use of the diminutive had been nothing more than a slip. It meant nothing…
‘In Egypt?’ he asked.
Yes… No… Egypt was a distraction and she refused to be distracted.
‘When you walked away from your family,’ she said.
She felt the movement of muscle, more jerk than shrug, as if she’d taken him unawares. The slight catch in his breathing as if he’d jolted some pain into life. Physical? Or deeper?
Then, realising that she was transferring her own mental pain on to him, that it had to be physical, she sat up. ‘You are hurt!’
‘It’s nothing. Lie back.’ And, when she hesitated, ‘Honestly. Just a pulled muscle. It needs warmth and you make a most acceptable hot-water bottle.’
‘Would that be “Dr” Jago talking?’
‘I don’t think you need to be a doctor to know that.’
‘I guess not.’ And, since warmth was all she had to offer, she eased gently back against him, taking care not to jar his shoulder.
‘Is that okay?’
‘Fine,’ he said, tightening his arm around her waist so that she felt as if she was a perfect fit against him.
Too perfect.
‘So?’ she said, returning to her question, determined not to get caught, dragged down by the sexual undertow of their closeness, a totally unexpected—totally unwanted—off limits desire that was nothing more than a response to fear.
She didn’t want to like Nick Jago, let alone care about him. Not easy when a man had saved your life. When his kiss had first warmed her, then heated her to the bone.
And the last thing she wanted was his pity.
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