Good. Because he really didn’t want to have to carry her up. He didn’t think he could handle touching her.
They walked to the elevators together. He kept close watch on her from the corner of his eye. At least they were alone when they got on. Her bloody arm would have brought on some questions, for sure. But they reached her room on the third floor without running into anyone.
She had a suite, small but tidy. She walked straight to the closet and grabbed some clothes. “I’m going to clean up. Make yourself at home,” she said before she disappeared behind the bathroom door.
He looked around more carefully. The space, like any hotel room, was dominated by a bed: king-size, plenty of room for two. He cut that thought right off and turned his back to the damn thing. He blew some air from his lungs. He shouldn’t be here. He shoved his hands into his pockets and reassured himself with the thought that he was here only in a professional capacity, and this would be the last time.
He scanned the rest of the furniture: a desk and a table with chairs in the small kitchenette. Plenty enough for the week she would be staying.
The sound of running water drew his attention to the bathroom door. He bent his head, rubbed his thumb and index fingers over his eyebrows as he squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He so didn’t want to think about the new, grown-up Lilly naked under the hot spray of water.
He did anyway. Maybe he had more self-discipline than the average Joe, but he was still a man.
She kept the shower brief. Long before he could have reined in his rampant imagination, she emerged from the bathroom, wearing soft white slacks and a pale green tank top that emphasized the green of her eyes. A nasty red wound, at least four inches long, marred her lower right arm. It still seeped blood.
She went to the closet again and bent to the bottom. She grabbed a jumbo first-aid kit, then came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “I wouldn’t mind if you helped me bandage this up. I’m not good with my left hand.”
The bed? With five chairs in the suite, she had to sit there?
He almost suggested the kitchen table, but he didn’t want her to guess that she affected him in any way.
He stepped up to her, trying not to notice her fresh, soapy scent. “You travel with an emergency kit?”
She’d been a pretty haphazard person back when he’d known her, definitely not the Girl Scout type. More of a “let the chips fall where they may” sort of girl.
She popped the lid open. “I like to be prepared.”
Of course, she was an FBI agent now. She’d probably been shot at before, even if he didn’t want to think about it. Obviously, she’d lived and learned.
He looked at the brown bottle of peroxide in the middle of the box. “Let’s start with the disinfecting.”
The bullet ripped along her skin but didn’t go through, didn’t damage muscle, or not too badly. That was good. She was right—she didn’t need the E.R. Although, it might have been better if a nurse was doing this.
He hadn’t planned on seeing her in so little clothes that he would have to notice her toned arms. He hadn’t planned on getting close enough to her to touch her.
But fine—he was a soldier. He could suck it up for ten minutes. As long as he didn’t look at the curve of her breasts, which the tank top very unhelpfully accentuated.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what they always say.”
He slipped into latex gloves and disinfected the wound then dabbed it dry. To her credit, she didn’t make a sound. He leaned closer to get a better look at the damage now that dry blood didn’t obstruct his view.
She held still. “So?”
“The missing swath of skin is too wide for butterfly bandages, but the gash isn’t deep enough to really need stitches.”
To her credit, she didn’t say I told you so.
He put on antiseptic cream then a sterile pad, wrapped her arm in gauze. “It’s going to leave a nasty scar.”
“Good thing I’m not a photo model.”
As she shrugged, his gaze strayed to her naked shoulder, to her soft, tanned skin. Feeling lust at this moment had to be wrong for at least half a dozen reasons. Trouble was, she had him so bamboozled, he couldn’t remember any of them.
He cleared his throat. “Good to go.”
She flashed a smile. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stepped back.
“And thank you for...before,” she added with a tilt of her head, her eyes growing serious. She filled her lungs, a consternated look coming over her face for a second. “I’m sorry if I was a difficult teenager.”
Difficult didn’t begin to describe her. “You were something.”
She smiled again.
He didn’t smile back. “And by that, I mean trouble. And it was pretty obvious you’d be even bigger trouble in a couple of years. I was just hoping we wouldn’t be running in the same circles by then.”
She watched him. “And here I am.”
“And here you are.” He drew a slow breath, and the flowery scent of her soap hit him all over again.
* * *
LILLY WATCHED THE WARY expression on his face.
Being alone in a hotel room with Shepard Lewis had been her teenage dream. To have him here now seemed beyond strange, even if under vastly different circumstances than she’d spent hours daydreaming about back in the day.
She’d written songs about him, for heaven’s sake.
She pushed all that away.
“You kept insurance on the car I borrowed,” she said. Okay, stole. But seeing how they were practically colleagues now, there was no sense splitting hairs.
He shifted where he stood. “Figured you couldn’t afford it. Driving without insurance is illegal. Didn’t want you to get into more trouble if you got caught.”
“You never reported it stolen. That car saved my life. I lived in it the first year after I ran away.”
He nodded.
“How come you’re no longer a parole officer?”
His dark eyes focused a little sharper, his jaw jutting out a little, his masculine lips tightening.
Oh, God. “Did you quit because of me?” Had she been that bad?
He backed away from her, to the window, and looked out. He said nothing.
“You did?”
