was his eyes. They were almost…haunted.
Dark green and framed with thick black lashes, his gaze held her entire body hostage. She couldn’t move. All she could do was feel. Him. If the eyes were truly the mirrors of the soul, then somehow this man was holding back the weight of the entire world. And the strain was killing him.
He blinked.
The spell broke. A split second later, chagrin seared in. Darian Sabura might not be a criminal, and he might find sport in scaling the high-rises of the city, perhaps even the sheer cliffs and jagged mountain peaks of the world, but he was no Atlas. He was just a man. A man who was—
Bleeding? Abby dropped the shoes and touched his head.
He flinched.
She jerked her hand back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t. I can’t even feel it.”
Surely he’d exaggerated?
No, she couldn’t locate the exact source of the blood, but she was able to follow the thin rivulet down the left side of his face. “Your shirt collar is nearly soaked with blood.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay.”
“Nonsense. You may need stitches. Just let me—”
He jerked his head away before she could touch him again. “I said it’s fine. I’m fine.”
The heck he was. In a way his reaction reminded her of her brother’s usual response to a stranger’s touch. But with Brian the reaction stemmed from his innate shyness. Once her brother got to know a person, he loved to touch—better yet, hug. Often. It was one of the many blessings that came with her brother’s Down’s syndrome. She had the distinct impression this man rarely hugged, however, if ever.
She shook her head, exasperated by Darian’s stubbornness. “Look, it’s no trouble. I’ve already unpacked my first-aid kit in the kitchen. At least let me tape a bandage over that.” The exchange she’d witnessed the other day with the doorman had done more than allay her lingering fears regarding possible criminal intent—it lent credence and meaning to Darian’s statement of a minute ago: I appreciate the shortcut.
Had Spider Man simply been headed home?
She forced a shrug. “Leave if you want to, but don’t blame me if the blood seeps into your tux on the way upstairs and stains it permanently.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, his stare captured hers. Probed. She had the distinct feeling he was searching for something. Whatever it was, she didn’t think he’d been able to find it.
She was sure of it when he clipped a silent, almost resigned nod before spinning around and heading down the hall.
Bemused, she stepped out after him.
Two things struck her as Darian turned into the kitchen area instead of heading to the front door. One, he’d agreed to let her help, and two, he knew the layout of her apartment. Abby forced her racing pulse to slow. Yes, the man was gorgeous and, yes, she’d now lay odds he either lived in an identical apartment upstairs or knew someone who did. But even if that friend wasn’t a woman, it didn’t mean he was dating material. Not for her. She’d sworn off men after her fiasco of a breakup with Stuart. The only reason she’d returned to New York was to strengthen her bond with Brian. She certainly wasn’t here to get involved again, especially with a man as strange as this one, with even stranger hobbies.
Her resolve restored, Abby hooked her arm into one of the padded barstools at the breakfast counter and followed Darian into the kitchen proper. She dumped the brass stool beside the sink. The lingerie she’d inadvertently brought along went straight into the trash compactor. She threw the switch for good measure before retrieving her first-aid kit from the nest of kitchen utensils still cradling it at the top of the closest box. By the time she turned, her reluctant patient was leaning against the opposite counter, his dark, disconcerting gaze tracking her every move.
He shifted his stare to the still-chumming compactor for a brief, pointed moment, then drew it back to her.
No way. She’d let the man into her kitchen. He was not getting into her head, let alone her foolish heart. She glanced at the stool and shrugged. “You’re a giant. I’m not. I can’t reach.” He was six-two at least. At five-seven she was at a serious disadvantage if that cut was near his temple.
Her earlier suspicions regarding the man’s aversion to chit-chat were cemented as he crossed the modest galley kitchen and lowered his frame onto the stool, all without speaking. Or perhaps he’d been small-talked to death at whatever function he’d donned that tux for. She stuck out her hand, hoping to determine which. He simply stared. She redoubled her efforts, extending a genuine smile along with her hand. “Abigail Pembroke. My friends call me Abby. Given your hobby, I’m guessing yours call you Dare.”
He didn’t return her smile.
She must have shamed him into observing one of the tenets of etiquette, however, because his hand finally rose, slowly enveloping hers. His grip was warm and solid. His stare enveloped her as well.
“Dare will do…Abby.”
Oh, Lordy. The mellow note had returned to his voice, once again causing the strings of interest to vibrate deep within her belly. She muted them quickly and tugged her hand from his grasp, turning to the sink to scrub the lingering heat from her fingers along with the dust from her boxes. Fortunately, Mrs. Laurens had left a bottle of liquid soap behind and Abby used that to help with the sterilizing part of her efforts. Abby caught the rustle of fabric as she reached for the last of the paper towels the elderly woman had left as well. Dare had obviously decided to remove the jacket to his tux. By the time she returned to that steady gaze and surprisingly still-snowy shirt, her nerves were firmly under control.
Or so she’d thought.
Sweet mercy. She stared. Shamelessly.
Two weeks ago and forty feet away, the man’s chest had been ogle-worthy. Tonight, less than twelve inches away, it was downright riveting. The slightly crushed cotton of Dare’s shirt enhanced every inch of his broad shoulders, thick, sinewy arms and fiercely honed chest—right down to the silk cummerbund banded about his waist. She followed the line of studs back to his loosened tie and the tantalizing V of flesh at the base of his throat. Flesh that still bore the slight sheen of his unorthodox exertion.
And his scent.
This close, it was impossible to evade. Not that she wanted to. Abby savored the earthy musk drifting into her lungs. No ripe, commercial colognes for this man. Dare’s natural scent reflected his looks—dark and dangerous. Her second, slower whiff clogged in the middle of her throat as he cleared his. Expectantly.
She blushed.
Great. The man peeped into her window and she ended up pegged as the pervert. She purged his musk from her lungs along with her embarrassment, focusing instead on that sluggish, scarlet trickle as she stepped closer. Most of the blood appeared to have been soaked up by the dark waves that spilled past his right temple. She dumped the first-aid kit on the counter and smoothed the hair from his face.
He must have prepped himself better this time, because he managed to keep from stiffening.
She
