Someone To Watch Over Her. Margaret Watson
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to everything. His life could depend on knowing the details.
There were pale tentacles on the bundle, and he frowned as he walked a little faster. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and suddenly he broke into a run. That was no bundle of seaweed. That was a body, lying half in the water and half on the sand.
The gulls wheeled off, shrieking, when he dropped to his knees next to the body, which was facedown in the sand. It was a woman. Her wet reddish-blond hair was tangled and matted with sand and salt. Marcus reached for her neck and felt a pulse, thready but present. Reassured that she was alive, he ran his hands over her quickly, looking for broken bones. Finding nothing, he gently turned her onto her back.
Several small cuts and bruises on her face were dark red against the bright pink of recent sunburn, but the skin beneath the collar of her T-shirt was pasty white. He watched the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, reassured that it was regular and even, then put his ear against her ribs and listened to her breathe. Her lungs were clear, which meant that she hadn’t almost drowned.
Marcus rocked on his heels and stared at the unknown woman. She looked very young, and although she was bedraggled and bruised, he could see that she was beautiful.
What had happened to her? How had she ended up on this deserted part of the beach, unconscious and alone?
Once again the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. His instincts were working overtime. Quickly he glanced up and down the beach, but he didn’t see another soul. And he hadn’t passed anyone on his walk. He wondered if she had swum to the beach, then lost consciousness.
He couldn’t leave her lying in the sand. He scooped her into his arms, grunting as he stood up. His left arm was still tender from the bullet he’d taken in Madrileño. But he forced himself to ignore the pain as he headed back to his beachfront cottage at the Westwind Falls Resort.
Her body felt chilled in his arms, and in order to keep her warm he shifted her so that most of her body pressed against his. The weight of her breasts flattened against his chest, and her nipples burned into his skin through the thin, wet material of her shirt. Her thigh brushed against his groin, electrifying him.
His hands tightened on her firm, smooth skin, and instinctively he pulled her closer. His body stirred, shifting and adjusting to touch more of her.
Shocked at his unexpected response, he adjusted her in his arms so that she wasn’t pressed so intimately against him. But she groaned softly and moved restlessly against him, and once again they were touching as intimately as lovers.
“Hell, Waters, get a grip,” he muttered. He clenched his jaw and walked a little faster. “The woman’s been injured, for God’s sake.”
The lights of the resort twinkled through the gathering darkness, and he exhaled with relief. The sooner he got this woman to his cottage and called an ambulance, the happier he would be. His reaction to her closeness was unsettling and disturbing.
He shifted her again, holding her more firmly, and began to jog. His arm throbbed, but he ignored the pain. He knew his cottage was close. It stood slightly apart from the others, the last in the row before the development surrendered to the beach and the dense tropical foliage that began at the edge of the sand. Since Westwood Falls Resort was owned by SPEAR, this cottage was always available for an agent who needed it.
He hadn’t bothered to lock his door, and he used his hip to push it open. He walked through the comfortable living area, then laid the woman in his arms gently on the bed in the large bedroom. Then he took a step back and looked at her as he absently massaged his arm.
Her eyes were still closed, and her mouth had a bluish tint. But her chest was rising and falling regularly, and when he lifted her eyelids and looked into her eyes, her pupils were equal in size and reacted to the light.
She looked small and fragile and vulnerable lying on the huge bed. Once again he realized that she was very young, probably in her early twenties. “What happened to you?” he asked, assessing her. “How did you end up on that beach?”
That would be up to the police to find out, he told himself. She needed to get to a hospital. He picked up the phone that stood on the nightstand next to the bed and began to dial the local emergency number. But before he finished dialing, the woman cried out.
“No!” The single word reverberated with panic. “No, don’t.”
Quickly he set the telephone receiver into its cradle and knelt next to the bed. “It’s all right,” he said in a low voice. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
Her eyes remained closed, but her hands clenched into fists on the bedspread. “Stay away from me! Get out!”
He reached for her hand and cupped her tight fist between his palms. Her hands were small and delicate, the bones tiny and fragile. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”
Her hand gradually released its fist, then she turned her palm to his and gripped him tightly. “No!” she yelled again. Her hand jerked away from him and swung wildly in the air. “Why are you doing this?”
What had happened to her? He stood up slowly, his gut churning with anxiety as he stared at her. Whatever had happened to this woman was more than an accident. Someone had deliberately tried to hurt her. And judging from where and how he had found her, she was probably still in danger.
Warning bells clamored in his head. His gaze lingered on the restless woman on the bed, and he made a split-second decision. He wasn’t going to call the police until he’d had a chance to talk to her. He had to make sure that he wasn’t putting her in danger all over again by alerting the authorities to her presence. For the time being, she would be safe with him.
She cried out again, and he sat on the bed with her. “You’re safe now,” he said, taking her hand again. “I’m going to keep you here until you wake up and can tell me what happened to you. Do you understand?”
He spoke in a low, soothing voice. She couldn’t hear him, but perhaps that primitive place deep in the brain that judged danger would hear and understand that she was safe. He continued to talk to her, his voice quiet and gentle, until she stopped moving around on the bed. When she was quiet again, he let go of her hand and stood up.
“You can’t just let her lie there in those wet clothes,” he muttered to himself. “And you have to examine her thoroughly. If you’re not going to call an ambulance, you’re going to have to take care of her yourself.”
Her simple T-shirt and shorts were beginning to dry, and they were stiff with sand and salt. The sport sandals still on her feet were covered with sand and grit. He took those off first, then brushed the sand from her feet.
He unbuttoned the waistband of her shorts and slid the zipper down. But when his hands brushed over her skin at her waist, a sizzle of electricity shot up his arm, and he froze in place, unable to move.
Her skin was as soft as a butterfly’s wing and as smooth as cream. His hands were suddenly burning hot against the coolness of her skin, and he clenched his fingers around the waistband of her shorts to stop himself from touching her.
Appalled, he pulled his hands away as if he’d been burned and jumped up. He stared at the unconscious woman, feeling the heat of need rush through him. What the hell was the matter with him?
Shaken, he picked up the phone again to call for an ambulance, but hesitated before he’d punched in the numbers. This woman was in danger, he reminded himself. And he had sworn to protect those in danger. It was part of his code of honor, both professionally and personally. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t control himself.
Just because he was acting like a randy teenager didn’t mean he had to throw her to the wolves. He swallowed once and sat on the bed. He could do this. He could think of her as an impersonal object that needed his help.
His resolve lasted just long enough to remove her shorts. Tossing them on the floor, he looked at the tiny scrap of lace that she wore beneath the shorts and swore long and hard. A blond triangle of