She spoke right over his intent to argue. “How dare you? I have nothing else to add to that. I’m outraged and pissed and... dammit, appalled.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He sat on the bottom step and nudged her with his elbow. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t be trusted just that Ronan can’t be trusted.” He snapped his mouth shut. Best not to pursue that topic.
“I still don’t want you up there.” Her bottom lip jutted out, the soft inner skin shiny and moist.
Slate didn’t hesitate – he swooped her up and took the wooden stairs two at a time. “Unless you have a hidden shrine to Michael Bolton, I don’t see how I’d have a problem.”
Becky stared over his shoulder, as if unwilling to face a monster upstairs. “You have a problem with Bolton?”
Shrugging as much as able with the woman in his arms, Slate answered, a smile more in his voice than on his face. “Not so much the man himself, but I’m not a fan of the music. I prefer Country in all its depressed honky-tonk glory.”
She-Doc pulled back. Slate warmed under her perusal. Her smile glazed her words. “Mr. MacAllister, did you just make a funny?”
He arched his eyebrow, the flirting worth every step up the rough steep stairs. “I can accept the stereotypes that go along with being a cowboy and a ranch owner. Sometimes I play to it, like a game.” But Slate’s next line slid from his mind.
He’d reached the top. And stopped. His first time in the large rectangular loft, Slate would’ve believed it was used more for scant storage than for living quarters for a gorgeous, well-maintained woman with more smarts than her size warranted.
A thin twin mattress nested on a carefully folded blue tarp beside the brick chimney flue. Folded blankets piled seven or eight deep claimed the foot of the bed. Sheets tucked Army-style with tight square corners suggested they’d never been slept in. A twelve-inch television watched the room from a perch of books – both medical and fiction – on the floor close to the head of the bed. Worn luggage sat closed on the one elevated surface in the area, more sawhorses bridged with chipped and ragged wooden planks. A pink-toed sock poked from the corner of the smaller suitcase, like a bubblegum tongued teenager licking her lip.
The bare floor spread out with Siberian expanse before him. Where there should have been pictures of loved ones or even art there were open holes displaying gray-hued yellow insulation. A lone window squatted along the wall opposite the stairs which might bring in a cool breeze in the summer or release valuable heat in the cooler months.
A doctor, dressed with simple elegance and confident mannerisms lived in sparse surroundings – less than sparse. The contradiction was not lost on Slate. He swallowed his pity and replaced it with anger. Dr. Roylance rode the high horse of wealth in the small community as the only one in city limits with enough money to buy prime rib at the café every Sunday for dinner. Hell, Roylance bragged continuously about his second home in Arizona he and the wife were retiring to as soon as another physician settled down to replace him.
That Becky had to endure the squalid setting while yards from splendor grated on Slate’s nerves. “Do you want me to say something to Roylance about your lodgings?”
Her back stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean. This is how I want it. I like living like…”
“A nun?” The innuendo that fell between them hadn’t been intentional, but Slate’s curiosity won out. Were all the aspects of her life conducive to abstinence? Did she drink, smoke, swear like a sailor, sleep around, or out-and-out steal? He’d prefer the fourth one, but only if she did it with extreme prejudice and he could benefit from it. His groin had been making decisions for the better part of the morning. Slate hadn’t realized how long it’d been for him.
Maybe men really were like stud horses and needed to keep things moving in that area or control fell apart.
“I wouldn’t say I live like a nun.” Becky cleared her throat. “I can stand on one foot, if you put me down and hold onto my arm.”
Slate’s uncertainty didn’t recede as he took in the decrepit rug half under the sawhorse table. Nevertheless, he complied and set her in front of the suitcases. “Do you want me to pack anything?” From the looks of things, she was ready to leave any second.
“No, thanks.” Becky unzipped the largest of the three. She pulled out a stack of white squares.
Slate moved closer. A collection of bottles and packages filled the inside of the container where he’d expected clothing to be.
The more time he spent with her, the longer he wanted to be around her.
