Rebel Doc On Her Doorstep. Lucy Ryder
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for whom?” he slurred woozily.
Unperturbed, she sent him a smile that was so bright and sweet it distracted him from the crafty gleam in her eyes.
“For you, of course,” she murmured, smoothing a hand down his back like he was seven and scared of the dark space under his bed. The move both irritated and pleased him, especially when flirty cop went on hard-eyed alert. Then she added, “This way you won’t get any more injuries when you pass out again and crack the floor with your head,” and his irritation became outright male insult.
“I am not going to pass...” he began, only to suck in a sharp breath when the world tilted woozily and he slid down the wall to the floor. “Okay...okay, so maybe I do need to, um...lie down.”
Clammy and panting, Ty lay on the hard floor, cursing and battling humiliation as the pint-sized tormentor ordered the two cops into position and disappeared upstairs. Dammit, this was usually his gig. If word got out he’d never live it down.
Cursing himself for thinking he could just waltz into town and everything would be okay, Ty opened his mouth to order the cops to help him up but she was back with a large towel. “Relax,” she soothed. “I can’t send you to jail like this.”
She slipped the rope towel beneath his back, under his armpit and across his chest. Completely ignoring his gritted curses, she handed the ends to the cops.
Then she planted her knee on his chest and gripped his arm above his cast. Exotic eyes locked with his, she said, “Ready?” and gave it a sharp, hard yank.
Pain exploded through him as his shoulder popped. He let out a ragged groan and lay sweating and groaning while his mini-tormentor sat back on her heels with a loud sigh of relief.
Looking pleased, she gave his chest a comforting rub and rose, affording Ty an unimpeded view of surprisingly long, shapely legs—right up to a pair of teeny boy shorts beneath the baggy T. Boy shorts that were currently hugging world-class curves.
Huh, he thought woozily. Maybe the view from here wasn’t so bad. Then from down a long tunnel he heard her instructing them to take him to the hospital and his pain fog miraculously cleared.
“No,” he said firmly, sitting up and hugging his arm to his chest, relieved that the excruciating agony was down to an almost bearable throb. “I told you, no hospital.”
“But—”
“No hospital,” he all but snarled, and was awarded with a huff of exasperation. “Besides,” he slurred, “I’m not leaving you in my dad’s house.”
No way was he telling anyone that the thought of going into a hospital made him break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when his future as a trauma surgeon looked so grim.
“FINE,” PETERSEN SAID TIGHTLY, helping a wobbly Ty onto his feet and all but marching him into the living room. “Let’s go. But I warn you, your story had better be good because Dr. Carlyle is here legally. You, not so much.”
Ty wanted to shrug off the support but his legs refused to obey the directives from his brain. A lamp was switched on and he blinked in the sudden bright light as he sank down onto the sofa with a groan. Then the man’s words registered and he stilled. “Hold it. Who the hell is Dr. Carlyle?”
“I am.”
Mini-commando appeared at his side with a huge emergency kit and glass of clear liquid, which she offered. He hoped it was neat vodka and opened his mouth to tell her to just bring the bottle but it emerged instead as a snort of disbelief. “Sure you are,” he drawled, taking the glass and saluting her. “Because they let adolescents practice medicine now.”
Gold flecks hidden in the swirls of her blue and green eyes flashed, reminding him of sunbursts reflecting off water. It distracted him until he realized that he was letting himself be bewitched by a pair of striking eyes.
Annoyed that it was working, he transferred his attention to the contents of the glass and said tersely, “This is water. Don’t you have anything stronger?”
“No. Alcohol exacerbates swelling and internal bleeding.” He looked up to tell her that if he had any internal bleeding she was responsible for it, and got caught in her gaze again.
“But I can give you a shot for the pain if you like,” she announced, wide-eyed innocence totally belied by the laughter in her eyes.
“Yeah, right,” he snorted. Okay, so maybe he’d got ahead of himself there for a moment, but the woman was clearly tougher than she looked. “I have my own meds.”
“So,” Petersen interrupted, impatient with the delay. “Now that you’re all cozy and comfortable, maybe we could see some ID?”
Ty considered telling him what he could do with his request but he was exhausted and knew any argument would just delay their departure.
Collapsing against the back of the sofa, he muttered, “Front pocket.”
Neither cop made a move towards him. In fact, they shared a stone-faced look until bossy faerie said, “I’ll get it,” in a voice that suggested they were all idiots.
He stretched out his leg to give her room and sent Petersen a challenging smirk. He couldn’t exactly reach into his pocket with an injured arm and the other holding a glass. Besides, if letting her stick her hand in his pants annoyed flirty cop and got him to leave sooner rather than later, then Ty was game.
But it had been a long time since he’d let a woman reach for anything in his pocket and much to his shock—and stunned bemusement—his body stirred.
What the—?
No way, Ty thought with a sharp sideways look. No way was he attracted to Little Miss Commando. It just wasn’t possible.
Was it?
Absolutely not. He didn’t like mouthy, bossy women and he didn’t like women who attacked defenseless people without provocation.
Her gaze caught his and she flushed, yanking his wallet out and tossing it at Petersen as though it was a live grenade.
Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she grabbed the glass out of his hand and downed the contents before shooting off the couch and bolting behind an armchair as if he was contagious.
Amusement vied with insult. So, Ty mused, fascinated by the rosy flush creeping up from the gaping neckline of her T, she handles an intruder without losing her nerve but sticking her hand in a guy’s pocket freaks her out?
She flashed a glare out the corner of her eye when she caught him staring. Her flush deepened and so did her scowl.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Ty wondered what the heck he was thinking. He’d come to Washington to be alone. Yet here he sat—head pounding like a jackhammer—hugely entertained by his attacker while being interrogated by local cops.
Déjà vu.
* * *
Paige slid a sideways glare at the man sprawled on her sofa like he belonged and everyone else were intruders. This was all his fault, she decided huffily. He’d broken into her house, scared her into a new blood group and now he was sitting there looking all impenetrable and imposing, pumping off waves of masculine irritation and blasting testosterone and pheromones around the room like a leaky nuclear reactor.
Silent and deadly.
Especially to unwary females.
Except she was very wary. She’d grown up with three older brothers and knew how the alpha mind worked. Innately confident of their place in the world, they silently and arrogantly challenged the rest of humanity. Like her brothers, he seemed to dominate the room completely and effortlessly. As though he wore an invisible sign that said, “Badass territory, enter at own risk.”
Curious,