The Thorn in His Side. KIM LAWRENCE
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for the gleam that shone in the darkly fringed intelligent eyes, it was far too perceptive for her comfort, and the flash of something approaching amusement … it was almost as if he knew she was trying very hard not to look at his incredibly sexy mouth.
Libby pushed away the whimsical thought, aware that it was her guilt talking. He might not be able to read her mind, but he did have eyes that reminded her of some sleek jungle predator.
‘What condition is the car in?’
Libby was startled to see him consult the metal-banded watch on his wrist. It seemed to her that his priorities were seriously skewed.
‘I’ve no idea. I was more worried about what condition you were in.’
A spasm of impatience flickered across his lean face. ‘As you see I am fine—in one piece.’
Libby had seen enough hospital dramas on TV to know that people who looked fine and in one piece had a habit of collapsing without warning from massive internal bleeds. While this was not a soap, she did think his attitude was way too casual.
The question remained—how to inject some caution without sounding alarmist?
‘Where exactly are we?’
Libby’s face fell. It looked as if her caution had been warranted. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ she asked slowly. Oh, God, what if he had amnesia? ‘Do you remember your name?’
‘I am not deaf or, as it happens, stupid.’ The silent addition of unlike you was implicit in the withering look he sent her way.
‘I know my name.’ He tilted his head towards the window, which offered a view of nothing beyond the grassy bank. ‘It is the name of this place I require in order to arrange alternative transport.’ As luck would have it his PA was making the journey in her own car in order to attend the meeting he was en route to, which was going to minimise the delay considerably.
‘Oh!’ Feeling foolish, she lapsed into embarrassed silence as she watched him produce a phone from his pocket.
‘There is no signal.’
At last something she did not have to take responsibility for!
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ She softened the cranky response by adding a pacifying note of cautious concern. ‘You might have concussion.’
She could have mentioned a whole host of other injuries he might have, but, not wanting to spook him, refrained—not that he gave the impression of someone who might take fright at the thought of the odd broken bone or two.
Personally Libby, who had never linked laughing in the face of danger with virility, had never been able to understand why so many women were attracted to the action-man macho type.
A bit too much protesting, Libby?
‘Concussion …?’ He silently conceded the possibility before adding carelessly, ‘It would not be the first time.’
‘That could explain a lot,’ Libby muttered.
On receipt of his narrow-eyed stare, she added with innocent concern, ‘I really think you should try not to move.’
The redhead had an abrasive tongue to go with that truly delicious mouth. The irritation Rafael did not attempt to hide was in part aimed at his own inability to think past the sexual hunger still coursing through his body.
As well as the wisdom of avoiding redheads, experience had taught Rafael that a man survived in life by controlling his appetites, not being controlled by them.
‘As I have said, I do not require medical attention.’
‘It’s your funeral.’ Immediately wishing she could retract the childish retort, she began to ease herself backwards; she was finding the confines of the car were increasingly claustrophobic.
‘I can see you find the thought appealing.’
Libby flushed and protested, ‘Of course not!’ If she didn’t get some air soon she’d be the one needing an ambulance. ‘I’m trying to help.’ Pointless, as he obviously never listened to anyone, she brooded darkly as she continued to edge towards the door.
‘I’d feel a hell of a lot safer if you didn’t.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry, and I am, but under the circumstances I think—damn!’ Libby slung an exasperated glance at her skirt, which appeared to have caught itself firmly on the gear lever. ‘Stupid thing.’ She was forced to lean in closer to try and free the tightly stretched fabric.
‘Let me—’
His fingers, long, brown and tapering, brushed hers and Libby pulled her hand away as if burnt. She sucked in a deep breath and thought, Massive overreaction, Libby.
She could feel his gaze but did not lift her head as she mumbled, ‘I can manage.’
The frisson had passed but it had left her uncomfortably conscious of her own skin to the point where she could feel the individual hairs on the nape of her neck.
‘We should—’ she gave a heavy sigh of relief when her skirt came free ‘—play it safe.’
Rafael ran a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘We?’ he echoed, his attention drawn to the exposed nape of her neck. Rafael had never previously considered this part of a woman’s anatomy sexually attractive.
‘Good point,’ she conceded with a cool smile that had earned her the name of ice maiden in her teens. ‘However, you’re the one bleeding.’ And I’m the one who is getting a bad headache, she thought, conscious of the telltale pressure behind her eyes.
‘You’re tough, I get it, a regular man of steel and I’m impressed, believe me,’ she continued, delivering a smile of brilliant insincerity. ‘But watching someone bleed to death is not my style. Even someone as …’ Libby registered the flash of stunned disbelief in his eyes and brought her tirade to an abrupt halt.
‘Someone as?’
Libby shook her head, then gave a fractured gasp when without warning he reached out and casually took her chin between the long fingers of his right hand.
She was too startled by his action to resist as he tilted her face up to his. He was so close that she could see the gold tips on his sooty lashes and feel his warm breath on her face.
He moved a thumb in a lazy circular motion along the curve of her cheek and Libby’s stomach went into dramatic free fall as every nerve ending in her body began to thrum.
Ignoring the small whisper of sanity in his head, he took her face between his hands and watched the brilliant blue of her sapphire eyes vanish as her pupils dilated rapidly.
He groaned something harsh on his own tongue as his eyes dropped to her lips.
‘You’re in pain!’
‘How right you are.’
Libby struggled to fight her way out of the strange lethargy that crept over her; her limbs felt as though they didn’t belong to her. ‘Let me get help.’ She started to pull away.
‘You have a beautiful mouth.’
Libby stopped pulling as she thought, So do you.
He frowned suddenly. ‘What is your name?’
Libby’s throat was so dry her voice was barely above a whisper, barely audible above the pulsating thud of her heart as it tried to climb its way out of her chest. ‘Libby.’
She’d read somewhere that head injuries could make people act totally out of character—so what’s your excuse, Libby?
‘Libby?’ He rolled the word around his tongue experimentally.
She nodded, hardly recognising her name when he said it, but finally placing his accent as Spanish.
‘Look,