Secrets and Lies. Lisa Jackson
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neck. The wound to his shoulder had already stopped bleeding. He winced a little as he moved his arm.
“I—I can’t do that,” she pointed out, and he grinned—not the sardonic smile that twisted his lips cruelly, but a genuine smile of amusement.
“We’ll figure something out. At least take off your boots.”
That, she could do. So she balanced herself on the edge of a couch and tugged on her boots. Her skirt was torn in spots where thorns had caught in the folds and her blouse was in tatters. Her jacket was in better shape, but wet all the way through. She kicked her boots onto the hearth, then self-consciously hung her jacket over the screen.
She felt every bit the virgin she was. She’d seen boys without their shirts before—many times while swimming at the lake or watching them scrimmage in basketball—but they had been boys, with smooth skin and only the smallest suggestion of body hair. Jackson, on the other hand, was a man. His muscles were developed and moved with corded strength, and his beard was dark against his jaw. The way his jeans hugged his hips, hanging low enough to expose his navel, caused her diaphragm to constrict. The back of her throat went dry, and she had to force her eyes away from the raveling waistband of his jeans.
His voice jerked her from her wicked thoughts. “I’ll see if there’s something around here that you can wear, so that that—” he pointed to her ripped blouse “—can dry out.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” He lifted a brow in disbelief. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to be responsible if you get pneumonia.”
“I won’t.”
“And I don’t want to get caught with you in something that was obviously torn from your body.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips nervously, aware that his gaze followed the movement. “Well, uh, I don’t want to get caught—period.”
“Amen.” He limped out of the room and Rachelle let out her breath. Good Lord, what was she doing here? If she had any sense at all, she’d grab her boots and jacket and flee.
To where?
Anywhere! Any other place had to be safer than here, alone with Jackson. Her thoughts had turned so wanton that she was shocked. She, who had never much enjoyed being kissed. All that fumbling and groping and panting. She’d thought something was wrong with her because she’d never been “turned on” as some of the girls had confided. She’d wondered about the girls who said they’d trembled because they wanted to sleep with their boyfriends so badly.
Well, Rachelle had never been in love and her parents were a fine example of how love didn’t work out. As for sex, Ellen Tremont had been embarrassed by the subject and had given her daughters minimal information on the subject. But Rachelle had learned a lot. From her friends. From the books she read. From movies. And she knew that something was wrong with her. Because she didn’t want it.
Or at least she didn’t think she did. Until now. For the first time in her life, she knew what her friends meant by thudding heartbeats and sweaty palms and a crackle of excitement—an electrical charge—between two people.
But Jackson Moore? Why not someone safe like Joe Knapp or Bobby Kramer? Someone who wouldn’t intimidate her.
She was still standing in front of the fire, heating the backs of her legs and holding her blouse together when he returned with a couple of blankets. “No clothes,” he said, and she accepted the blanket and tucked it over her shoulders.
“I’ll be fine.”
He smiled then and shook his head. “If either of us get out of this and are ‘fine,’ it’ll be a miracle.” She was suddenly so aware of him…of his maleness that she couldn’t look at him and felt tongue-tied, though she was beginning to warm a little.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him. Half boy, half man and thoroughly fascinating.
He flopped onto the couch, then sucked in a sharp breath as he attempted to struggle to a sitting position. But his knee, stiffening, wouldn’t bend. His face turned white with the effort, and he fell onto the cushions, wincing when his shoulder connected with the back of the couch.
“Your leg. It’s hurting you and your shoulder…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I said I’m okay.”
Rachelle wasn’t convinced. Every time he moved, he blanched. “You’re a lousy liar.” She glanced down at his jeans and felt sick. A dark stain colored the fabric stretching across his knee.
“So sue me.”
“Let me look at your leg.”
He offered her a lazy, pained smile. “Why, Miss Tremont,” he mocked, “are you suggesting that I drop trou?”
“No, I—”
“That’s a new one on me,” he cut in, “but if you insist—” He made a big show of sliding the top button of his waistband through its hole and she knew that he was expecting her to yell “stop,” but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Her heart was beating faster than the wings of a bird in flight but she watched, her fingers clenched tight in the folds of the blanket.
His gaze still pinned on her face, he yanked at the worn fabric and a series of buttons released with a ripple of pops. Rachelle’s breath seemed to stop.
Despite his pain, his lips twitched in amusement.
Rachelle was certain he wouldn’t go any further, yet she stared at him as he squirmed, lifting up his buttocks and sliding his pants down his leg with a grimace and groan of pain. For the first time in her life she saw a man in white briefs and she forced her eyes away from the bulge that was apparent between his legs.
“You could help me, you know. This was your idea.”
“You want me to help you take off your pants? No way.” The thought of grabbing that wet fabric, the tips of her fingers grazing his legs and hips brought a blush to her cheeks. He was injured, she told herself, she should help him, but she stood near the fireplace as if cast in stone. It wasn’t a simple situation of patient and nurse; there were emotions charging the air, sensual impulses that she’d never felt before but recognized as sexual. Her insides quivered—in fear or anticipation—before she saw the gash that started above his knee and swept over the joint to dig deep into the flesh of his calf. Blood was crusted around the cut and her stomach turned over.
“That’s horrible.”
“One word for it,” he said. His pants would go no further as he was still wearing black leather boots. Without a word, she grabbed one boot by its run-down heel and tugged, inching the wet leather off his swollen leg. The sturdy cowhide had spared his lower calf from further injury, but still the cut looked painful.
“Nice guy, Roy Fitzpatrick,” Jackson mocked.
“A prince.” She yanked off the other boot, and it slid off to the floor with a clunk. To keep busy, she set both boots by the fire, then turned to find him, nearly naked, staring up at her.
“What now?”
“You should go to a hospital, then press charges against Roy at the police station,” she said flatly, still keeping her distance.
“Oh, sure. Like the cops would believe me.”
“You had witnesses.”
“Who will all say I started the fight, provoked Roy into it.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. “I was there, Jackson. I know what happened.”
“Our words against the son of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Do you know who the chief of police