Читать книгу Take My Breath Away... - Cara Summers - Страница 10

AS SHE DROPPED to her knees next to the man, Nicola absorbed other details. His legs were long and clad in black jeans. She noted the narrow waist, broad chest and shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt and an open Paul Bunyan-style plaid flannel shirt. It was rolled halfway up muscular forearms.

His face was cast in shadow. But the beam of her flashlight caught pale skin, dark hair, a strong nose and chin, a slash of cheekbones.

Recognition flickered at the edge of her mind, then faded when she saw the nasty-looking gash on the side of his forehead. Blood had already pooled on the marble floor beneath his head.

Nicola’s stomach knotted again. His skin was too pale, his body too still. Setting down her gun, she balanced her flashlight to point upward. Then she slipped her hand beneath the collar of the plaid shirt and felt for a pulse.

She found one.

As it pushed strong and steady against her fingers, she let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. Whoever he was, he was still alive. And someone had worked hard to bring him down. The man was big. But his skin was cold and clammy.

And wet. So was his shirt. So were her slacks, for that matter. Then she noted for the first time the shards of broken glass and the flowers—a spray of red roses that lay strewn across the marble floor. The blood that had pooled around his head and shoulders was mixed with water from the broken vase.

Who was he? A janitor? The driver of that other car? Had he surprised Gabe Wilder when he was trying to steal the statue? But now wasn’t the time to deal with any of those questions. When she glanced at him again, she once more felt a flicker of recognition, but she couldn’t quite remember.

His cut needed attention. And if she didn’t want him to go into shock, she was going to have to find a way to keep him warm.

Nicola took off her coat and tucked it as best she could around the unconscious man. It barely reached his knees. She slipped out of her suit jacket and pulled her silk T-shirt over her head. Folding it carefully into a square, she pressed it to the cut on the side of his forehead.

Finally, she placed her free hand on the side of his face and leaned closer. “Hey, can you hear me?”

No response.

She patted her palm firmly against his cheek. “You’re going to be all right.”

At least she was praying he would be.

Reaching for his hand, she drew it onto his chest and covered it with her own. Not an easy job. His palm was much larger than hers, his fingers long. They might have belonged to an artist, a pianist perhaps, except the backs of those long fingers were callused.

And they were cold. So was she. The draft of air she’d felt when she’d first entered the room was growing more frigid by the second. Glancing around, she spotted the open window and scrambled up to close it. Then she returned to her knees beside the injured man and took his hand again. Squeezing his fingers, she raised her voice. “Can you hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered. She noticed for the first time how dark his lashes were, how long.

“Come on. Open your eyes.”

He did. For an instant, as his gaze locked on hers, the punch of awareness and the flare of heat in her belly stole her breath away.

She’d seen this man before. He’d been in her father’s office on the day after Thanksgiving. And he’d had the same effect on her then. Even through a glass wall, even at a distance of twenty-five feet, she’d felt the impact of his gaze like a punch. He’d made her lose track of everything.

“Cur …?”

The sound was little more than a gasp. Cur? It made no sense to Nicola. But it allowed her to shove the memory away and focus her attention on the injured man. She drew in a breath and felt her lungs burn.

“Head … hurts …” His fingers linked with hers and tightened.

This time when she met his eyes, she checked to see whether or not they were dilated. They weren’t. Even in the dim light from her flashlight, she could distinguish clearly between the pinpoint of black at the center and the cloudy gray of his irises.

Then his lids drifted shut.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” she asked. She had to find that out. And it was much safer to concentrate on that task than on what she’d just felt. Or what she’d felt that day in the FBI office.

But in the three months since it had happened, she hadn’t been able to rid her mind of the memory. From the moment she’d walked into the office she’d been aware of him, but it hadn’t been until his eyes had met hers that he’d registered fully on her senses.

And he’d registered fully all right. She was sure the impact might have been caught on a Richter scale—if there’d been one handy. Part of what she was feeling, she’d recognized—that tingling sensation that always told her something was just … somehow right.

