Trading Secrets. Christine Flynn
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He grabbed for his arm again, told her to stop. As he did, Jenny jerked back to see his features twist while he cradled his elbow.
“I was afraid that wouldn’t work.”
Disbelief shot through her distress. “Then why did we do it?”
“Because it’s the easiest method of reduction. When it works,” he qualified, frightfully pale beneath his five-o’clock shadow. He took a few deep breaths, rocked a little.
They’d only made it worse.
“Oh, man,” he groaned.
“Oh, geez,” she repeated and put her hand on his shoulder to calm his motion.
Jenny had never regarded herself as particularly squeamish. She had never fainted at the sight of blood, and she could handle everything but eating gross insects or animal parts on survivor shows. She was learning in a hurry, though, that she apparently didn’t have a terribly high tolerance for other people’s distress. Either that or her basic sense of empathy was working overtime now that her reservations about him had taken a hike. Doing her best to shake off the uneasiness she felt herself at the misaligned body part, she wiped away a drip running from the hair at his temple to his jaw.
“Do you have anything for pain?” Another drip ran down the other side. She caught that, too. “In your little black bag or something? Is it in your car?”
“I don’t have mine with me.”
“Country doctors always carry little black bags.”
“Only when they’re making house calls. That’s not what I was doing. Come on. Let’s just do this.”
He shifted, the intensity of his discomfort making his voice tight enough to snap rubber bands. “We need more leverage. You’re going to have to take my arm and pull it down and out to the side.” He glanced at the sink beside him. “I’ll pull one way while you pull the other. The head of the bone should slip back into the socket.” He swallowed. Hard. “Take my elbow in one hand and my wrist in the other. Once you start to pull, don’t stop until I tell you to. Okay?”
It was most definitely not okay. “I’ll only hurt you again.”
“No,” he insisted, grabbing her arm as she started to back away.
This time, it was she who winced.
Apparently thinking he’d grabbed her too hard, he immediately let go.
“You’re helping,” he insisted. “We’ll try again. The longer this goes, the worse the spasms are going to get.”
The plea in his voice underscored the need to hurry. But it was the way he’d said “we” that kept her right where she was. He couldn’t do this alone. And without her, he would only get worse.
“Okay,” she conceded, rubbing where he’d grasped. “But try something you know will work this time.”
“This will.”
At his assurance she opened her mouth, closed it again. Since he had far more at stake than she did, she decided not to push for a promise—and worriedly waited for him let go of his arm again.
Letting go was clearly something he didn’t want to do. Grimacing along with him when he finally did, Jenny curled her fingers around the top of his corded forearm and grasped the hard bones of his wrist with the other. His breathing sounded more rapid to her in the moments before he hooked his free arm over the edge of the sink.
Breathing rapidly herself, she asked, “On three?” and watched him give a sharp nod.
Desperately hoping he knew what he had her doing, she counted to their mark. When she hit it and pulled, the sound he made was half growl, half groan and had her heart slamming against her breast bone. A sick sensation gripped her stomach. But she could feel the bone in his arm moving, and even though that made her a little sick, too, that movement was exactly what they were after.
Sweat gleamed on his face.
Jenny could feel perspiration dampening her skin, too.
His breathing became more labored. With his jaw clenched, air hissed between his teeth. “Rotate it down.”
Thunder cracked overhead. The drip of rain into the pot picked up its cadence. Jenny barely noticed the crunch of ceramic beneath her shoe as she shifted her stance to carefully increase her leverage. She was too busying praying he wouldn’t crumple when, hearing a sickening pop, she felt the bone lock into place.
For an instant she didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she even breathed. She wasn’t sure Greg was breathing, either.
“Can I let go?” she ventured, afraid to believe the maneuver had worked.
He said nothing. With his eyes closed, he sat dragging in long drafts of air, looking too weak or too spent to move.
With as much care as she could manage, she slowly eased the pressure of her grip.
The lump wasn’t there. Reaching toward him, she placed her palm where the head of the bone had been. The muscles beneath her hand still felt horribly knotted, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he still hurt. Yet, she could tell from the way the tension drained from his face that the worst of the pain was gone.
Close enough to feel the heat of his thighs once more, she helped him lean from the sink to straighten on the stool. He’d barely reached upright when his whole body sagged, and his dark head fell to her shoulder.
His relief was so profound that she felt it to the very center of her soul. Her own relief joined it as she cupped her hand to the back of his head. She didn’t question what she did. She didn’t even think about it. She simply held him close and let the sensation of reprieve wash over them both.
She’d had no idea what she would have done had the second attempt not worked. He could have argued all he wanted, but she doubted she could have watched him go through that agony again. She was not a strong person. She could fake it when she had to, but she’d pretty much used up her supply of sheer nerve for the day. The best she could probably have done was haul him into town and get someone, anyone, else to help them. Or left him while she’d raced off in search of help herself.
She tightened her hold, stroked her fingers through his wet hair. The man was stoic to a fault, and probably stubborn to the core. He would have fought her every step of the way.
He was getting her wet. She could feel the dampness of his pants seep into the sides of her jeans. Though she could feel his heat through the arms of her thin pink sweatshirt, she could also feel the gooseflesh on his broad back.
She’d wrapped both arms around him. Thinking to keep him warm, she drew him closer.
Realizing what she was doing, she felt herself go still.
A fine tension entered her body. Greg became aware of it at nearly the same instant the unfamiliar peace that had filled him began to fade. For a few surreal moments he’d had the sensation of being cared for, of being…comforted. He freely offered his support to others, but the quiet reassurance he felt in this woman’s touch, in her arms, was something he’d never before experienced himself. Not as a child. Not as an adult. Not even with the woman he’d been with for the past two years.
He lifted his head. Now that the pain that had taken precedence had reduced itself to a dull, throbbing ache, he was conscious of his lovely angel of mercy’s clean, powdery scent, the gentleness of her touch, the nearness of her body.
With his head still inches from hers, he was also aware of the curve of her throat, the feminine line of her jaw and her lush, unadorned mouth.
Her breath caressed his skin as it slowly shuddered out. Feeling its warmth, the sensations that had touched something starving in his soul gave way to an unmistakable pull low in his groin.
Caution colored her delicate features as she lifted her hand to the side of his face and brushed off the