Undercover Mistress. Kathleen Creighton
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into him.”
“What about all that stuff he was saying? Do you think…” Celia frowned at the fitfully quaking mound of blankets on her bed. “Maybe we should…”
The doctor made a dismissive sound. “He’s delirious—that’d be the hypothermia talking.” His lips curved in a sour smile. “Sounded rather like the plot of an Arnold Schwartzenegger movie, didn’t it? I wouldn’t worry about it, dear heart. Worry about getting him warmed up.” He stifled a yawn as he turned.
Celia gave a yelp of dismay. “You’re not leaving me!”
He sank into the armchair with a grunt and a sigh. “Thanks, love, much as I’d prefer my own bed, I’d rather not have another death on my conscience if I can possibly avoid it. Forgive me, though, if I close my eyes for a bit…and wake me if he does anything interesting, will you? Besides mumble and shake, I mean…” Doc’s voice trailed off.
Celia’s gaze returned to the gaunt, gray face on her violet-sprigged pillow. It was an arresting face, she thought, the bones strong and rugged without being coarse, the stubble of beard, slightly arched eyebrows and comma of hair on his forehead almost black against his dusky skin. His nose appeared swollen, and had a definite bump on the bridge. She wondered again what color his eyes were.
He looks like a pirate, she thought. Okay, a very sick pirate.
Another shiver rippled through her. The cold radiating from the blanket-wrapped body seemed to be seeping into hers. No…I don’t want another death on my conscience, either.
Reclaiming her seat on the edge of the mattress, she shifted and maneuvered herself until the man’s upper body was once again propped almost upright against her. “Okay…” she murmured as she picked up the mug of chicken broth, “let’s try this again.”
Once more, the man’s head rolled on her chest and she felt the faint stirring of words against her cheek.
“Shh,” she whispered, with a catch in her voice. “It’s all right. Don’t try to talk.”
But his lips moved again, and her heart quickened as she leaned closer in order to hear.
“Piece o’cake,” the man said.
It should have been.
He’d been monitoring the Bibi Lilith for over thirty-six hours, and he knew the security guards’ routine backward and forward, to the second. He’d made it all the way to the control room, even got the damn door unlocked without a hitch. Then, either his luck ran out or his intel let him down. Maybe both.
Who could have foreseen on this particular night one of the guards would just happen to get hold of some bad shrimp, or an intestinal bug—who knew what it was that sent him, at that precise moment, in search of a vacant crew’s head?
The guy came out of nowhere—Roy rounded the corner and there he was. And in that narrow passageway, there was no place for him to hide. Trapped like a deer in a hunter’s headlights.
Lord knows, things couldn’t have looked more hopeless for Momma Starr’s baby boy than they did at that moment. But life was precious to him—he hadn’t realized how precious until he’d realized he wasn’t giving his up without one helluva fight.
In that moment, instinct took over. Instinct…and then some pretty intense combat training, thanks to which, in the first chaotic moments, he very nearly succeeded in making his escape. He’d taken out the first guy and was heading for the deck, but seconds later the narrow passageway had filled to bursting with security guards, all of them big. And heavily armed. And, it seemed, all of them bent on pounding him into a lifeless bloody pulp. He could feel his body being buffeted by blows from all sides, though oddly enough, with all the adrenaline pumping through him, he felt almost no pain.
Then, suddenly, he felt nothing at all.
“Doc,” Celia sobbed, “help me—I don’t know what to do! Oh God—what’s happening? Is he dying?”
Doc’s face, as he bent over the injured man, was close to hers. She saw one bloodshot eye flick her way, then narrow in a frown as he straightened. “Just unconscious, at the moment.”
“He was shivering and mumbling, then all of a sudden he just went…like that.” She was ashamed, now, of her panic. “So…still. I thought…” She’d thought he’d died on her, that’s what she’d thought. Literally. And how awful would that be!
“Take your clothes off,” Doc said.
Celia stared at him. “What?”
“I said, take off your clothes. Now. We’ve got to get him warm. If we don’t, I’m not giving any odds on him making it. Without thermal wraps and IV fluids, and given his size and the difficulty involved in getting him into a shower or bathtub, the best way I know of to do that is the old-fashioned way—skin to skin. And I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to cuddle up to him. This was your idea. Come on, love—up you get.”
“I’m not taking off everything,” Celia said, glaring at the doctor as she eased herself out from under the injured man’s limp body. “I’m keeping my underpants on, and that’s final.”
Doc grunted impatiently. “If you feel you must. Just hurry up, will you?”
“Turn around.”
“Dear girl, might I remind you that I am a doctor?”
“Not anymore,” Celia said darkly, standing her ground.
Doc rolled his eyes, but obediently turned his back. With fingers that felt stiff and uncoordinated, she unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, shook them down to her ankles and stepped out of them. She stood for a moment chewing on her lips. Then, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder at Doc’s rigid back, she peeled off the damp and sandy sports bra and dropped it on top of the shorts.
Her breasts shivered and her nipples puckered as she lifted the edge of the quilt and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Taking a deep breath and sucking in her stomach in a futile effort to avoid making contact with his body, she arranged herself alongside the injured man.
“Okay, now what?” Although she wasn’t cold herself—not really—her teeth insisted on chattering. She tensed her jaws to make them stop doing that.
“Snuggle up to him, darling. Wrap your arms and legs around him. Do I really have to explain it to you?” Doc sounded amused.
Oh…God. Every nerve ending in her skin rebelled at the touch of that clammy body. That hard, unfamiliar masculine body.
She gasped. “He’s naked.”
“What did you expect? Would you rather I’d left those sandy wet drawers on him? Don’t be such a prude. Anyhow, I doubt he even knows you’re there.” Doc was leaning across her, lifting and pushing at the man’s loglike form. “Here—scoot in and wrap yourself around his backside. That’s the ticket…as close as you can get. Skin to skin, dear. I shouldn’t have to tell you how, should I? Touch him everywhere you can.” And he pulled the comforters tightly around her, tucking them in behind her so that she was trapped…cocooned inside the bundle with the unconscious stranger.
Celia closed her eyes and counted the rapid thumping of her heartbeats. Her face was pressed between cold, gritty shoulder blades. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Her palms, stiffly flattened over his rib cage, measured the faint, slow tick of his pulse. Her tightened nipples hurt where they mashed against hard muscle. Shivers cascaded through her body in waves. Between them she muttered brokenly, “Okay…what…now?”
“Now?” Doc exhaled in a gust as he sank once more into the armchair. “I don’t know, dear heart. Hope and pray you’re the hot-blooded type, I suppose.”
Roy became aware of the pain first, a dull throbbing ache in his head, his belly, his back—in fact, in just about every part of him. That soon led to the realization that he was cold and