She-Doc added more items to her pile and gathered them into her arms. Her green eyes trained on him. “I’m not packing anything. I’m not staying over.”
He sighed and followed her as she lowered herself to the ground. “I’m not coming back to town and your truck is stuck at the mechanics. More snow is coming. What else do you need to convince you to stay the night?”
“Just one night?” Her auburn eyebrow slanted high on her forehead.
He crossed his heart like a six-year-old boy and grinned. “I’ll bring you in on a sled, if I have to.”
She bit her lower lip and dropped the first aid items to her lap. “Fine. But I need to fix this before we go.” Her face paled and her hands shook.
“You really are afraid of your own blood, aren’t you?” The memory of her cutting confidently into his nephew warred with the pale-faced fear he read in her eyes.
Her leg stuck straight out, resting on the ground beside Slate. Tree bark had torn a significant chunk of material from her jeans. Pale skin lit up in the dark surroundings offset by the drying blood. She swallowed. “Not afraid exactly, more like I know more about the body than most. I just don’t want to see inside mine.” Leaning forward, she yanked her shoe off and placed it behind her. Then her sock. She squared her slender jaw.
Opening a bottle, Becky soaked a handful of gauze. Her face lost more color.
Slate couldn’t whisk her from the pain or the wound, but he could help her with the blood portion. He reached across their laps and pulled the white pad from her hand. “Here, let me.”
Jagged edges of her wound split from the anterior portion of her leg in a six-inch circle around to the side. Slate patted at the blood, wiping when he was certain he wouldn’t jar the injury.
Becky closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. Her leg twitched at even the softest touch.
All the blood suggested she’d need sutures, but once the wound and surrounding area were clean, Slate’s relief rushed his words. “I don’t think you need stitches. Worst-case scenario, you’re going to have some pretty serious bruises maybe even scarring. Best case… well, I don’t know best case, ‘cause the worst case doesn’t seem all that bad.”
Her tight expression didn’t look convinced, as if she expected her leg to fall off any second.
Slate angled his head down to see the bottom of her foot. “Oh, crap, I didn’t see this.”
Becky whipped her face his direction, eyes wide. A tremor caught her breath. “What?”
Pointing with his forefinger, Slate skimmed the center of her foot. He smiled slow and laughed as she wiggled. “This foot might not make it. It’s too cute.”
The crease over the bridge of her nose softened. Her lips loosened into a half smile. “Feet aren’t cute.” But the vulnerable death scare dimmed.
Slate shrugged. “I don’t know. This one may be the exception.” And it was. The curve where her ankle turned into her lower foot promised the accompanying body had angles of similar elegance. He held her foot in his hand. The heat wasn’t imagined. Fevers couldn’t arise in seconds.
The smiles faded from their faces in sync, as if they danced without music.
Chapter 15
Oh, hot damn, kiss me already. Becky couldn’t breathe. All she wanted in that moment was his lips on hers, hands pressing her close.
But did she have the guts to kiss an involved man? Doubtful. She couldn’t steal DNA and she couldn’t s
teal another woman’s man, no matter what Ronan suggested. Plus, if she faced the truth, through everything he declared, Slate didn’t trust Becky enough. Not after the Ronan debacle in the clearing.
Holding a gun on a man… come on. Crazy how fast she forgot the gun at his hip, tucked into the holster like a belt decoration, deadly but beautiful. She’d been in Montana so long, guns were the norm.
Becky stared into Slate’s blue eyes for another lengthy, heated second. She pulled back, plastering a smile on her stiff lips. Confusion cooled his gaze and he studied her leg.
Her wound. She needed to get it bandaged and get Slate out of there.
The last thing she needed right then involved staying at his house. With him. And Amelia. Even if they weren’t together, Becky had no stakes in him. She couldn’t move in on that unless she was absolutely certain he was free, but how did she ask? Hey, Slate, I wanted to jump your bones, but I’ve been worried you’re spending your nights with Amelia, any thoughts?
Available or not, Becky had the awful sensation she was going to be stuck in the damnable position of pining for him like a junior high crush. She shook off the shivers running down her ribs. “You’re not very good at giving the good and bad news. My guess is you’ve never done this before.” She squeezed her other leg to relieve the cramping in the upper thigh.
