Consequences Of A Hot Havana Night. Louise Fuller
As her words reverberated inside her head and around the room her eyes darted towards the triangle of light gold skin at his throat. If only she’d just ignored his objections and called an ambulance. Outside, on the road, with his shirt turning red, she hadn’t thought about anything but the fact that he needed help. She certainly hadn’t envisaged him taking his clothes off. But how else was she going to be able to deal with his injury?
She cleared her throat. ‘Or I could cut the sleeve off?’ she offered.
He didn’t reply. He just stared at her. And suddenly she forgot all about his shirt, and even his injury, for nobody had ever looked at her so intently. It was as though he was trying to see inside her, to read her thoughts. Her muscles tightened against a sudden flood of heat. No one had ever looked at her with such focus, not even her husband. It was intimate, exhilarating, both an intrusion and a caress—
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll take it off,’ he said.
She watched as he started trying to undo the buttons, but they were sticky with blood, and before she knew what she was doing she leaned forward, batting his hands away.
‘Here. Let me.’
Her heart began to beat faster as her fingers pulled at the buttons. She could feel the heat of him beneath his shirt and, try as she might, she couldn’t stop her eyes from fixing on his sleek bronze skin as the fabric parted.
Her fingers twitched against the buckle of his belt and, avoiding his gaze, she lifted her hands and inched backwards. ‘I’ll let you take it from here,’ she said.
He shrugged his left shoulder free and then peeled the shirt tentatively away from his injured arm.
For a moment she stared at him in silence, her heart pulsing in her throat. It had been such a long time since she had looked at a man’s body. Or at least a body that looked like his.
With broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist his body was muscular, but not overly so, with just the finest trail of dark hair splitting the lean definition of his chest and stomach. His skin was smooth and golden, but it wasn’t his skin that drew her gaze, but the two scars running almost parallel up his abdomen.
Clearly he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he’d had far worse injuries. But why, having been so badly hurt, would anyone take more risks?
It wasn’t a question she could ask a stranger—not even one sitting bare-chested on her sofa.
‘What do you think?’
Lost in thought, she was caught unawares by his question and gazed up at him dazedly.
‘What do I think?’ she repeated his question slowly. Her brain seemed to have stopped working.
‘About my arm.’
Dragging her eyes up to the curve of his bicep, she breathed out unsteadily. He had been right. The skin was scuffed, and crusted with grit from the road, but it was just a graze.
‘I think it will be fine, but it’ll be easier to say once I’ve cleaned it.’ She gave him a small, tight smile. ‘Tell me if I hurt you.’
There was quite a lot of blood, but she wasn’t squeamish, not any more...not after everything she’d seen and had to do for Jimmy. And anyway it was easier not to think about what so nearly might have happened if there was something practical to do.
‘I will.’
His eyes met hers and she felt his gaze flow over her skin, cool and dark and unfathomable like a woodland pool. Her stomach knotted fiercely. Outside, in the aftermath of the accident, there had been so much going on. Now, though, his aura was undiluted—a mix of sandalwood and sexual charisma that made a flicker of unfamiliar heat rise up inside her.
Forcing herself to ignore his body, she focused on trying to be as gentle as possible as she washed away the blood, carefully easing loose the tiny pieces of grit that were embedded in the graze. There was just one last bit now...
She could feel his pulse vibrating steadily beneath his skin, and yet one tiny variable on that road might have stopped it beating for ever. The thought made her shake inside with loss and anger—anger at the unfairness of life, and with this man who wore his beauty and certainty like a shield.
Biting her lip, she leaned in closer, resting her hand against his thigh to help steady herself.
‘Sorry.’ She’d heard him breathe in and, glancing up, saw he was gritting his teeth. ‘Did I hurt you?’
She felt his leg muscle tighten, and quickly she lifted her hand.
‘Not exactly,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Almost.’ She patted his skin dry with the towel. ‘I don’t think it will bleed any more, but I’ll put this dressing on, then you won’t have to think about it.’
Glancing down, she frowned. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ Picking up his hand, she washed the smudges of dried blood from his fingers. ‘There.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘What?’ She stared at him in confusion.
‘I just thought—’ He held her gaze. ‘You just seem like someone who knows how to care for people, and you’re so well-prepared.’
Her heart was pounding. It made no sense, but for one crazy moment she almost told him the truth. This man, this stranger. Only he didn’t feel like a stranger. It felt like he knew her so well.
Throat tightening, she stared past him, remembering the months she and Jimmy had spent trying to get pregnant. She had so wanted to give him a baby, but her body just hadn’t co-operated. By the time she’d decided to look into it medically, Jimmy had been diagnosed, and then afterwards it hadn’t mattered anymore. Although, since arriving in Cuba her cycle had been all over the place, so clearly her body was just ultra-sensitive.
Lifting her chin, she found him looking at her. Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t have any children. I can’t have them,’ she admitted.
Before, in England, it had always hurt even to think that sentence inside her head, but somehow saying it now, to him, made it hurt less. How crazy was that? And unfair. To her parents and friends and Lizzie. They had spent so long talking to her, and yet here she was opening up to this stranger—this semi-naked stranger.
Her face felt hot and tight. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to know that that.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I asked a question and you answered it.’
His words repeated themselves inside her head. He made it sound so simple. But of course it was simple. Everything was simple between them. They had no history, no past, no future. Nothing but a random connection on a dusty road.
And a fluttering pinwheel of anticipation spinning inside her stomach.
Had she been looking for love or seeking some kind of romantic adventure then it might have felt different. But there would never be anyone like Jimmy. What she’d felt for him had been unique, and it was over now—and that was fine, because she knew too how it felt to lose the one you loved, and she never wanted to feel that ache of loss again.
He shifted forward and her pulse boomeranged.
What she wanted now was him. This man. This nameless stranger. To feel the hot, languorous touch of his hands and lips warming her skin like sunshine.
His fingers brushed against hers and she tensed, her breath scraping against her throat.
She could smell his cologne, that hint of sandalwood and lemon, and beneath it his own clean, masculine scent, a sensual halo of salt and shade and burning sun. Her pulse leapt forward unsteadily, heat rising up over her throat as his dark green eyes rested on her face.
He was too close, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to get closer, to touch the curve