Water Bound Page 7

  "Thank you."

  She regarded him with her enormous black eyes. "You're a mess. You really should be in the hospital."

  He had the feeling she wanted him in the hospital, not because she thought he might die but because she wanted him out of her house--out of her bed.

  "I can't."

  She frowned at him and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're pretty damned stubborn, aren't you?"

  He thought that was evident and not worth answering, so he just let himself disappear into her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. He loved how liquid and soft they were. She started to move away and he caught her arm. "Don't go."

  "I don't like people touching me."

  He should have let go of her, but instead he rubbed the pads of his fingers up and down her bare arm. Her shirt was still half buttoned, and he was tempted to stroke her flat belly just to know the texture of her.

  "I don't like it either," he said. And it was true. Funny. He'd never admitted that to anyone. It didn't particularly matter, he did what had to be done, but he didn't like it--maybe not in the same way she meant. His was a matter of personal space, a natural avoidance of closeness with others. But Rikki . . . He studied her face. "I don't think my touch bothers you that much."

  She blinked. She rarely blinked, but he'd struck home. She compressed her lips and then narrowed her eyes at him. "You're pretty arrogant for a man who can't move with a pile of weapons sitting next to him."

  "You have such a penchant for violence."

  She looked outraged. "I do? You're the one being hostile. I'm Mother Teresa here. And I don't like sick people."

  "Do you like anyone?" Amusement was creeping in again. He was beginning to like the feeling. "Anything?"

  "Not particularly." She snatched her arm away from him as if just remembering he was touching her and she was supposed to be protesting. "And you especially."

  She rubbed at her arm as she stalked away from the bed toward the bathroom. The rubbing turned gentler, almost a caress, or maybe that was just in his mind. Figuring her out was fast becoming an obsession, but perhaps it was because as long as he was concentrating on her, he didn't have to look at himself--and he didn't bear close scrutiny. Not now, not when he felt exposed and vulnerable.

  She returned, this time with a warm washcloth and a small, very tidy emergency kit. "This might hurt. Lexi might do a better job. Do you want me to wait for her? She's good with people, especially people in pain. It's sort of her thing, helping them."

  "You do it. We've come this far and I'm used to you now. I wouldn't want to accidently attack Lexi."

  Her expression changed, her dark eyes going stormy. "You keep your hands off of her. I would have no problem sticking your own knife right through your heart if you touched her."

  So she had a protective streak. Another Achilles' heel. He'd been beginning to think she was cut off from everyone. But there it was. The storm. The promise. And she was dead serious. He liked that. He didn't want a saint. He was no saint and one would never be able to live with . . . What the hell was he thinking? He really had taken a blow to the head.

  The warm cloth moved over his head. She wasn't rough, but he wouldn't call her gentle either. Evidently she wasn't the soothing type, but she took care of the wound with the same efficiency she did everything. She was meticulously detailed, taking her time to close the gaping laceration with butterfly strips. She removed every trace of blood from his face and neck before she was through. He heard her washing her hands and all the equipment she used before she returned to him.

  "I'll let you sleep." There was uneasiness in her voice.

  "Don't go yet." Because he didn't dare go to sleep. He might really kill her if he woke up disoriented. He needed to be able to figure out what the hell was going on. He wanted to breathe her in, feel her inside and out, until he could identify her anywhere, anytime. He was almost there, a few more minutes and she'd be inside of him. He just needed . . . something. It was there in his mind, that elusive something. A few more minutes . . .

  She gave him that little frown he was becoming familiar with. The moment she made that face, his heart contracted. God, she had some kind of hold on him, as if she had stolen a part of him there under the sea.

  "Look." She spread her hands out in front of her. "In case you haven't figured it out, I'm not exactly normal. I can't have anyone here. As soon as Blythe gets back, you're going."

  He kept his gaze locked with hers. "In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not exactly normal either. You're safe with me. I know the feel of you. Your scent. I won't make the same mistakes again."

  "I'm taking a shower."

