‘It’s fine. I went and checked. Alf has it at the garage. He’s shut now. You can go visit tomorrow.’
‘It’ll be safe there?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. This is Skye.’ Although she did understand his reticence, his classic Harley must be worth a fortune.
He nodded. ‘I’ll call in on my lunch-hour tomorrow.’
‘There’s no need to start straight away,’ she protested. They could cope for a bit. ‘You should take a few days off, James, we’ll manage. Your leg should be elevated as much as possible initially.’
‘I’ll keep it up all tonight. I promise.’
He turned on the crutches to face her and she tried not to think about the unintended double meaning behind his words. But he was dressed only in his black T-shirt and a pair of black cotton boxer shorts that came to mid-thigh and left nothing to the imagination.
He looked like he could have modelled for them. He would have been perfect in a glossy magazine somewhere with his full pouting mouth and brooding dark looks. She could almost picture him clad only in his undies, his magnificent turquoise eyes making love to the camera. Maybe even straddling a gleaming chrome Harley. James Remington had clearly missed his calling.
She blinked and then swallowed. Hard. For goodness’ sake, she was a nurse, not some swooning teenager. She’d seen plenty of completely naked men. It made no sense to be affected by someone who was practically fully clothed. Hell, she’d seen more male skin exposed on a beach.
‘Right, then, I’ll bring you some clothes. Hang tight.’ And she fled from the room.
‘Hang tight’ seemed to be a favoured expression of hers. Again, as he looked down at his attire, he wondered just where the hell she imagined he would go in his underwear.
James was surprised to find on the way home that he would be living with the very capable Helen Franklin for the duration of his time in Skye. The agency had assured him accommodation was provided so the details hadn’t mattered at the time. For someone who’d spent a good part of his life between jobs camped out in a swag on the ground, any roof over his head was welcome.
But as she helped him out of the car and the smell of roses enveloped him again he felt a tug in his groin. The memory of her light touch on his toes earlier returned to him, as did the look she’d given him when he’d stood before her. The amber flecks in her eyes had glowed with warmth, hinting at passion, but she’d also looked a bit like a rabbit caught in headlights.
He could tell she was attracted to him. But he could also tell she didn’t want to be. A fact he understood perfectly. He was most definitely attracted to her. Who could resist being plucked out of the bush by pink lace and ponytails? But, like her, he didn’t want to be either.
He’d had his share of casual flings on his travels but always with women who’d known the score. Helen Franklin sent up a big red flag in his head. Warning bells were ringing loudly. Some women were best left alone—and she was one of them.
‘So this is it,’ Helen said, dumping her bag on the hall-stand and holding the door open for him. He brushed past her on the crutches and her breath hitched in her throat. ‘Your bags are in your room, through there.’
Helen pointed to one of the three bedrooms that ran off the main living area and tried not to blush at the memory of going through his bags to find the clothes he was now wearing. There had been a lot of boxers in his luggage and she felt as if she knew him more intimately than she’d ever known a complete stranger.
‘Kitchen through that door and dining room beside it.’ Helen could feel his gaze on her. ‘I have a casserole from last night I plan on heating up, if you’d like some.’
James nodded, his stomach growling at the suggestion. ‘Sounds good. I wouldn’t mind a shower first, though. I feel like half the bush is still clinging to me.’ He looked down at his leg and grimaced. ‘I guess a bath’s going to be easier.’
Helen nodded while desperately trying to not think about him in the bath. Naked. ‘Probably.’ Oh, God, he wasn’t going to need a hand, was he? ‘Will you be OK to…?’
James watched the play of emotions flick across her face and toyed with the idea of exaggerating his injury. ‘Why? Are you offering?’ he murmured.
Helen felt her cheeks grow hot just thinking about something that was second nature to her. Something that she had helped hundreds of patients with. Running a bath for him…helping him off with his clothes…supporting him as he lowered himself into the bath. She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t his nursemaid but no words come out.
James chuckled. ‘It’s OK, Helen. I think you’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty.’
She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Damn right,’ she said, and stalked into the kitchen, his hearty laughter following her.
An hour later Helen was starting to worry when the door to the bathroom was still closed. She hadn’t heard any pleas for help and she hoped he was just taking his time rather than stuck in the bath, unable to get out. She turned the volume on the television up to distract her from her steamy thoughts.
He joined her a few minutes later, hobbling on his crutches. He was wearing a white T-shirt that hugged his well-defined musculature and a pair of black boxer shorts. His dark wavy hair was damp and wet strings of it brushed the back of his neck. He smelled like soap and something else, some spicy fragrance that she knew was going to stick around long after he’d hit the road.
He was clean shaven and her fingers tingled with the urge to touch his smooth jaw.
‘Better?’ she asked him, hoping she sounded normal and that the husky strain in her voice was just her imagination. She’d known him for less than a day but already he made her acutely aware that she was a woman.
He nodded. ‘Heaps.’
James turned to sit on a lounge chair.
‘No, wait, hang on,’ she said, springing up from the couch she’d been sitting on. ‘You have the three-seater—that way you can put your leg up. I’ll sit there.’
James stopped and stared down at her. She was fussing around with cushions. She seemed nervous. Her ponytail swished with her movements and from his vantage point he could see the nip of her waist and the nape of her neck.
‘OK.’ He sat and put his leg up gratefully. It had started to throb again and he’d just taken two painkillers.
‘Hang tight. I’ll just nuke your casserole.’
Helen fled to the kitchen and leant heavily against the sink for a moment. What the hell was happening to her? She was acting as if she’d never seen a man before. OK, they didn’t really get men of his calibre in Skye. For God’s sake, there were only three unattached men under forty and not one of them looked like James. Locums who deigned to come to the bush usually only came in one flavour—fiftyish, balding and, more often than not, condescending.
But she was going to need to get a serious grip because she had to live with this man for four months and acting like a tongue-tied teenager every time she saw him less than fully dressed was going to get really embarrassing really quickly. So he redefined
