Fit for a Sheikh. KRISTI GOLD
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little holes and loose threads, thanks to Lottie’s incessant chewing. But it was the best she could do at the moment.
She tossed him the throw and told him, “You can cover up with this,” then headed for the bathroom before she did something really stupid—like insist he remove his pants immediately so she could get a good look at all his assets. How desperate she must be to consider seducing an injured stranger. At least she’d be assured he wouldn’t be able to move very fast.
Stop it, Fiona.
Once in the bathroom, she rummaged through the cabinet beneath the sink, knocking over several boxes and bottles before she found what she needed. After retrieving bandages, a damp rag and some antiseptic cream, she made her way back into the living room…and nearly dropped the supplies she clutched tightly to her chest.
Two bare, blatantly masculine legs covered in a fine layer of dark hair extended from their owner who had stretched out on his back lengthwise, his head resting on the sofa’s arm and his eyes once again closed against the light. His bare chest, smooth as a baby’s behind except for a slight shading of hair between his pecs, revealed valleys and planes of tanned muscular terrain. No shoes, no socks, no denying the man was prime perfection without his clothes. But Fiona couldn’t see anything vital due to the throw draped across his manly strategic area.
Manly strategic area? A few hours in his presence and she was thinking in sexual military-speak. She was also thinking that she would bet her dog that he had one notable missile beneath his briefs. Black briefs, she’d guess. Maybe she would have the opportunity to confirm that. And she needed to get her mind out of the sewer and back on the situation at hand—examining his wounds, not his essentials.
Fiona dropped to her knees beside the sofa and considered praying to Planet Mars for strength. Instead, she took the warm cloth and pressed it against his side. His eyes drifted open but she saw no indication she was hurting him.
She focused on the cut, willing her hand to hold steady. “This doesn’t look too bad. I don’t think it even needs a bandage.” She could use one to tape her mouth closed before she moaned with approval.
“Only a scratch,” he said, his voice grainy and seriously sensual. “I’m more concerned with my thigh and ankle.”
Fiona was more concerned with what was above his thigh. Putting away those concerns for the time being, she scooted down and examined the gash. “This looks worse. It could probably use a few stitches.”
“A bandage will suffice.”
“If you say so,” she said as she dabbed at the cut, then applied the ointment. After positioning several adhesive glow-in-the-dark, happy-face bandages lengthwise across his skin, she noticed they did little to close the edges of the wound. But boy, did he have one heck of a solid thigh. Lots of muscle and tone. She wondered if he did squats or if he just came by his physique naturally.
He scrutinized the bandages, looking displeased. “Very festive. And somewhat ridiculous.”
“It’s all I have, so you’ll have to live with it.”
“My ankle now,” he said in a tone that sounded just a little too demanding.
She sent him an acid look. “I’m getting to that. Roll over.”
He did, and Fiona nearly swallowed her razor-sharp tongue. Well, now she knew. He didn’t have on black briefs or white ones. He didn’t have on boxers, either. Nothing covered his sculpted buttocks aside from taut skin a shade paler than his hair-spattered thighs. His lack of underwear somewhat surprised her, not to mention what it did to unseen places on her person. She could analyze his reason for removing his drawers, or she could get back down to business and check out his ankle.
But who in their right mind wanted to look at a foot when faced with a fine, bare bottom? Come to think of it, she had no doubt his feet were probably as sexy as the rest of him.
Fiona tore her gaze away from his fanny and forced her attention on his injured ankle. When she flexed his foot forward, revealing the depth of the gash, she heard his sharp intake of breath, the only indication whatsoever he was in any pain.
This particular wound was much worse than the others. This cut couldn’t be fixed right with a few flimsy bandages and cream. Since he had his face now buried in his folded arms, Fiona stared at his bare back that sported a lengthy horizontal scar. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“It will heal.”
“Dear Frank,” she said in a syrupy-sweet voice. “The guy nearly cut your foot off. You’ll be lucky if you’re able to walk on it again. Someone needs to look at this.”
He regarded her over one broad shoulder. “Do you know a doctor? Someone you can trust?”
Fiona didn’t know any doctors aside from the one she’d seen annually since she’d been in Vegas. She doubted he made house calls, and even if he did, this was not a gynecological problem. But she did know Peg, her friend two doors down who worked as a nurse in a medical office. Peg might know what to do. It was worth a shot.
Fiona pushed up from the floor to stand. “I know a woman who can help.”
He frowned. “A female doctor?”
“Do you have something against women, Frankie?”
He looked as if he’d just downed a dill pickle. “No, and I do not answer to Frankie.”
“Your name’s not Frank at all, is it?”
“No.”
“Then do you mind telling me your real name? I mean, you’re naked on my sofa so I think we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
“You may call me Scorpio.”
Drat him. “Okay, you may call me Fiona. And if you call me Fee-Fee or Red, I will pour salt in your wounds, is that understood?”
A smile curved his full lips, bringing the dimple and perfect white teeth into view. “Are you always this aggressive?”
“Honey, you don’t know the half of it.” But he would.
With that, she left behind his sinful grin and beautiful butt to make the call to Peg in the kitchen. But she couldn’t escape the vision of him lying on her couch—or the one of him lying in her bed, naked, taking her on an all-night journey to cloud nine. As if that was going to happen.
Darin had believed knife wounds would serve as a deterrent to a man’s desire. He’d been wrong. When Fiona had touched his side, he’d experienced the first sexual stirrings. When she’d moved to his thigh, he’d grown as hard as his handgun. Of course, when she’d manipulated his injured foot, that had somewhat alleviated any thoughts of sex. But even now, even though his ankle still throbbed, he would gladly relieve his current predicament in her bed, deep inside her body, in order to keep his mind off his injuries, and his errors.
Working his way back into a sitting position, he left the ugly blanket draped across his lap to hide the effect of his questionable cravings, urges most likely resulting from adrenaline and the length of time since he’d been to bed with a woman. He had no cause to consider seduction when his mission was paramount. It would be best to allow Fiona’s medical friend to treat the wounds, then be on his way.
“She’s on her way,” Fiona said as she reentered the room and took the very pink chair across from him.
“Good. And she is a physician?”
“She’s a part-time nurse.”
“This is your idea of medical expertise?”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Do you have any better ideas?”
Yes, he did, but they had nothing to do with tending his injuries and everything to do with learning each curve, each crevice of her enticing body with his hands and mouth. He moved his injured foot, sending a sharp pain up the back of his leg in order to limit his increasing erection, and