Take My Breath Away.... Cara Summers
but the woman who had gripped his hand and said that everything would be all right.
And it would be. He let out the breath he’d been holding and slipped under again.
TO PREVENT HER TEETH from chattering, Nicola clamped them together as she dragged the last choir robes out of the closet and added them to the pile at the injured man’s feet. Thank heavens there’d been a generous supply. And they were heavy.
In spite of her efforts to keep her mind on the task at hand, she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking about her reaction to the man. At twenty-six, she was no stranger to desire or lust. She’d had her moments and thoroughly enjoyed them. But those feelings had never flared quite so quickly or intensely before.
And she didn’t seem to have any control over them. Each time she’d added to the pile of robes, she hadn’t been able to prevent herself from looking at him. And each time she did, she felt that catch of her breath, that flare of heat.
There was no logic to it. There hadn’t been from the beginning.
He was a stranger. But her heart was pounding. And in spite of her determination, her mind kept spinning back to those moments in her office and just minutes ago when he’d looked into her eyes and her thoughts had clicked off just as completely as if someone had thrown a switch.
Dropping the last robe on the pile, she drew in a deep breath. Mental list time again. She knelt down to check her patient. His pulse was steady, the bleeding on his forehead had stopped, but she knew he had to be very cold. She certainly was. Even with the window shut, the room felt like a deep freeze. Her feet had gone numb and she’d begun to shiver.
She had to get him out of the clothes that had been drenched by the vase of water. The Paul Bunyan shirt was easy enough. Placing his arms over his head, she tugged on the sleeves. Once they were off, she finessed the rest of the shirt from under him.
His T-shirt presented more of a problem, but it had to go. In the flickering light, she could see the wet stain covered his shoulders and ran in streaks nearly to his waist. She began by tugging the material free from the waistband of his jeans. But the moment the backs of her fingers brushed against his bare skin, she knew she was in trouble, and it deepened steadily as she eased the shirt up, uncovering the narrow waist, the broad chest.
Keep your eyes on the shirt. On his face. But not on his mouth. That was a definite danger zone.
By the time she’d pushed the T-shirt up to his armpits, Nicola was aware of two things. She had some control over her eyes, but none over what she was feeling as her fingers brushed against that smooth skin stretched taut over rock-hard muscles. The little flame of lust this man had ignited in her was being fanned brighter and stronger with each contact.
She kept her eyes steady on his face, on the dark slash of brows, the shadow of a beard on that strong angled chin as she moved behind him. But her mind wandered, wondered. So far the touching had been purely clinical. Almost. And one-sided. Definitely. Still, her throat had gone dry and her pulse was racing. What would happen if she ran her hands over him with the intent of arousing him, pleasuring him? And what if he touched her back?
Whoa.
Just thinking about it stopped her teeth from chattering and made her heart pound so loudly that she was amazed the noise didn’t wake him up. She carefully maneuvered the T-shirt off one arm, then the other before she eased it carefully around the wound on his forehead.
Then her gaze slid to where it had wanted to be from the beginning. She sat back on her heels and simply stared, letting her eyes feast on what her hands had already gotten more than a hint of. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms were well-defined; his chest was broad with a triangle of thick black hair that tapered down over equally defined abs. The man was built like a Greek god. She could imagine him in bronze or sculpted in marble.
She shivered then and shook her head. She had to get a grip. He wasn’t a god. He was a man who might be in shock, who was in danger of slipping into hypothermia.
Moving quickly, she grabbed one of the robes, opened it up and tucked it along the length of him from shoulders to boots on one side. Then she did the same on the other side. A part of him would still be lying on the cold marble, but there was no way she was going to be able to roll him over.
The man was so tall she had to use two of the shorter robes to fully cover him. After she’d arranged them, she leaned down and patted his cheek again.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said.
His lashes fluttered. “C … c … old.”
“I know. You’ll be warm soon. I promise.”
How soon? That was the crucial question. There were only two robes left. She’d had some idea of using them for herself.
She glanced at her coat. It was damp on the outside. And she was going to have to get out of her wet slacks and boots.
And then what?
Nicola very carefully avoided looking at the man. Because the answer was obvious. And it had been there lurking in the back of her mind ever since she’d started undressing him.
She was an FBI agent. She’d been trained in survival tactics, and the quickest, most efficient way to keep both of them warm—for the time being—was to share everything. Including body heat.
And the only reason she was stalling was because of the effect this man—this complete stranger—had on her senses. Annoyed—no, angry at herself, Nicola arranged the last two robes. They were both adults. And she was the only fully conscious one. What was her problem?
She tugged off her boots. If he tried anything, she could handle herself. Shrugging out of her holster, she placed it next to her gun and the flashlight.
But what if you try something?
“Not happening,” Nicola muttered as she wiggled out of her wet trousers. A little fantasizing, a little lust. She could handle it.
But she didn’t look at him as she joined him beneath the pile of robes.
Every muscle in her body tensed when his arm snaked around her and pulled her close. Suddenly she was wrapped around him as intimately as a lover—her thigh across his, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder. She might have objected if she hadn’t felt a blast of warmth at each and every contact point.
Or if he’d moved another muscle.
But he didn’t.
She waited, counting the seconds … five … ten … fifteen … twenty.
But the only thing that moved was the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm. Still, she kept her eyes open, her mind alert as the seconds stretched into minutes.
But he lay there, still as a stone. And all the while the warmth spread, slowly, deliciously until she was certain she could feel it penetrate her muscles and even her bones. The instant she could feel her toes again and wiggle them, she considered moving. It would be the prudent thing to do.
And she’d always figured herself for a practical kind of woman.
He was warm now. She could feel the heat of his skin beneath her palm and along her stomach where her jacket had pulled open. It was probably safe to move away. It was probably safer to move away.
The yawn took her by surprise. Even more surprising was the realization that at some point she’d relaxed fully against him. And she didn’t want to move.
Not the most practical decision. She’d reconsider it in a minute. Just one more minute …
4
GABE SURFACED QUICKLY this time and began to orient himself. There was still pain thrumming at the back of his head and near his temple.
The fight.
The details were there, but he pushed them away