Under His Skin. Rita Herron
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CURSED himself for his rudeness. Grace Gardener had dragged him back from the brink of death, and while he’d been trapped like a sick animal in ICU, her gentle hands had tended to his injuries and helped him with routine tasks that no man wanted a woman’s help with.
The very reason he could barely look her in the face.
He wanted her bad. Wanted her like a man wanted a woman. To strip her clothes, feel her curvy body naked and writhing beneath his. Wanted to hear that sultry voice whispering his name in the heat of passion, not sympathy.
Yet she’d seen him at his most vulnerable. Thought of him as the poor, sick, scarred, crippled man who needed to lean on her small frame just to walk to the damn bathroom.
A big man like him shouldn’t be leaning on anyone, much less a female half his size.
The reason he had to get rid of her. If she stayed much longer, looking so soft and sweet, making him need her in other ways than as a physical crutch, he’d make a fool out of himself.
“Go home, Grace. You helped patch me up, your job is over.”
She nodded. “I just wanted to see how the leg was doing.”
His mouth thinned but he shrugged. “I’ll be jogging out of here soon.”
She laughed softly. “I’m sure you will.”
The conviction in her voice offered him hope just as her comforting words in the ER had. As if to contradict him though, his leg suddenly seized up. A sharp agonizing pain split his calf and bolted up toward his spine, and sweat broke out all over his body. He felt dizzy and gritted his teeth, praying she’d leave before he did something embarrassing like pass out on her. Or end up on the floor where he’d have to crawl back to the bed.
She obviously saw the pain he desperately tried to hide, and eased toward him. “Sit down, Parker. You’ve probably been overdoing it again with your therapy.”
He had been pushing himself beyond the requirements but was determined to get back on his feet, literally.
The pain intensified, the room growing fuzzy. In spite of his resolve, he gripped the metal rail of the bed to steady himself and tried to move toward it. She was beside him in a flash, slid one hand beneath his arm and helped him take the agonizing steps back to the bed. She said nothing as he lowered himself onto the mattress, but when he tried to lift his injured leg to stretch it out, the muscles were so knotted and bunched, that he had to bend over to work out the spasm. She stooped and began to massage the muscle, her fingers deftly working magic. Then she helped him straighten his leg on the bed. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and she offered a tentative smile, then once again kneaded his cramped calf.
He clenched his jaw to keep from moaning and wiped sweat from his upper lip, battling the need to order her to stop, but her hands felt so damn wonderful that he couldn’t bear to ask her to quit. Like he had so many other times, he wanted those hands on him in other places. Places that hadn’t been touched in forever.
You’re a weak man, his father had told him as he’d tried to beat some sense into him.
Damn it, he was right. And Parker hated it.
A knock sounded at the door and one of the surgeons who’d operated on Parker, a lean, ash-blond man named Dr. Wilson Whitehead, poked his head in. He glanced at Grace and his brows arched as if he was surprised to see her in the room, especially sitting on the side of his bed rubbing Parker’s leg.
“Parker?”
Parker pushed Grace’s hands away and crossed his arms. She stood, a flash of contrition in her eyes as if she’d been caught behaving unprofessionally when she’d simply been doing her job.
“Grace?”
She nodded in greeting. “Dr. Whitehead.”
Again, a look of question darkened his eyes, and Parker’s senses jumped to alert. The doctor was interested in Grace. Were they involved?
Humiliation crawled up his spine for even thinking she might be attracted to him. A gorgeous woman like her probably had men chasing her all the time. Healthy men like Dr. Whitehead with a boatload of money, men who could wine and dine her, not a scarred guy with a bad attitude and a life that had no room for anything but tracking criminals. A job that would only put her in danger.
“What’s going on?” Parker asked.
Dr. Whitehead stepped farther into the room and approached the bed. His gray eyes bore into Parker’s, serious and filled with the same professional detached expression that he wore when he’d informed Parker he’d never walk again.
He had bad news. Just how bad?
Parker’s patience disintegrated. “I asked you what the hell is going on.”
Dr. Whitehead stuffed his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. “I’ve reviewed your last tests, and they’re not good. You’re not healing as well with the new tendons as I’d expected.”
Not news to him. He wanted to heal faster, too.
“I’ve just learned that we have a tissue recall,” the doctor continued. “The tissue you received is part of that recall.”
“What’s wrong with the tissue?” Parker asked.
“It wasn’t processed properly. That may be the reason for your lack of progress.”
“So this new tissue might work better?”
“Exactly.”
“This means another surgery?”
“Yes, another transplant.”
Parker grimaced, the reality setting in. More surgery meant an extended hospital stay, a longer recovery. More rehab.
A more lengthy leave of absence before he could return to work and be a whole man.
He cut his gaze toward Grace and wondered if she’d known, if she’d come because she felt sorry for him and wanted to see how he’d handle the news.
Not because she liked him personally.
Hell, he’d take the surgery if it meant a chance his leg might recover.
But he wouldn’t accept Grace’s pity or delude himself into thinking that she might be attracted to him—not ever again.
Chapter Two
Grace saw the wheels turning in Parker’s head. Frustration lined his face, as well as pain, and the realization of what another surgery meant.
A setback in his recovery.
Yet the hope that the unhealthy tissue was the reason for his slow progress also glittered in his eyes. And the bad tissue had to be removed. That was a given.
He angled his face toward the doctor. “Do you really think this surgery will make a difference?”
Dr. Whitehead gave a clipped nod. “Yes. The contaminated tissue most likely caused the irritation in your leg, the constant discomfort and the subsequent infection.”
Parker seemed to assimilate the doctor’s comments, then he released a heavy sigh full of resignation. “All right, when do we do it?”
“The sooner, the better. How about first thing in the morning?”
“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Dr. Whitehead nodded. “I’ll talk to the nurses and make sure they have you prepped and ready.”
He grimaced. “Great.”
Dr. Whitehead turned to her. “Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Walk out with me?”
“Sure. Just give me a minute.”
Parker’s amber eyes pierced her. “Go, Grace. Guess I’d