to a victim.”
“But maybe they weren’t intended to be victims. Maybe it was sending us a message.”
“Or me, you mean. You think I understood the message.”
“Do you?”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “It means I need to get out there and find this damn thing.” She rose decisively. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to go check out this mine shaft. Where is it?”
“That thing tore your shoulder open last night. You need to let it heal.”
“I told you, I’m fine. I’m a fast healer.” She tried to walk past him, but he sidestepped in front of her.
“Let me take a look at it. You should have gone to a hospital today instead of rushing off to wherever hunting things.”
“As a matter of fact, I saw my doctor. She took a look and said it was fine. She approved of your stitching skills.”
“Is that so? Then you won’t mind if I verify that you’re healing.”
If Lucy’s eyes could start a fire, he was sure they would be doing it now. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
Lucy glared at him for a moment. “I’m trained in Systema. Russian martial arts.”
“I’m familiar with it. I’m pretty sure I can take you.”
“Take me?” Lucy’s stance seemed to turn instantly rock hard and immovable, a promised threat emanating from her, though she hadn’t moved. “I seem to recall you ending up on the ground under me the last time you tried.” After a split second’s pause, her skin grew flushed. With anger, presumably. But he was getting a weird vibe.
“I wasn’t actually challenging you to a fight.”
“You just said you could take me.”
“You brought up your Systema skills. Which seems pretty strange, because all I suggested was that you let me look at the stitches and see how you’re healing. Is there some reason those are fighting words to you?”
Lucy let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if trying to breathe out her own anger—a gesture he was familiar with. “No, I suppose not.” They stared each other down for another few seconds before Lucy unexpectedly crossed her arms in front of her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and whipped it up and over her head. She turned her bandaged shoulder toward him. “Well? Take a look. I haven’t got all day.”
Oliver stepped closer and peeled back the edge of the bandage. The skin was healthy looking. No redness or swelling. Little bruising. And soft. Really soft.
He drew back his hand with a jolt as though he’d touched a hot stove. “You’re right. It looks good. Glad to see it.”
She turned to face him, the T-shirt still balled in her fist. “Now let’s see yours.”
“Mine?” Oliver had to check himself from reflexively covering his crotch.
“You have some interesting scars. They looked fresh.”
“Scars?” Oliver tried to keep his voice even, his expression believably puzzled.
“On your chest. From bullet wounds.”
“Bullet wounds?” If he pulled this off, he deserved an Oscar. “I think your sleep deprivation may have gotten the better of you last night. It’s understandable if you were a little confused.”
“Was I?” Lucy’s fists went to her hips. “Then take your shirt off and let’s see.”
“This is silly.”
“It’s a little weird that you won’t just do it if I’m being silly.”
Oliver blinked at her. “Maybe you should just put yours back on.”
Lucy swore and yanked the shirt over her head, shoving her arms into the sleeves with two sharp jerks. “Quit stalling and take your shirt off, Oliver. Or I’m going to assume my suspicions are correct.”
“And what suspicions would those be?”
“That you’re something I should be hunting.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” His temper threatened to spike. He hadn’t meditated yet today. Oliver pulled off his T-shirt and held his arms out at his sides. “Satisfied? No bullet wounds.” He tried to keep his breathing steady as she stepped toward him, her nose scrunching with disbelief.
Lucy’s fingers settled lightly on the pale thin line beneath his bottom right rib, and Oliver drew in his breath sharply. “What is this?”
“A scar from an accident I had a while back. If you think that’s from a bullet wound, you need your eyes examined.”
She glanced back up at his chest. She hadn’t moved her hand except to relax it against his side. “I was sure I saw them.” Lucy shook her head. “Maybe it really was sleep deprivation.” She raised her eyes and met his gaze, her thumb stroking absently along the scar.
Oliver looked down at her hand. “What are you doing?” He’d meant for it to sound slightly accusatory, disapproving, a little annoyed. It came out sounding rough and low and hopeful.
“I don’t know.”
Her thumb was still tracing the scar, and he grabbed her hand. “Well, stop.” He moved her hand away from him, which seemed to take a monumental effort. But he hadn’t let go of it. It was like her skin was a magnet.
“I don’t like you.” Lucy’s voice was equally throaty. “You’re pompous and...” She seemed to be grasping for adjectives. “Full of yourself.”
“Those are the same thing.”
“See?”
She’d surprised a smile out of him. “I don’t like you, either.” His delivery was utterly unconvincing.
“Then let go of my hand.”
He was barely holding it. “You let go.” She didn’t.
Whatever was happening here was a bad idea. His rational mind knew it. He didn’t do romantic involvement. Or sexual. He should have meditated this morning. He should let go of her hand and put his shirt back on.
He put his other hand on her waist. No. No, that is the opposite of letting go. Definitely do not kiss h—
Oliver swore silently at himself as their lips came together.
Lucy switched off her brain and let the hormones take over. Oliver was swearing softly against her lips, and she didn’t think he was aware of it. It was sexy as hell. As if by silent, mutual agreement,