But it had made no sense and it had never before made her feel as if the ground were dissolving beneath her feet. Not that she’d been able to feel her feet. All she could feel was him. And she’d wanted to feel more of him. Heat, glorious waves of it, had washed through her system. Every cell in her body had melted and yearned.

And when he’d risen to his feet in one fluid movement and taken a step toward her, she’d nearly run to him. Right through glass walls like some kind of superhero. The impulse had been so baffling, so totally insane, so verging on the irresistible that she’d finally found the strength to drag her gaze away from him.

And she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him affect her that way again. Closing her eyes, she pulled in air, felt the burn in her lungs and then exhaled, and breathed in again.

Mental list time. When she opened her eyes, she checked the cut first and saw that the bleeding was slowing. After replacing the square of cloth, she slipped her fingers behind his head to check the back. The instant she touched the bump, he winced and made a sound.

So he’d suffered a double whammy to his head. No wonder he was woozy. Shifting her coat aside, she ran her hands on a quick journey from the back of his neck, down his arms. When he neither winced nor yelped again, she drew her palms from his shoulders to his waist, then from his hips down those long, long legs. The man was one solid wall of muscle.

And she still wanted him. There was no mistaking the heat that had flared to life deep inside of her as she’d run her hands over him. No controlling it, either. She knew what she was feeling. She wasn’t stupid, so she’d pegged it the first time she’d seen him. Lust. Pure and simple. And incredibly intense.

Whoever believed that lightning couldn’t strike twice was dead wrong. But wherever the lust had come from, it could just go back there. She had a job to do—a possible thief fleeing down a mountain, an injured man who was sliding into shock and two statues of St. Francis. Her plate was currently full.

She glanced down to where her hands still rested on his ankles. First step—she had to stop touching him. Releasing her grip, she was about to get to her feet when a sudden thought occurred to her. When she’d patted him down, she hadn’t felt a wallet. But she checked his pockets just to make sure. She located a cell phone, but nothing else.

Had Gabe Wilder taken this man’s wallet? Why?

She glanced back at his face. His eyes were closed now, and he looked even paler. She had questions, but he was in no condition to answer.

Fishing in her coat pocket, she located her cell and tried again.

Nothing.

Then she stared at the time. Nearly nine-thirty. Rising, she glanced around the small room and spotted the landline on a counter. There was no dial tone when she lifted the receiver. Even if she’d been able to call 911, it would take help some time to arrive. So she was on her own.

Grabbing some candles she found next to the phone, she lit them. Then she located a pile of linen towels and mopped up the water around his head and shoulders. Finally, she dropped to her knees and took his hand again. It was so cold. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “You’re going to be all right.” As if to reassure herself of that, she lifted her square of T-shirt again and checked the cut. It was clean and not very deep. “You probably won’t need stitches, and the bleeding has nearly stopped.”

And she doubted he heard a word she was saying. But when she tried to pull her hand away, his grip tightened again—as if she were his lifeline.

“Statue …” he murmured.

“It’s still here,” she said.

“Both …?”

“They’re both here.” Curious about how much he’d seen, she leaned closer. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer her this time, and a second later his hand went limp in hers. She felt the instant surge of panic and shoved it down. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath their joined hands assured her that he was still with her.

For the moment.

“It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.” And it was. It had to be. Step number one was to get him warm.

Shivering, she slipped back into the jacket she’d discarded earlier and buttoned it up; then she tucked her coat around him again. There had to be something in the closet that she could use to keep him warm.

Behind the first door she opened, she found choir robes hanging on hooks. Though they were a different color, they reminded her of the robe that St. Francis wore in the sculpture. She thought of the statue’s special prayer-answering powers. In spite of the fact that she’d tried praying to him once before without much success, she decided to give him a second chance.

“Help me keep him safe and well until I can get him medical attention,” she murmured. Then she started pulling robes off their hangers.