  Oh, God. She was killing him. Making him want to laugh out loud. Where had his sense of self-preservation gone? He didn't feel emotion--that was far too dangerous. He shivered beneath the blankets, suddenly afraid for her. For himself.

  "You're still cold. I should have thought to rub you down with some warm oil. Lexi makes it and I use it sometimes when I come in from a dive. It warms you up fast. Can you roll over, because I'm not rubbing your front."

  "Why not?"

  "If you want a massage, turn over."

  He managed it, although he had to grit his teeth and he didn't bother lifting his head from the pillow. He kept his face turned toward her and his hand inches from his gun. The safety was off, and he could aim and fire in a heartbeat if she made a wrong move. Yeah. That was more like him. He recognized that man. Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched her face while she drew down the blanket and then poured oil into her hands.

  The first touch of her hands alarmed him on a gut-wrenching level he didn't understand. He hadn't lied when he said he didn't like anyone touching him. He had control of his body at all times. Complete, absolute and utter control. He could manipulate others through his practiced touch, because of his extensive training in every possible way of sexual pleasure, but he was the one who commanded his body's response, not his partner. He decided who and when, and he was always--always--in control. Until this moment.

  His breathing changed. Heat rushed through his veins. He told himself it was the oil, spreading warmth over his skin, but he felt the sizzling, scorching heat spreading lower, centering, until, of its own volition, without his consent or command, his groin stirred, grew heavy and thick, and pulsed with need. He had a head injury, pain crashed through him if he dared to move his head, yet he was hard as a rock. What the hell was going on?

  He took a breath and let himself absorb the feel of her hands on him. She massaged the oil into his shoulders, her fingers lingering in the long slash along his shoulder blade. Then her palm glided to his arm to trace the bullet wound there, and his body trembled. She massaged deep with her strong fingers, rubbing the oil into his biceps and then down his forearms to his fingers. His breath stilled in his body.

  Her fingers were magic, sliding over his, in between, the oil absorbing into his skin while he melted into her. The warmth of the oil added to the illusion of becoming part of her. His heart beat a strange rhythm, pounding for her. He wanted to taste her in his mouth, breathe her into his lungs, be part of her body, seek refuge deep inside her. A long-ago instinct stirred in his broken mind, something he'd once heard, a long-ago childhood memory about a woman who would complete him. An element he needed.

  "You haven't asked me." He needed distraction.

  With his head and heart pounding and his groin full to bursting, with her hands moving along his back, easing every ache while the warmth poured into his body, he was desperate to divert himself from the unfamiliar needs of his body. And she was a need now. Like a drug infused through his skin. Through all his senses. His body absorbed the oil, but it was really her pouring inside him.

  "Your scars? Would you tell me if I asked?"

  "What I know. The bullet that nearly severed my spine." He waited until she found it, until the pads of her fingers stroked over the spot like a caress. "Amsterdam. I know that but not why or who. The knife along my hip was P
aris and one up by my shoulder blade, Egypt. I know where I was with each of them, but not why."

  "I should have taken you to the hospital."

  She was frowning again, he could tell by her voice. He wished he could see her face, but she was working on his buttocks and he lost his own voice as well as his ability to think straight. Little explosions were going off in his head--and his groin. His cock was hot and heavy and so full he was leaking. Her hands went to the backs of his thighs.

  Impersonal. He repeated the word silently over and over to himself. She would have done the same for anyone needing help. He'd have to kill any man she touched like this. His body should have been relaxed, not ready to take possession of hers. He was acutely aware of her every movement. Her breath. The swing of her hair. The beat of her heart. Her hands moving over his muscles, pressing deep, stroking and gliding. He knew she was wholly focused on what she was doing--not on him--and God help them both, he wanted her to notice him.

  He needed her to see him as a man, not some damned pet project. Or worse. Maybe she was caught up in the way the drops of oil landed on his skin in the same way she seemed to be wholly focused on water.

