Melissa reluctantly shed her poncho, shaking off the excess water before she hung it on the knob.
“I’ll need more light,” Grace said.
Melissa nodded, then extracted a black silk shawl from her pocket and carefully arranged it around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered before Grace turned on the light in her spare room.
Grace sat beside the unconscious man on the twin bed. “Help me hold him up so we can see where he’s hurt and get them wet clothes off him.”
“Grace?” Melissa’s voice wavered with uncertainty.
“Missy, we gotta see how bad he’s hurt,” Grace answered with a touch of impatience. She ran her hands over the prone figure with the practiced ease of a nurse. Melissa watched, fascinated by the man on the bed.
He was a beautiful creature—the epitome of the tall, dark and handsome hero in those romantic movies her friend Dee insisted on sharing with her once a week.
Even with his brow furrowed in pain, his face had a quality of strength. The impression came from the high cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, she decided, and rated his bone structure as excellent. His long eyelashes lay against smooth skin that was too pale to be healthy. Only the slightly sardonic twist of his mouth and the drying blood on his forehead marred the perfect proportions of his oval face. Drawn to those full lips, she tried to imagine how they would taste. She frowned. Where had that thought come from?
“What do you suppose happened to him?” Melissa asked to distract her wayward thoughts.
“Looks like a car wreck. Weather like this, wouldn’t surprise me none.” Grace finished her inspection and covered him with the blanket. “I don’t think he’s too bad off,” she continued. “Left wrist sprained, two bruised ribs and probably a concussion, judging by the bump on his head. If he don’t wake up soon, I’m gonna have to take him to the hospital.” Grace pointed to the side of the bed near the man’s middle. “Go sit there.” Grace gently held the stranger up. “You do the buttons.”
With shaky fingers, Melissa fumbled with the buttons of his denim shirt. Light and shadow played over pectorals whose pleasing definition had her itching for a pencil and paper. Her frown deepened. He was a man. She didn’t draw men. The spray of dark hair centered on his torso mesmerized her. She followed its course until it disappeared in the waistband of his jeans. After a moment of hesitation she unbuckled his belt, unsnapped the button of his fly and pulled down the zipper just enough to free the shirttail. With curiosity, she noted how the soft dark line of hair continued down into his navy shorts, automatically cataloging the fascinating lines made by bones and muscles over stomach and hips. She sucked in a breath at the painful purpling bloom of bruises over his left ribs.
With the shirt loosened, Grace leaned the man forward so that his head lay on Melissa’s shoulder. He moaned in pain. Instinctively Melissa wrapped her arms protectively around his waist and trembled as his body relaxed against hers. He was heavy on her chest, and she tensed under the weight as Grace proceeded to remove the shirt.
Relax. He can’t hurt you; he’s unconscious. Watching all those romantic movies hadn’t prepared her for the solidness of a man or for the irrational feeling of loss sinking through her like a rock in spring mud.
“Push him back easy,” Grace ordered. “I’m gonna go get some bandages for that cut.”
With a small sigh of relief, Melissa did as Grace asked. While Grace was gone, her gaze returned once more to the stranger’s lips. Artistic analysis, she told herself. Her hand reached for her heart and she knuckled the soft pining ache there. He’s not the one, she thought. He can’t give you what you want—no one can.
She started to move away, then found her hand—as if it had a mind of its own—wandering toward that beautiful face. With a fingertip, she traced the edge of the bruise on his forehead, trailed down the sharp definition of his cheekbone and found his mouth. A study of proportion, she told herself, and tried to push away the notions of heat and softness and stark maleness. Would he begrudge her a moment of fantasy?
With uncharacteristic abandon, she loosened her shawl and gave in to temptation. A spark of electricity ran between them when she touched her lips to his. A small gasp escaped her as she jerked back in surprise. When she kissed him a second time, his lips felt cold and lifeless.
Just as well, she thought. He was no Snow White waiting for a wake-up kiss, and she definitely wasn’t Princess Charming. Love at first kiss was the invention of movie-makers. Everyone knew that. When he woke up, he’d most likely think he’d landed on the set of a horror movie, not some sort of romance. Still, she couldn’t resist one last touch, this time with her finger to his lips.
His eyes fluttered open and he mumbled, “Lindsey, don’t leave me, Lindsey.”
Spurred by a shot of adrenaline, Melissa scrambled off the bed and rewrapped the shawl around her face. When she turned to face him, he lay still once more, and the momentary speeding of her heart returned to normal.
Armed with scissors and bandages of all kind, Grace reappeared. She positioned herself opposite Melissa. Her hands moved quickly as they cleaned, patched and secured the various wounds.
Prodded by Grace, Melissa once again took up a post by his head. Sympathy for a creature in pain soon edged out her natural wariness of the human male. All the while Grace tended him, Melissa stroked the stranger’s straight brown hair, soothed him when he moaned. In his call to the mysterious Lindsey, Melissa had heard a familiar ring of grief. Who was Lindsey? How had she hurt him? Melissa calmed him with the same soft voice she used with her horses.
When Grace finished, she covered him with a quilt and tucked in several hot-water bottles around his body. Then Grace picked up his damp jeans from the floor. From the back pocket, a wallet fell out and the contents spilled to the floor.
“What’s his name?” Melissa asked. She’d grown used to the weight and warmth of him against her and still stroked the soft hair along the side of his head.
“According to his driver’s license,” Grace said, stooping to pick up the wallet, “this is Tyler Blackwell, thirty-three, 184 pounds, six-two.”
Tyler Blackwell. It had a nice sound.
“Lives in Fort Worth. Oh, no!” As if the wallet had suddenly turned into a venomous snake, Grace dropped it. “Missy, he’s got a press ID.”
The words hung heavily between them. Grace held her breath while she waited for her reaction.
Slowly Melissa got up from the bed and moved to the farthest corner of the room. A chill colder than the hail stoning the castle walls iced through her. A reporter? Here? How dare he?
“Get him out of here.” Melissa’s body shook and her blood ran cold. Another reporter trying to advance his dubious career at her expense. The last two had created the witch and sealed her permanently from the world.
She wouldn’t be easy prey again.
When Grace didn’t move, Melissa paced the stone floor while she fought the quickening of her anger, the sting of tears. “Now! I don’t want him here.”
The idea of revenge crept unbidden into her mind. The poisoned thought fed on her anger and took on life. White-hot fury swirled deep inside. Grace positioned herself between Melissa and the wounded man.