Slate nodded. “You’re right. I’ve never had to tell a person anything about their medical condition. The worst thing I’ve ever had to tell a patient was when a lady a few towns over brought me her favorite rat. A rat. The thing had a huge growth on the side of its neck.” He laughed. “I recommended letting it be, but the woman paid twelve-hundred dollars for diagnostic studies and surgery.”
“No way. I can’t get some people to pay that for themselves. What happened? Don’t tell me the rat died.” The pain in her leg ebbed and flowed, but his charm pulled her attention from the wound like a snake from a basket. He was good… so good.
Slate wiped outside the wound with dry gauze. “Actually, the rat made it through the surgery well and lived another month. The lady’s cat ate the rat. Like a terrible children’s poem, right?” He pressed the skin together, adjusting the wound like puzzle pieces to make a fit.
A surprised laugh broke off with a wince. Becky closed her eyes. Oh, for crying out loud. Packaging crinkled and she peeked from scrunched lids. Slate had pulled out an eight-by-eight inch bandage. The Big Daddy. “I’m going to see if I can’t butterfly this before dressing it, okay?”
Butterflies could come off. “How deep is it?” Becky reached for the gloves sitting in her lap. Snapping them on her right hand, she leaned forward, eyes shut, and pressed with her fingertips on the flesh below her kneecap. While the gloves prevented the wetness from penetrating her skin, nothing was keeping that warmth out. Becky bit her tongue to fight back the nausea. She could do this.
“It’s not that bad. Hey, what are you doing? Is that airplane glue?” Slate lifted her foot and leaned over her leg, the heat from his breath distracting.
“Yes.” She twisted the lid off the small tube. There wasn’t enough power in all of Montana to make her look at her leg. Becky held out her hand. “Could you?”
“What?” He took the tube but his intense gaze never left her face.
“Pull the skin together where you think a butterfly would work and glue it together. Hold it there while it sets, you can even blow on it to dry it faster.” Oh, good criminy, she might not survive that part.
“Um, I can just butterfly it, if you give them to me. This doesn’t feel sanitary.” Somehow her leg had shifted from the ground to rest on his lap. Becky accidentally glanced over the red gash as she looked at Slate. Ugh. Her stomach rolled over. She’d need a new application of deodorant after this.
But was it the contact with Slate affecting her or the cut? She’d never been injured quite so bad so she didn’t have anything to compare it to. The most blood she’d ever encountered of her own was once a month and nose bleeds. She didn’t count the elbow scrapes and paper cuts from school, which to be honest had made her pass out once or twice.
His fingers branded her skin. Enough. He could be taken and as long as he touched her she wanted to forget that fact. Whether Mac was a nephew or not, didn’t matter. She refused to be a home-wrecker.
Hot and cold feelings toward him built toward a migraine. Dang it. She took the glue from his fingers. “Here. Okay, first of all, this should be called Super Glue, not airplane glue or model glue. And it is sanitary.” She faced the slice in her leg and continued talking while applying the clear liquid to skin he held together. “This stuff was accidentally discovered during World War II and then later used during the Vietnam War to suture up wounded soldiers before transporting them to safety. Liquid stitches. The idea was to minimize the size of the first aid kits they had to pack.” A sharp chemical odor overrode the copper in the air. “Plus, the humid air didn’t work well with sutures.”
Slate’s voice was low. “You know a lot, for a human doctor.” He blew air on the glue spots.
Becky’s lips tingled. She had to let him dry the glue or it’d be ineffective in its job. Right. She was two seconds from asking him to have an affair with her.
He sat up and applied the bandage and then the sticky, ace-style Coban wrap to her leg.
Becky inspected her accurately treated leg. “You do pretty well… for an animal doctor.” Grinning, she looked up.
His eyes focused on her lips and for a moment Becky was sure he was about to kiss her. Instead, he pulled away and stood.
