he wasn’t any happier to see her than she was to see him. Still, he waded through the crowd, then turned in front of her to face the people gathered around.
“Go about your evening, folks,” he said with his habitual stern, I-am-God-therefore-you-will-obey-me haughtiness. “I will take care of this situation.” Then, turning back, he squatted down in front of her in his faultlessly tailored black suit, charcoal Egyptian-cotton shirt and pearl-gray silk tie, without an apparent doubt in the world that the tourists would do exactly as he’d bid them.
Which they did, dammit. God, he was vexing.
He had a reputation around the casino for being a guy who got things done, though. Considering their recent history, she hated to admit that Jones had any redeeming qualities at all, but she had to concede that if he gave even half the attention to his work that he was currently focusing on easing off her shoe, his rep was probably well deserved.
All the same, she knew him for the dog-hating jerk he was and she didn’t trust him an inch further than she could throw him. For all she knew, his gentle handling was nothing more than a ploy to make her relax her guard. Pushing up on her elbows, she monitored him closely through narrowed eyes to make sure he didn’t pull anything tricky that would cause her ankle to hurt even worse than it already did.
As the young man with the Goth makeup and facial piercings had pointed out, the area surrounding the joint in question was swollen. It was also beginning to grow warm. Her injured flesh felt downright frigid, however, compared to Wolfgang’s sizable hands as he slid one over her heel and up to her calf to brace her leg while he probed the puffy flesh around her ankle with the other. The hot-skinned touch shocked her. Who ever would have suspected such a grim, cold guy could radiate so much heat?
Cupping his palm over her instep, he gently rotated her foot. His gaze flashed up in time to catch her wince. “That hurt?”
“Yes, it hurts,” she said testily. Then fairness forced her to add, “But I’m pretty sure it’s just twisted.” She’d had enough injuries to be a pretty good judge. But all she could think was that she had two days to get the swelling down and the joint back into dancing form, because she didn’t want to have to call Vernetta-Grace, la Stravaganza’s general manager, to tell her she’d injured herself. Again.
Carly looked down at the scimitar-shaped red scar on the knuckle above her right index finger that had cost her two days’ work less than a month ago.
“How did this happen?”
She looked up at Wolfgang, at his lightly tanned face beneath pale, spiky hair. “I was ambushed by a little old lady with a monster purse.” Wanting his hands off her, she thrust one of her own out at him. “Help me up.”
“I don’t think it is broken or even badly sprained,” he agreed, and slid his fingers away from her leg with an enthusiasm that seemed to match her own. He rose to his feet in a single, easy movement, then reached down and grasped her outstretched hand, hauling her upright.
She came up faster than she expected and instinctively put her injured foot down to keep from slamming into him. The flash of pain spearing her ankle made her crumple, and only Wolfgang’s quick hands wrapping around her upper arms kept her from sagging against his chest. The lilac-and-gold-beaded fringe of her costume swung out, sparkling bits of confetti that slapped up against his dark shirt and slacks.
Damn, damn, damn. Of all the men in this casino, why did he have to be the one who’d come to her aid? And what the hell was one of Security and Surveillance’s higher-ups doing playing nursemaid to a dancer, anyway?
Probably grabbing yet another opportunity to rub her nose in how responsible he was. As if being anal was a good thing.
He helped her to a nearby chair in front of a bank of poker machines, swiveled her seat to allow her leg to extend into the aisle and turned a plastic coin bucket on end for her to prop her heel on. Then he flagged down a waitress.
“Bring some ice and a towel, please,” he said. It was clear it wasn’t really a request, and the woman promptly turned away to do as he’d commanded.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a lot of friends,” Carly said dryly.
Crouched in front of her to check her foot once again, he slowly raised his head and looked at her with expressionless eyes. “I have no need of friends,” he said with apparent unconcern.
“You’re kidding me!” She was genuinely taken aback. This was the most civil exchange the two of them had ever managed, since their usual interaction consisted of heated confrontations, which had started the day Jones moved into the condo complex.
Well, heated on her part, anyway. He’d pretty much been a Popsicle. Still, even though she had little use for a man so patently lacking in appreciation for animals, she’d at least assumed he was marginally human.
Apparently not. No need of friends? That was just plain barbaric. There were a lot of things she didn’t need in this world—beginning with this guy as a next-door neighbor. But her friends certainly were at the top of her Must Have list. She simply couldn’t imagine what she’d do without Treena and Jax or Ellen and Mack. Dog-hating, grim-faced security guys, however, were on a different list entirely.
“I do not kid,” he said stiffly.
She snapped her mouth shut and looked at him, at his chilly green eyes beneath straight, thick brows, at those sharp cheekbones and that hard, unsmiling mouth. Then she blew out a breath and gave him a clipped nod. “Gotcha. No sense of humor. I’ve noticed that about you.”
His eyebrows gathered over the prominent thrust of his nose. But before he could respond, the cocktail waitress returned with a bag of ice and a towel and Wolfgang pulled his gaze from Carly’s face to accept the items with the barest acknowledgment.
“Thanks, Olivia,” Carly said to make up for his brusqueness. “I appreciate you going out of your way.” After the waitress squeezed her shoulder, wished her a speedy recovery and walked away, Carly turned her attention back to Jones, who was draping the towel over her foot. “I take it you have no need to get to know your fellow workers or show the least bit of civility, either?”
He slapped the ice onto her ankle.
She hissed a breath in through her teeth. When stars quit dancing in front of her eyes, she narrowed the latter on the man in front of her. “You’re a real prince, Jones.” Flapping the hand she hadn’t used to anchor herself against the fresh onslaught of pain that threatened to shoot her straight out of her seat, she shooed him away. “You can go now.” Begrudgingly she added, “Thanks for your help.”
He stood and looked at her down the length of his strong, slightly hooked nose. “You’ll be able to drive?”
Probably not. “I’ll be fine.”
“Isn’t your car a standard transmission?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “A cute little five-speed. But I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around talking about my car. So, please. Don’t let me keep you.”
He didn’t budge. “How do you intend to get home? Will you call your redheaded friend, the other dancer?”
Nope. This was Treena’s day off and she and Jax had left for San Francisco after last night’s show. They didn’t plan to be back until late tomorrow night. She gave Jones
