The Thorn in His Side. KIM LAWRENCE
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and clearly the message he had sworn off redheads had not reached all parts of his body.
His vision swam again and he closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. Seemingly these symptoms, along with the uncontrolled rush of testosterone, were results of the head trauma— presumably all would pass.
He opened his eyes just as the redhead was leaning further into the car, her deep russet-coloured hair that reminded him of falling autumn leaves surrounding a vivid heart-shaped face. The nausea had gone. It had been replaced by a reckless and totally inappropriate desire to sink his tongue between those luscious lips.
Even with his scrambled brain working at fifty-percent capacity he did consider following through with the impulse, but, Dios, that mouth!
On the plus side the lust burning through his veins served as an effective distraction from the hammer pounding in his skull whatever the cause, adrenaline rush and near-death experience …?
A woman’s face had not caused him to feel anything this … primitive for a long time. Part of him resented what he was feeling—Rafael liked to stay in control of everything including his appetites—the other half suggested he relax and enjoy the moment.
CHAPTER TWO
‘ARE you all right?’
Even while he was enjoying the way she smelt, Rafael’s critical faculties cleared enough to make him realise this was a stupid question—particularly stupid!
Red-headed and stupid, not to mention suicidal. An image of her standing there like a sacrificial virgin waiting for him to crush her under his wheels replayed in his head, releasing a surge of energising adrenaline into Rafael’s bloodstream.
‘Does it hurt anywhere?’ Libby asked, pushing the door a little wider. Leaning inside, she paused, looking around for somewhere to put her phone. She hitched her skirt to rest a knee on the edge of his seat to steady herself as she laid her phone on the dashboard.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’ She crossed her fingers and thought, Please don’t make me a liar.
Fine, Rafael thought, his heavy-lidded eyes trained on the lacy top of her hold-up stocking. He was feeling many things at that moment, but fine was not one of them!
‘If I am fine it will be no thanks to you.’
Libby was too startled to hear him speak to immediately place the attractive accent of his deep hostile voice, though even hostility sounded amazing when spoken in that voice … a deep and rich purr with a tactile quality that made the downy hair on her arms stand on end.
‘I realise that you have to make your own entertainment in the countryside, but throwing yourself in the path of moving vehicles is perhaps a little extreme.’ Still clasping his head, Rafael rotated his shoulders experimentally and swore as his bruised muscles protested.
Libby’s natural response to sarcasm and rudeness, this comment being both, had always been to give as good as she’d got, but given the fact she’d almost killed this man it seemed appropriate to repress such impulses and bite back the retort trembling on her tongue.
‘What were you trying to do? Attract my attention? Or is this some local quaint mating ritual?’
Bite me, Libby thought as her initial relief morphed into indignation. Struggling to retain a suitably meek demeanour in the face of this barrage of insults, she mumbled an apology.
‘I really didn’t mean for this to happen …’
Any attempt to defend herself at this point would only sound lame.
What am I going to tell Chloe?
She began making a silent inventory of her achievements—almost killing a man, smashing up his car and losing her friend’s beloved pet, difficult to top, but the way things were going, she thought glumly—who knew?
‘I’m so … so sorry,’ she said with genuine remorse.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’
Libby felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment in response to the sarcastic drawl as her victim, one hand still clamped to his forehead, turned, head bent forward, and presented her with a view of his broad shoulders and the back of his glossy dark head as he switched his attention to the clasp on his seat belt.
Her glance flickered from the dark hair curling at his nape to the bloody smear on the glass. It was a timely reminder of her role as evil perpetrator while he was the innocent victim.
With a mumbled imprecation she reached for her phone. ‘Ambulance … I’ll make the call.’ Better late than never, Libby.
As she began to speak the man’s seat belt freed and he turned. Libby’s attempt at a soothing smile dissolved as her lips parted to emit a small mewling gasp of shock, not because the man was injured—she had been prepared for that—but because he was … He was beautiful!
From the extravagant sweep of his preposterously long eyelashes to his chiselled cheekbones, imperious nose and wide sensually sculpted lips, he was utterly and lethally gorgeous, but it was the aura of concentrated raw sexuality he exuded that made her stare at him helplessly. Physical awareness clutched like a fist low in her belly and trickled down her spine, making her shiver repeatedly in response to his in-your-face masculine sexuality.
She was so stunned that it took her several moments before she finally registered the cut oozing blood on his broad forehead, a cut that ran from above his right eyebrow and vanished into his dark hairline, and the suggestion of pallor beneath the surface of his even-toned golden skin.
Get a grip, Libby, you’ve seen good-looking men before—but none this good-looking, said the voice in her head and she could not disagree. He was incredible!
And hurt, a timely reminder. She bit her lip, lowered her gaze and gave a guilty grimace. The forgotten first-aid course had definitely not included drooling while the accident victim bled to death!
‘I think …’ Libby’s voice trailed away. She lost her chain of thought completely as the injured man stared back at her from unblinking tawny cinnamon-coloured eyes set beneath heavy eyelids framed by those long curling lashes that were as dark as his strongly defined ebony brows.
The gleam in his dark eyes as they held her own had an almost combustible quality that intensified the breathless feeling she was experiencing, though maybe it was jet lag—I hope, Libby thought, the sensible option pleasing her and scaring her less than the alternative.
She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again.
‘Your head.’
Following the gesture of her fingers, he lifted a hand. He didn’t wince but Libby did, her stomach performing a sympathetic somersault as he touched the wound.
He pulled his hand away, glanced with what seemed to her an unnatural degree of disinterest at the red on his fingers before dragging them down the front of his shirt.
Libby, her eyes trained on the red daub, could not help but notice how well developed the chest beneath was.
‘Don’t panic.’ Struggling to follow her own advice, she began punching the emergency numbers into her phone.
Finger poised above the dial button, she released a shocked gasp as her wrist was captured by long brown fingers. The speed of his action was bewildering but not as bewildering, as the effect the brief contact had on her nervous system.
Libby was struggling to catch her breath when her hand was placed against her heaving chest before being released from an iron grip.
‘I do not require an ambulance.’
It was not a statement that invited discussion.
Libby was getting the impression he was not big on discussion. Now orders … oh, yes, she could see him being very comfortable flinging those around. Even