GABE STRUGGLED TO FIND his way to the surface again. He’d done it once, hadn’t he? Or had he just dreamed that he’d seen Curls leaning over him?

Focus.

His thoughts were spinning like little whirlpools—just out of reach. There was something important, something he needed to take care of. The statue … the effort it took to remember had pain stabbing his head again.

Okay. For a moment, he gave up, letting himself drift. And he saw her again.

Curls.

The moment her image took shape in his mind, his headache eased, and the memory slid into place. He let himself drift with it. He’d been at the St. Francis Center shooting baskets, and he’d sensed someone watching him. Not his friends, Nash and Jonah, who never made it to the center until noon. And sure enough, there she’d stood in the small garden beside the basketball court, her hands wrapped around the narrow poles in the wrought-iron fence. She’d looked like a prisoner. Perhaps that’s what had appealed to him, what had triggered a sense in him that they were kindred spirits.

Because at that time, he’d felt like a prisoner, too, trapped in promises that he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep. He’d stood beside his mother’s bed holding his father’s hand as they’d both sworn their vows. He’d promised to never follow in his father’s footsteps, and his father had promised to give up his lifelong profession.

But the promise hadn’t done his father much good. Raphael Wilder had been falsely accused and convicted, and he’d died shortly after in prison.

So why should he bother to keep his promise? That was the question he’d been asking himself as he’d lunged, dribbled and shot basket after basket. And all the time she’d watched him. When he’d finally wheeled to confront her, it had been her eyes that had captured him.

He’d seen admiration and hero worship in them. Those had been balm to the raw, angry feelings of a thirteen-year-old who’d been newly orphaned.

So he’d taught her what he’d known about the game, and no teacher could have dreamed of a more responsive student.

The memory blurred for a moment. That wasn’t what he should be thinking about. There was something else. Something important. Urgent. When he reached for it, pain pierced like a fiery arrow.

Curls.

This time when the image surfaced, it wasn’t the child who had enchanted him, saved him when he was thirteen, but the woman who had gripped his hand and said that everything would be all right.

And it would be. He let out the breath he’d been holding and slipped under again.

TO PREVENT HER TEETH from chattering, Nicola clamped them together as she dragged the last choir robes out of the closet and added them to the pile at the injured man’s feet. Thank heavens there’d been a generous supply. And they were heavy.

In spite of her efforts to keep her mind on the task at hand, she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking about her reaction to the man. At twenty-six, she was no stranger to desire or lust. She’d had her moments and thoroughly enjoyed them. But those feelings had never flared quite so quickly or intensely before.

And she didn’t seem to have any control over them. Each time she’d added to the pile of robes, she hadn’t been able to prevent herself from looking at him. And each time she did, she felt that catch of her breath, that flare of heat.

There was no logic to it. There hadn’t been from the beginning.

He was a stranger. But her heart was pounding. And in spite of her determination, her mind kept spinning back to those moments in her office and just minutes ago when he’d looked into her eyes and her thoughts had clicked off just as completely as if someone had thrown a switch.

Dropping the last robe on the pile, she drew in a deep breath. Mental list time again. She knelt down to check her patient. His pulse was steady, the bleeding on his forehead had stopped, but she knew he had to be very cold. She certainly was. Even with the window shut, the room felt like a deep freeze. Her feet had gone numb and she’d begun to shiver.

She had to get him out of the clothes that had been drenched by the vase of water. The Paul Bunyan shirt was easy enough. Placing his arms over his head, she tugged on the sleeves. Once they were off, she finessed the rest of the shirt from under him.

His T-shirt presented more of a problem, but it had to go. In the flickering light, she could see the wet stain covered his shoulders and ran in streaks nearly to his waist. She began by tugging the material free from the waistband of his jeans. But the moment the backs of her fingers brushed against his bare skin, she knew she was in trouble, and it deepened steadily as she eased the shirt up, uncovering the narrow waist, the broad chest.

Keep your eyes on the shirt. On his face. But not on his mouth. That was a definite danger zone.