  He gathered his strength, pushed pain to the back of his mind and shifted his weight, easing off the monstrous hard-on she couldn't fail to notice. It took her a moment to look up from kneading his calves. Her hands stopped abruptly and he heard her shocked inhale. He rolled over, needing to see her face--her eyes.

  She shoved back away from him, her eyes widening, the long lashes veiling her expression. As she went to pull away, she held up her hands, palms out, defensively, as if warding him off. Long-buried, maybe even unknown instincts took over. His hand whipped up, pushing air toward her left palm. Sparks danced between them, silver and gold, like tiny fireflies. She cried out and cradled her hand to her, that little frown drawing his attention to her soft mouth.

  "Let me see."

  "What did you do?"

  "I don't know. Let me see."

  Her gaze dropped to his heavy erection and her eyes grew stormy. "Just put that away."

  There it was again--that urge to smile. "It's not a weapon. And you put it there. You take it away."

  "Well, we found out one thing out about you, didn't we?" She snatched the blanket and flung it over him, tenting his monstrosity of a hard-on. "You haven't had sex in a long time."

  She was close so he caught her wrist and turned her injured palm over, drawing her hand closer for his inspection. Two faint marks, circles intertwined one through the other. He pressed the pad of his thumb over the marks and rubbed in a circular motion.

  "If you think I brought you home so you could have sex, you picked the wrong person. I don't do that sort of thing with just anyone."

  His fingers tightened around her hand. "I'm glad to hear that." He moved his thumb and the circles had faded, leaving only a faint redness. Instead of remorse over marking her, he felt a strange satisfaction. He let go of her and allowed his eyes to close. The massage had driven the last vestiges of cold from his bones and left him exhausted.

  "Talk to me from the door when you need to wake me up. Make certain I'm alert before you come in."

  "What happened to 'you're safe'?" she asked aloud and, sending him another frown, she stalked out, leaving him to sleep.

  4

  HER sisters had to come home soon. Rikki paced back and forth on her front porch. How long did a reception last anyway? Were they going to be dancing all night? She rubbed her itching palm down her thigh and then pressed her hand hard against her tummy. What on earth had ever possessed her to bring someone home and put him in her house? She must have been out of her mind. No one stayed in her house. She couldn't stay in there with him. Now she had to sit outside and wish she had a cup of coffee. She wasn't going inside to make one either.

  She stuck her thumbnail in her mouth and chewed on it. What if he needed something? What if he croaked? In her bed. Sheesh. The repercussions of her idiotic decision were mind-numbing. He was a complete stranger and most likely a homicidal maniac, judging by his weapons and his reflexes. She paced back and forth, huffing out her breath and mumbling curses and threats toward him under her breath.

  It wasn't even safe to have him in her house. If Blythe and the others were right and she wasn't a sociopath, then someone was trying to kill her and anyone who might live with her. Or, she hated people near her so much that she tried to kill them by burning them alive, and then didn't remember it. Either way, it wasn't a good scenario.

  She whirled around and glared at the door. She couldn't go into her own house. A man. A man with a very large . . . She buried her face in her hands. Why did she have to think about that part of his anatomy? She should be thinking about how insane he was, all of his scars and how he got them, or his weapons and what it all meant.

  She'd thought about him naked while she'd showered and washed her hair. Her body had actually reacted to the sight of him. She'd felt a blush start somewhere in her tummy and move up to her neck. Fingers of awareness crept down her spine and tingled over her thighs. Her womb pulsed with need. Her beloved water, instead of wrapping her up like a blanket and comforting her, had felt sensual on her skin.

  She'd meticulously bleached her wet suit and hung it up, scrubbing her bathroom and shower after use, and then put his clothes in the dryer. She'd paced back and forth in her living room while the walls drew closer and closer together and her lungs couldn't get enough air. To escape the knowledge of him naked in her bed, she'd fled her own house in desperation.

  She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. What the hell had she been thinking, bringing him into her house? No one went into her house, it just wasn't done. Well, Blythe did, to get her coffee, but they always--always--drank it out on the porch. She never took chances. Not with the women who had believed in her, who offered her a family--who loved her in spite of all her failings.

