down on the entrance table and turned to him, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Good. Great.” He shifted and winced. “I just need a little help, that’s all. An explanation would be even better.”
“For what?”
“Maybe we’ll start with what the hell you’re doing in my house and then move on to the unprovoked attack.”
“Unprovoked?” she squeaked in outrage. “You looked like the walking dead after my brains. What the heck was I supposed to do?” Three pairs of eyes swung her way and Ty noticed the cops’ similar expressions of male confusion. She must have too because she pushed out her lush lower lip, crossed her eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath. “For your information,” she continued primly, “this is my house.”
“No, it’s not.” And when no one moved or spoke, “Dammit, will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
She made a tsking sound at his language and turned to the cops. “If he won’t go to the hospital, you’ll have to hold him down while I do it here.” Her voice dropped and she whispered...loudly. “It’s going to hurt. We usually strap them to the bed and stick them with a bunch of needles before we try this.”
“Hold me—? Needles? Whoa, you hold it, lady. Right there.” He lifted his good hand in the universal stop gesture and dared them to come any closer. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She studied him silently for a couple of seconds before sharing a look with flirty cop. “I’m going to fix your shoulder.”
Oh, no. No way in hell.
“No offense, babe,” he snorted, gritting his teeth against the agony as he struggled to his feet. Where he completely embarrassed himself by swaying as sweat exploded from his pores. His vision swam and it took supreme self-control to stay upright. Fortunately he hadn’t eaten since the questionable airline food or he’d be totally humiliating himself. “But I’m not letting a bossy faerie commando anywhere near my shoulder.” He jerked his chin behind her. “They can help.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she snorted, stepping close now that she had two burly cops with guns at her back. “I think the bossy faerie commando is more qualified to do this.”
Yeah, right. “I doubt it.” He glared at the cop. “Flirty cop here can help me.”
“It’s Detective Petersen.” Flirty cop arched his brows and looked amused but made no move towards him. Fine. He turned to the younger cop and got a helpless shrug.
“See,” she said smugly. “They know who’s in charge here.” She patted his shoulder. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let Detective Petersen help. And don’t worry about it,” she soothed, as if she was talking to a frightened kid. “I know what I’m doing. You won’t feel a thing.”
Ty ground his teeth together and sent her a touch me and die glare that she totally disregarded by tugging gently but firmly, clearly wanting him back on the floor.
Which was no way in hell happening. He tried to shrug her off and ended up slapping a hand against the wall when the world spun.
“It’ll be much easier this way,” she soothed in a soft husky voice that had him blinking and scowling at her again.
“Easier for whom?” he slurred woozily.
Unperturbed, she sent him a smile that was so bright and sweet it distracted him from the crafty gleam in her eyes.
“For you, of course,” she murmured, smoothing a hand down his back like he was seven and scared of the dark space under his bed. The move both irritated and pleased him, especially when flirty cop went on hard-eyed alert. Then she added, “This way you won’t get any more injuries when you pass out again and crack the floor with your head,” and his irritation became outright male insult.
“I am not going to pass...” he began, only to suck in a sharp breath when the world tilted woozily and he slid down the wall to the floor. “Okay...okay, so maybe I do need to, um...lie down.”
Clammy and panting, Ty lay on the hard floor, cursing and battling humiliation as the pint-sized tormentor ordered the two cops into position and disappeared upstairs. Dammit, this was usually his gig. If word got out he’d never live it down.
Cursing himself for thinking he could just waltz into town and everything would be okay, Ty opened his mouth to order the cops to help him up but she was back with a large towel. “Relax,” she soothed. “I can’t send you to jail like this.”
She slipped the rope towel beneath his back, under his armpit and across his chest. Completely ignoring his gritted curses, she handed the ends to the cops.
Then she planted her knee on his chest and gripped his arm above his cast. Exotic eyes locked with his, she said, “Ready?” and gave it a sharp, hard yank.
Pain exploded through him as his shoulder popped. He let out a ragged groan and lay sweating and groaning while his mini-tormentor sat back on her heels with a loud sigh of relief.
Looking pleased, she gave his chest a comforting rub and rose, affording Ty an unimpeded view of surprisingly long, shapely legs—right up to a pair of teeny boy shorts beneath the baggy T. Boy shorts that were currently hugging world-class curves.
Huh, he thought woozily. Maybe the view from here wasn’t so bad. Then from down a long tunnel he heard her instructing them to take him to the hospital and his pain fog miraculously cleared.
“No,” he said firmly, sitting up and hugging his arm to his chest, relieved that the excruciating agony was down to an almost bearable throb. “I told you, no hospital.”
“But—”
“No hospital,” he all but snarled, and was awarded with a huff of exasperation. “Besides,” he slurred, “I’m not leaving you in my dad’s house.”
No way was he telling anyone that the thought of going into a hospital made him break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when his future as a trauma surgeon looked so grim.
“FINE,” PETERSEN SAID TIGHTLY, helping a wobbly Ty onto his feet and all but marching him into the living room. “Let’s go. But I warn you, your story had better be good because Dr. Carlyle is here legally. You, not so much.”
Ty wanted to shrug off the support but his legs refused to obey the directives from his brain. A lamp was switched on and he blinked in the sudden bright light as he sank down onto the sofa with a groan. Then the man’s words registered and he stilled. “Hold it. Who the hell is Dr. Carlyle?”
“I am.”
Mini-commando appeared at his side with a huge emergency kit and glass of clear liquid, which she offered. He hoped it was neat vodka and opened his mouth to tell her to just bring the bottle but it emerged instead as a snort of disbelief. “Sure you are,” he drawled, taking the glass and saluting her. “Because they let adolescents practice medicine now.”
Gold flecks
