to be happy about being his hostage, he realized. In fact, she was likely to make the next few days pure hell.
He would have to watch himself every minute around her. She was a cop and a woman, and he’d managed to offend her on both levels. She knew how to fight dirty, and he was too easily distracted in her presence. Six months was way too long for him to be without a woman.
Without this woman.
If either one of them was going to survive this, he was going to have to stop thinking about how perfect her breasts were and how long her legs were and how good it would feel to get between them again. Instead, he needed to concentrate on avoiding those who were after him, cops and otherwise, while making sure Paige didn’t put a bullet where it would do the most damage the first chance she got.
He could do that.
Sure.
Still trying to convince himself, he stopped by the kitchen for more staples and loaded the supply box into the trunk of her car. As he walked back inside, he stopped to listen. All was quiet in the bathroom.
Too quiet.
Cursing his own stupidity, he took the hallway in a dead run.
Paige heard Marco coming. She swung her legs over the faux-wrought-iron railing of her balcony, ready to shimmy down to the ground floor, but another wave of dizziness assailed her. The concrete below rippled like moving water. Her vision closed to a narrow tunnel.
A pair of strong arms snagged her waist.
“Are you trying to break your neck?”
“I’m trying to save it!” She squirmed in Marco’s grasp, her fists landing ineffectual blows on his hips, his shoulders.
“Then get in here.”
“Let me go!”
“If I do that, you’re going to splatter your pretty little brains all over that parking lot down there.”
All the writhing and motion made Paige’s stomach turn. Her limbs softened to rubber. She moaned.
Marco scooped her up and lifted her over the railing. She felt the warmth and strength of his hands even through the cotton T-shirt and bike shorts she’d put on while he’d been in the kitchen. Hating the weakness that left her incapable of fighting, she sank against the strong, broad wall of his chest.
He plopped her down in the bathroom again, this time in front of the toilet instead of on it. He lifted the lid.
“I am not going to be sick,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Good.” He wet a washcloth and pressed it to her forehead. She pushed his hand away, holding the cool compress in place herself.
Somehow, she held her stomach. Spite, she figured. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her vomit. After a few minutes, he took the washcloth from her and eased her into the tub.
She had to admit the warm water felt heavenly, even with all her clothes on. Sinking back, she closed her eyes. Marco fished her injured ankle out of the water and propped it on the side of the tub, then laid the ice pack over the swollen joint. The odd combination of hot and cold made her skin tingle. Her breasts pulled tight.
She opened her eyes and realized the bathwater wasn’t the only thing making her tingle. Marco’s dark gaze wandered lazily up her body from her toes to the tips of her ears.
He was squatting next to the tub, a tube of antiseptic cream in his hands and something much more sinister in his flinty eyes. One hand dipped into the tub and tested the water. “Too hot?”
Way too hot. The water he stirred lapped at her chest. Her breasts grew heavier. The T-shirt she wore stretched across her nipples, chaffing, confining. She followed the trail of his gaze to the dark aureoles showing through the wet fabric.
Why in heaven’s name did a white T-shirt have to be on top when she’d reached into her dresser for something to wear?
She was still pondering that when he began to dab at her with the antiseptic, his expression impassive. He cleaned up her head wound first, then worked on the various cuts and scrapes, which seemed to be everywhere. He dabbed a little antiseptic on the side of her neck, like cologne.
A second later it started to burn. She hissed. Leaning forward, Marco blew on the wound. The cool stream of air pulled her skin tight. Her eyelids drifted shut.
She heard, felt, him swirling his hand in the water again.
“You feel it, too, don’t you?”
“No.” She would not feel anything for this man, attraction or otherwise.
“It was different between us. Special.”
Her heart knocked against her hands, which she’d folded across her chest. “It was a mistake.”
“Maybe.” He pulled his hand from the water, rose and stepped over to the sink, where he cleaned his own wounds, starting with the bite on his forearm. “Maybe not.”
She had no idea what he meant by that. Wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was tired of his riddles.
She opened her eyes. Modesty be damned. She was getting out of here. Grimacing, she pushed herself up on one foot.
“Careful,” he warned. “Not too fast.”
Holding on to the wall for support, she tried to hop out of the tub. She might have made it, if the floor hadn’t suddenly tilted and her stomach hadn’t raised up into her throat, blocking her air. The room went as dark as if someone had turned out the lights. Then starbursts exploded behind her eyelids. The swaying floor tossed her off balance and she fell.
Right into the last pair of arms she wanted to catch her.
“What happened?” she asked when her vision cleared. The steady thump of Marco’s heart—maybe a notch faster than it ought to be—comforted her cheek.
“You fainted,” he replied roughly.
She straightened. Carefully. “I don’t faint.”
“Okay.” He sat her on the rim of the bathtub. “You took a little nap standing up—or falling down, rather—in the tub.”
“I mean it. I don’t faint.”
“I said okay.” He’d wet another washcloth for her forehead. Once he’d applied it, he tilted her head back and stared deeply into her eyes. This time there was nothing sensual about the gaze. “Maybe you’ve got a concussion, after all.”
She pulled the cloth from her forehead. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Why don’t you just go away and leave me the hell alone?”
“I can’t do that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It