By the time she’d pushed the T-shirt up to his armpits, Nicola was aware of two things. She had some control over her eyes, but none over what she was feeling as her fingers brushed against that smooth skin stretched taut over rock-hard muscles. The little flame of lust this man had ignited in her was being fanned brighter and stronger with each contact.

She kept her eyes steady on his face, on the dark slash of brows, the shadow of a beard on that strong angled chin as she moved behind him. But her mind wandered, wondered. So far the touching had been purely clinical. Almost. And one-sided. Definitely. Still, her throat had gone dry and her pulse was racing. What would happen if she ran her hands over him with the intent of arousing him, pleasuring him? And what if he touched her back?

Whoa.

Just thinking about it stopped her teeth from chattering and made her heart pound so loudly that she was amazed the noise didn’t wake him up. She carefully maneuvered the T-shirt off one arm, then the other before she eased it carefully around the wound on his forehead.

Then her gaze slid to where it had wanted to be from the beginning. She sat back on her heels and simply stared, letting her eyes feast on what her hands had already gotten more than a hint of. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms were well-defined; his chest was broad with a triangle of thick black hair that tapered down over equally defined abs. The man was built like a Greek god. She could imagine him in bronze or sculpted in marble.

She shivered then and shook her head. She had to get a grip. He wasn’t a god. He was a man who might be in shock, who was in danger of slipping into hypothermia.

Moving quickly, she grabbed one of the robes, opened it up and tucked it along the length of him from shoulders to boots on one side. Then she did the same on the other side. A part of him would still be lying on the cold marble, but there was no way she was going to be able to roll him over.

The man was so tall she had to use two of the shorter robes to fully cover him. After she’d arranged them, she leaned down and patted his cheek again.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said.

His lashes fluttered. “C … c … old.”

“I know. You’ll be warm soon. I promise.”

How soon? That was the crucial question. There were only two robes left. She’d had some idea of using them for herself.

She glanced at her coat. It was damp on the outside. And she was going to have to get out of her wet slacks and boots.

And then what?

Nicola very carefully avoided looking at the man. Because the answer was obvious. And it had been there lurking in the back of her mind ever since she’d started undressing him.

She was an FBI agent. She’d been trained in survival tactics, and the quickest, most efficient way to keep both of them warm—for the time being—was to share everything. Including body heat.

And the only reason she was stalling was because of the effect this man—this complete stranger—had on her senses. Annoyed—no, angry at herself, Nicola arranged the last two robes. They were both adults. And she was the only fully conscious one. What was her problem?

She tugged off her boots. If he tried anything, she could handle herself. Shrugging out of her holster, she placed it next to her gun and the flashlight.

But what if you try something?

“Not happening,” Nicola muttered as she wiggled out of her wet trousers. A little fantasizing, a little lust. She could handle it.

But she didn’t look at him as she joined him beneath the pile of robes.

Every muscle in her body tensed when his arm snaked around her and pulled her close. Suddenly she was wrapped around him as intimately as a lover—her thigh across his, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder. She might have objected if she hadn’t felt a blast of warmth at each and every contact point.

Or if he’d moved another muscle.

But he didn’t.

She waited, counting the seconds … five … ten … fifteen … twenty.

But the only thing that moved was the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm. Still, she kept her eyes open, her mind alert as the seconds stretched into minutes.

But he lay there, still as a stone. And all the while the warmth spread, slowly, deliciously until she was certain she could feel it penetrate her muscles and even her bones. The instant she could feel her toes again and wiggle them, she considered moving. It would be the prudent thing to do.

And she’d always figured herself for a practical kind of woman.

He was warm now. She could feel the heat of his skin beneath her palm and along her stomach where her jacket had pulled open. It was probably safe to move away. It was probably safer to move away.

The yawn took her by surprise. Even more surprising was the realization that at some point she’d relaxed fully against him. And she didn’t want to move.

Not the most practical decision. She’d reconsider it in a minute. Just one more minute …