She almost yelled at him, “What the hell?” but bit her lip instead. A little tit for tat, maybe? Irritation blossomed in her chest. Of course, she ignored his outstretched hand to help her and pulled herself up using the wooden leg of the sawhorse beside her.
Something gouged her palm. Damn, seriously? A splinter poked out of her skin. Becky yanked at it with her fingers. The thing reached an inch in length and wasn’t in deep. Slid right out.
Slate needed to do the same. Slide out of her place. She didn’t need him to be there with all his confusing signals and hypnotic eyes.
Luggage set between them like a force field, Becky lifted her chin and plopped her hands on her hips, balanced solely on her good leg. “So, how long have you and Amelia been together? You keep calling Mac your nephew, but he looks like your son.” Now that was ballsy!
Incredulous – nothing else could describe the agape lips, pale then flushed face, and narrowing eyes – Slate shook his head, speechless.
Yeah, right.
Silence stretched between them. Becky’s bravado deflated into something just above awkward and then, the rest of the air left her confidence and she slipped into complete shift-your-feet-smell-your-armpits-‘cause-you’re-nervous-as-hell discomfort. After another three seconds, arms akimbo, Becky’s voice reached a level she’d never heard before. “Well? Say something.”
His forearm muscles flexed. When had he taken off his coat? The dark hair didn’t stop at the wrist, but shadowed his arm up under his sleeve above the elbow. Becky stared. She couldn’t make herself look away. His arms. Hot damn. He stepped closer, a freckle came into focus. Becky, damn, girl, look away.
The luggage didn’t protect her. Slate circumvented the minimal protection, step by slow step.
She hobbled backwards until her hips pushed against the wooden framed railing.
“Do you realize you aren’t as controlled as you like to pretend? Why is that?” He reached out and snagged a stray piece of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. Rolling the thick chunk, he contemplated her face. Low and hoarse, the intimacy matched the tone of his voice. “Do you use it as a defense mechanism?”
Becky snatched her hair from him and leaned as far back as she could. The tight binding on her leg had reduced the throb to a suggestion of pain. He’d done well. In spite of herself, she was impressed and being impressed didn’t bode well for her willpower. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t ha
ve a defense mechanism. That’s so…” For once her words failed her and she didn’t have anything to sling at him. She shook her head and straightened as much as her leg would let her. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t do the whole taken-man thing.”
The side of his mouth and his left eyebrow lifted as if connected by the same wire. “You don’t do taken men?” He placed a hand on either side of her waist on the railing. “That’s good.” His head lowered. Hot breath caressed her cheek. He whispered. “’Cause I’m not taken. I’m free for the doing.”
Becky’s throat tightened. Her chest constricted. Holy hell, she better not faint or she was going to kick her own ass. Their lips touched and Becky’s body jerked. Soft skin over masculine marble, pliable yet firm, nibbled on her lower lip. If she opened her mouth, she’d drool all over the place. His lips moved down the angle of her jaw and nipped the soft skin of her earlobe. Her eyes rolled of their own will. Good night, she was done.
But Slate wasn’t. His lips returned to hers. He groaned. With a soft grip on her loose ponytail, Slate yanked her head back and delved the depths of her mouth. Her knees weakened and if his hand hadn’t been on the small of her back, she would have fallen, right there. Damn-hot-sexy-as-hell-apparently-not-taken-delicious-man.
He withdrew with painstaking slowness, taking his damn time like everyone else in the whole slow state of Montana. The huskiness in his words continued the assault on her body that his mouth had begun. “I hope you’re not into Ronan James, ‘cause I don’t share and I’d hate to have one more reason to tip the scales in favor of killing him.”
What had he said? Something about killing someone. She didn’t really care, to be honest. Maybe if she tossed another rude question his way, he’d do that to her again. Heat inflamed her face at the thought. If she stayed out at his place, he’d expect her to do that again. And maybe again. Wouldn’t he? Maybe she should pack and go. Mac needed another follow up. Oh, hell, she couldn’t kid herself. She needed another followup with the good vet.
A shiver replaced his warmth.
Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1) Page 9