  She bit at her thumbnail. Where were they? Why weren't they home? Blythe had to come home and save her from her own stupidity. She needed him out of her house now. The pacing lasted hours. Eventually she realized she had to go check on him. There was nothing else for it. If she was lucky, he'd be dead already and then she wouldn't have to figure out how to get him out. Maybe she'd just dump him back in the sea.

  Feeling a little elated over the thought, she squared her shoulders, took a long look around and steeled herself to go back inside. The moment she entered the house, she felt his presence. He seemed to fill up every room. The house smelled of Lexi's oil, the faint scent of almond and lemon. Rikki rubbed the bridge of her nose, and after a moment of indecision discarded her sunglasses. The house was dark and he was probably asleep. She knew she wore the glasses as much for armor as she did to keep others from being uncomfortable with her direct stare. The way he looked into her eyes . . .

  She huffed out her breath and moved as silently as possible to the doorway of her bedroom. He took up the entire bed. His breathing was even, but somehow, she knew he was instantly aware of her presence. Like a predator. The uneasiness building inside of her flared into a massive ball of churning bile. She was going to have to keep him. Here. In her home. That was the consequence for her stupidity.

  She didn't dare turn him over to one of her sisters--not even to Blythe. He was too dangerous. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. What was wrong with her? She really didn't have survival instincts the way other people did. Although her "sisters" teased her that she was paranoid, she acted without thinking things through. This man could never go to Blythe's house with his weapons and his reflexes. Rikki was responsible for him, not the others. She had to protect the others.

  "Fear has a scent to it."

  Her heart jumped. "If you think I'm afraid of you, you're mistaken," she answered. "I don't have people in my home, and I thought I could ask one of the others to deal with you but I realized I can't do that to them."

  "So you're stuck with me."

  "Something like that." She kne
w she sounded moody and less than gracious, but he'd disrupted her entire world. Her home was her sanctuary and he'd invaded it.

  "When you say you don't have people in your home, you mean that literally, don't you?"

  "Yes." Now she sounded sullen. "I don't even like talking to people." He might as well know she wasn't going to be any kind of soothing nurse for him.

  "How are you at finding some kind of aspirin?"

  She shrugged and went through the bedroom to her master bath. All medicines were kept in her personal bathroom. She had a guest bathroom, always kept meticulously clean, but no one had ever used it. Still, she wouldn't keep her personal medicines in the guest bathroom. She found the bottle and shook out two pills. She never drank water in the bathroom either, so she had to go into her kitchen to get the water. She passed him without saying a word, or giving him any explanation of what or why she was doing anything. His opinion of her didn't matter. She had her ways of doing things and they suited her just fine.

  As always when she turned on the tap, the water pouring out appeared to be a silvery stream of shimmering beauty. She could see perfection in each individual crystal drop. She couldn't resist touching, allowing the water to cascade over her hands, her skin, and to meld with her in that comforting way, like living gloves. She turned her hands palm up and allowed the water to hit the exact center of her left palm, where the faint, disturbing marks had faded, yet sensation seemed to remain, as if she'd been branded in some way beneath her skin.

  The water was not only soothing on her palm, but sensual, flowing over her skin like silk. She felt a stirring between her legs, a throb of heat, a rush of fire through her veins. Her breasts ached. Small teasing sensations, feather light, like fingers drifting down her thighs.

  What the hell are you doing?

  She heard the voice clearly in her head. His voice, thick with desire, with the same need that coursed through her entire body.

  Gasping, she jerked her hands out from under the running water. She caught the echo of her gasp from the other room. For a moment her body pulsed with desire so acute she couldn't think straight. Feeling was everything. Sensations of need, of lust, of desperate desire flooded her mind. She even caught an image of him licking his way up her thigh to her hip, his tongue tasting the droplets of water running down her leg. His desire? Hers? She couldn't be certain. She only knew that she'd never experienced such need and it was all wrapped up with a complete stranger.