Caught In A Storm Of Passion. Lucy Ryder
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the bird’s talons digging into his shoulder, reminding him that tugging the damp shirt and camisole from her waistband was for medical purposes. And not for whatever his mind was suddenly conjuring up.
He shook his head as much at the woman as at himself. No wonder she’d passed out. She was dressed like a school librarian heading for Congress. And then he couldn’t resist a little smile tugging reluctantly at his mouth.
Okay, maybe not a librarian, he thought, hurrying off to find water and a cloth. More like a sexy lawyer hoping to disguise herself as a librarian. He shook his head. No disguising all that creamy skin, or the curves beneath those prim clothes.
He sighed. The nylons would have to go. As would the blouse, or the under-thingy. But first he had to revive her and get some fluids down her throat.
She was moaning softly when he returned with a huge wad of paper toweling and an opened bottle of water. Tearing off a section of paper towel, he soaked it with cool water before wiping her clammy forehead.
The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly; her breathing was rapid and shallow.
Great. Just great. Maybe he should just take her to the hospital and let them deal with her. Maybe he should just fly outta here and tell Amelia her sister hadn’t shown.
Yeah, and maybe he wouldn’t do any of those things, he thought as he envisioned the scene that would follow. He shuddered. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to see Amelia’s big blue eyes shimmering with hurt and know he was the cause.
Soaking another handful of towels, he roughly bathed the woman’s clammy skin, careful not to let his eyes wander to those tempting mounds of creamy flesh barely contained in silk and lace. If she suddenly woke up he didn’t want to be caught eyeing the goodies.
First, she wasn’t his type—so not your type, Chase—and second his mother had made sure her sons knew how to treat women with respect. Or else.
His mouth twisted as an unpleasant memory arose. Pity his ex-wife hadn’t had the same upbringing. Maybe then she wouldn’t have had a long-term affair with her boss and blamed Chase’s job and his family for the alienation of her affection.
He snorted. Yeah, right. As if making mounds of cash trading stocks and bonds was remotely alienating. He was the one who should have sued the damn lawyer, but by the time he’d recovered from the shock of betrayal he’d realized he didn’t care enough.
He’d survived the unpleasant discovery that his wife loved his money more than she’d loved him. But discovering that Avery had knowingly tried to pass off the Mercer Island shark’s baby as his had been like a gut punch.
Fortunately he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, and when he’d demanded a paternity test the whole ugly truth had come spewing out. What had really sickened him was the fact that whenever he’d previously brought up the subject of starting a family she’d always claimed that she wasn’t ready, that a baby would ruin her career and her figure.
After that he’d left Seattle and moved out here to the islands. He still ran his brokering business, from what his brother called his “bunker”—a windowless, climate-controlled room that housed his huge bank of computers. It was from there that he kept in contact with the financial world and the rest of his Seattle-based family.
But his marriage was in the past and really not worth dwelling on. If he did, he might just dump Amelia’s sister in the ocean, head off to his island retreat and pretend none of this had happened. But he really liked his almost sister-in-law, and he was fairly certain Jude wouldn’t be happy if he ditched her twin.
In the meantime, what the hell was he supposed to do with an unconscious woman heading for heat exhaustion? Other than strip her and toss her in the bay, that is.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he was contemplating his options when she moaned again. His gaze whipped upward in time to see the long, lush fringe of her dark eyelashes flutter and then lift, exposing glassy eyes the exact color of the five-hundred-dollar bottle of single malt whiskey he kept for special occasions.
Holy—
Air whooshed from his lungs as if he’d been punched in the head. He’d only ever seen eyes like that once before. Twice, actually. Once on an ancient amber Viking ring he’d seen in a museum and the second time...his friend’s eyes. But looking into Dr. Alain Broussard’s eyes didn’t normally leave him reeling like a drunken penguin.
Maybe he was the one in need of medical assistance.
She blinked and murmured a husky, “Hi,” her expression so softly sensuous that for an instant Chase was startled. Okay, stunned. Because...jeez...that look had reached out and grabbed him in a place that hadn’t been grabbed since his ex. Maybe even before.
In the next instant the sleepy expression cleared and any resemblance either to Amelia or Alain vanished. Soft and sensuous was replaced by razor-sharp intellect. And outrage.
“What...what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, the formerly husky voice full of indignation as she slapped at his hands, which had paused in the task of sponging her down.
Water dripped off the wad and soaked the silk camisole right over her left breast, drawing his fascinated gaze. She must have followed his eyes because she squeaked, shoved at his hand and lurched upright. Unfortunately he didn’t move back fast enough, and her head smacked into his cheekbone with enough force to rattle his brain.
She gave an agonized yelp, slapped a hand to her head and sank back against the cushions, moaning as if he’d gutted her with a dull spoon.
Oh, wait—the groaning was coming from him.
“What the hell, lady?” he snarled, holding his cheek as he staggered backward and abruptly sat on the old rattan coffee table, which immediately groaned under his weight.
The move also knocked over the bottled water. He made a grab for it, only to have it sail through the air, spraying water in a wide arc. Most of it landed on her—soaking her already wet camisole. And...oh, man...rendering the thin silk almost transparent. Which he might have appreciated if she hadn’t just tried to head butt him to death.
She made a kind of squeaking, gasping sound and he saw wide amber eyes glaring at him through a haze of pain. Realizing he was still holding a wad of damp paper towels, he slapped it over the lump already forming on his cheek.
“What...what the hell was that for?” he demanded, checking for blood.
“You...you...” she gasped, and then she turned an interesting shade of green. “Uh-oh.” She gulped and slapped a palm over her mouth. A look of panic crossed her face. She sat up. “I think I’m... Oh!”
Understanding that garbled sentence, Chase surged to his feet, scooped her up and rushed down the short passage to the ladies’ bathroom. He shoved the door open with his shoulder as she made horrifying gagging sounds.
“Hold on a sec—nearly there,” he urged in panic, rushing into a stall and dumping her unceremoniously on her feet. In one smooth move he pushed her head over the toilet, with a firm hand on the back of her neck.
Unresisting, she sank to her knees, her body racked with a couple dozen dry heaves that made the sweat pop out across his forehead. He swallowed hard and retreated outside the stall. Just to give her some privacy, he told himself.
After a while there was silence, and when he heard a weak moan he stuck his head inside. She’d sagged against the wall, eyes closed as she wiped a limp wrist across her mouth. Tendrils of hair clung to her damp forehead and cheeks. She looked so miserable that Chase felt an unwelcome tug of empathy.
Dammit, he thought, shoving a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to feel anything—let alone empathy. He’d get stupid and act like he had rescue issues, for God’s sake—which, come to think of it, was how he’d met Avery.
Yeesh. What an idiot. He’d been a perfect mark. But he’d learnt a valuable lesson and he wasn’t about to repeat his biggest mistake ever. Not now that