Australia: Wicked Mistresses. Robyn Grady
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grasped the top of her leg and found a grateful smile. “I am now. I’m just a little—” She flinched. “A little in pain.”
As the wave sucked back out he laid her down, then manipulated his fingers between her ankle and the wood. It seemed her foot had slipped through a knot; sadly, the surrounding shell felt tough as nails. She wouldn’t have been able to budge it even if she’d had the strength to try.
After a couple of tugs, attempting to weaken the wood, he was quietly worried. He inhaled, rallied determination, and gave another, more serious wrench. A small piece broke off, then a bit more. No screams of pain; she gave little more than a thankful shudder as he freed her foot a second before water swept up and their world became a muted, cold-rush blur.
Fully submerged, holding his breath, he relied on his sense of touch to scoop the woman up and heave them both clear of the churning pool. He trudged well out of tide range and, on a sparsely grassed knoll, laid her down. Any minute the steady pump of adrenaline would give way to the burn of muscle fatigue, but for now he’d keep moving.
How bad were her injuries?
As she worked to catch her breath, Gabriel knelt close and collected her ankle. No compound fractures. When he rode two fingers over the arch of her foot, her peach-polished toes flexed up. Cupping her heel with one hand, his other palm resting on her shin, he applied a token amount of pressure to test the ligament. When she didn’t complain, he applied a bit more. She cringed, but didn’t cry out.
Brave girl.
There were nasty scratches and welts that would ripen to bruises. She’d need an X-ray, and a day or two of rest, but—fingers crossed—in a month or so her ankle would look as good as new.
Searching for other wounds, his gaze travelled the length of her leg, and higher. But at a tug low in his gut—a kick of kindling heat—he averted his eyes and cleared his throat. Inviting as she looked—wet tee-shirt moulding to the swell of her breasts, nipples puckered beneath transparent white interlock—this was so not the time.
He swept sand into a slanting step with one hand and then, to help with the swelling, set her foot upon the “pillow.” Finally falling back on his rump, he laid one forearm on a raised knee, dragged down a settling breath, then blew it out in a rush. His heart was chugging like a steam train. He hadn’t felt this juiced in years—not since torturing himself competing in triathlons in his late teens. Great for building stamina. Not so good for fending off ghosts.
He told her, “Nothing appears to be broken.” Thank God.
Her chest deflated as she wheezed out a breath. “You sure? Coz it really isn’t my day.”
He grinned at her impish tone, her slight but sexy lisp. “You’re scratched up, and—”
“My God—” Her eyes went wide in horror. “So are you.”
As if to prove her point, a warm trickle slid past the corner of his eye. He ran his thumb over his temple, inspected the smear of blood, then swiped the red on his soaked chinos.
No headache. No sting. “Nothing serious.”
Her unconvinced gaze zigzagged over his scored torso. “That’s a whole pile of ‘nothing serious,’ if you ask me.”
Her concern was appreciated, but he’d live. Thankfully so would she.
“There doesn’t appear to be any ligament damage.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“An accountant.”
She looked uneasy. “No offence, but I thought accountants were supposed to wear black-rimmed glasses and look kind of nerdy.”
He smiled. “No offence taken.”
He’d worn just that type of glasses once—not that she needed to know. They were strangers, thrown together by situation and sheer luck. Of course that didn’t mean they couldn’t get to know one another. Might be the extraordinary circumstances, the overload of adrenaline, but somehow she seemed …
Different.
Oh, he dated. Hard not to when he was considered one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, and friends constantly set him up with “possibilities.” And, sure, women were nice. Hell, he wouldn’t want to live in a world without them. But he was way too busy to worry about relationships. Too busy for anything other than casual.
As if that thought were a wish, an alternative vision of this woman swam up in his mind. With the tee removed, shortie-shorts too, her tan would be all over, her breasts mouth-wateringly full. The vee at the apex of her thighs shone with a tantalising tuft of caramel-gold—and why, dear heaven, was he letting his imagination run away on him like this?
Gabriel scrubbed his bristled jaw and shook his head clear.
Okay. Cold showers—and/or oceans—weren’t cutting it any more. It had been way too long. Still, he could control his overloaded testosterone levels. Willpower, in everything, was his speciality.
He squared his shoulders, then moved to check the contusion on her head. After parting the clotted hair, his fingertips circled the injury and she hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, then, “No cut. But you’ve got an egg.”
“Laid by an emu, feels like.”
Cupping her chin, he checked for uneven dilation of the pupils. When her large jewelled eyes blinked up at him, his groin flexed. Clearing his throat, he reminded himself of their circumstances and edged away.
“You were knocked out. Do you remember how it happened? Your name? Is there any ringing in your ears?”
What were the other signs of concussion?
But she didn’t appear to be listening. Rather, those sparkling topaz eyes, surrounded by lush damp lashes, were examining him with new, almost innocent wonder.
“You were standing up there, weren’t you? On that cliff.”
His brows jumped. “You saw me?”
“Only for a moment.” Her gaze dropped before catching his again. “This’ll sound crazy, but as I blacked out I thought you were … Well, I thought you were an angel.”
He chuckled at her almost reverent tone. “Sorry to disappoint you again.” Not a doctor. Definitely not an angel.
As a late afternoon breeze rustled through the palm fronds, and seagulls squawked overhead, her eyes glistened and her brow furrowed more.
“Still, you … you seem familiar.”
Really?
Maybe it was more than seaside memories that made her seem familiar too. Had they met before? At a dinner? Maybe they lived in the same neighbourhood? Potts Point, Sydney, was pricey, but then anyone vacationing at Diamond Shores had money and plenty of it.
Before he could ask, she held her head and groaned over an apologetic smile.
“I’m all muddled. My head feels like it’s packed with cotton wool.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She needed that knock checked out properly, along with some painkillers and an appropriate bandage for her foot. She needed civilisation, asap.
“Give me a moment,” he said, determined to ignore the creak of tightening hamstrings, “and I’ll get you to a doctor.”
The island enjoyed a full-time physician, as well as a seaplane and an emergency helicopter, both of which, he believed, served French champagne. Luxury at its decadent best.
“That’d be great,” she said, tipping up. “You can lend me an arm. Or I could use a branch for a crutch.”
He urged her back down. She needed to rest and lie flat. “You’re not walking anywhere.”