain.”
“Don’t we all.” Nate bent forward, squeezing a small amount of the cream onto her ankle.
She flinched and grabbed the chair edge.
He crooked an eyebrow. “That couldn’t have hurt.”
“No, it didn’t hurt. It’s just cold.”
Their gazes met, held for an awkward beat before she looked down at the blob of cream. His fingers slid under her calf to support the weight of her leg, while his other hand stroked ointment over the swollen skin. Each stroke of those long fingers sent warm swirls of sensation dancing up her back and across her scalp. She should’ve spread the cream on herself, which begged the question of why she hadn’t.
Lauren risked a glance up from her ankle to find Nate watching. She cleared the half dozen frogs from her throat.
“Have you taken first aid courses?”
He gave a brief shake of his head. “Not formal ones. My mother’s a nurse, so I picked up the basics. The rest I learned on the job.”
“As a photojournalist, not a photographer.”
After unraveling the end of the bandage, he wound it around her foot and ankle in a figure eight. “Uh-huh.”
“Is it a dangerous job?”
“Sometimes. Mainly when bullets are flying.”
“You’ve been shot at?”
“More than once.”
She winced as Nate secured the bandage with a safety pin. “Maybe you should’ve chosen to be a wedding photographer; it sounds safer.”
“You ever witness a bridezilla on her wedding day?” He smiled, the transformation from serious to stunning causing the stomach fluttering to escalate.
Refusing to acknowledge the tension between her shoulder blades thanks to the prolonged contact of Nate’s hand, Lauren allowed a brief grin to cross her mouth. “No, I haven’t.”
But sh
e’d been on photo shoots with young women high on amphetamines and low on proper nutrition, both of which contributed to their hysterical temperaments.
“Yeah, well me either—and I don’t intend to. I’ll leave the psychotic brides and screaming babies to someone else. Political coups are much more my scene.”
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to the action?”
Back to the action and far, far away from the safe little life she’d clawed out for her and her son. At least the man wouldn’t be hanging around over summer, inviting his nosy reporter pals up for a few beers.
“Absolutely, I—”
A murmur and rustle from the couch, a whimper.
“Drew—”
Lauren pushed herself off the chair and Nate’s hand slipped from her foot.
But she was too late.
Caught in a nightmare’s grip, his mouth twisted and contorted, Drew cried out. “No, Daddy! No. Please!”
* * *
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to Steph who is an awesome lady and was a kick-ass copper. Appreciate you answering all my many, many questions.
Also thanks to Ken for some of the eye-opening stories you told me about your time serving with the police.
And to the lovely female officer I had the pleasure sitting next to on a plane last year, thank you for helping me understand why you do what you do so tirelessly. To make a difference.
I believe you do.
About the Author
Tracey Alvarez is a USA TODAY BEST-SELLING author who lives in the Coolest Little Capital in the World (a.k.a Wellington, New Zealand) where she’s yet to be buried under her to-be-read book pile by Wellington’s infamous wind—her Kindle’s a lifesaver! Married to a wonderfully supportive IT guy, she has two teens who would love to be surgically linked to their electronic devices.
Fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, she’s the author of contemporary romantic fiction set predominantly in New Zealand. Small-towns, close communities, and families are a big part of the heart-warming stories she writes. Oh, and hot, down-to-earth heroes—Kiwi men, in other words.
When she’s not writing, thinking about writing, or procrastinating about writing, Tracey can be found reading sexy books of all romance genres, nibbling on smuggled chocolate bars, or bribing her kids to take over the housework.
www.traceyalvarez.com
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Tracey A.
Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10 Page 31