Taming Hollywood's Ultimate Playboy. Amalie Berlin

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СКАЧАТЬ it—the idea of even trying summoned another wave of nausea. If she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him without the subject coming up, it really wasn’t the time to talk it out.

      “I appreciate you taking the time,” he offered lamely. What would he say to any other medical professional in this situation? Just talk about the job. Pretend. He was an actor, for goodness’ sake. Just talk. “I’ve got a movie opening, three premieres to attend, and all the promotion that goes along with that. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

      She stepped back out of the office, finally letting him actually look at her in something other than her bathing suit. The clothes she wore didn’t flatter, but she still wore them well. Her black scrub bottoms sat low on those hips, occasionally giving him another glimpse of golden skin when she moved.

      “What exactly happened?” She dragged a stool to the reclining foot end of his chair and sat down. Only then did she look at him.

      Ignore the elephant. Focus on the ankle.

      “I twisted it while running.” He answered her question and then fished for the bag he’d stashed beside him. “There are X-rays in here.”

      She didn’t take the bag, but she did take the hint. “Did the doctors say it wasn’t broken?”

      Her hands gently lifted his leg and she worked his shoe off, then began unstrapping the splint—the only thing that had been keeping him upright today. He tried not to wince but any jostle pinged like someone poking at a bruise. Annoying, but more capable of creating tension in his shoulders with the promise of bigger pain around the corner.

      “They said it didn’t appear broken.”

      “Okay, it could still be a minor fracture, but until it starts to heal it might not show up on film.”

      He’d heard the same thing yesterday. And though she was gentle, his hands locked into the arms of the recliner, braced and ready to pull his leg free, even if he had no intention of doing so. Being ready helped somehow, self-comforting actions he’d been reading on her since she’d focused on him in the pool room. She’d wrapped her arms around her waist like she could hug herself right out of the whole thing.

      Liam had studied body language enough to read almost anyone if he spent enough time with them, but someone he had such history with...well, he’d been able to read Grace from the instant she’d recognized him.

      The shock may have dulled now, but she was still a little afraid...of him or the situation. Either way, it couldn’t be more wrong.

      All the movement finally brought enough pain to rob him of anything else to say.

      As she peeled away the layers of light brown elastic wrap, the extent of the swelling and bruising finally became apparent. She gave a low whistle and lowered his leg once more to the foot of the recliner so she could slide up the hem of his slacks. Her hands moved quickly and surely, but somehow she managed not to touch his skin the whole time she labored to fully unveil his foot and leg.

      “You did a number on it. I’m not going to make you move your foot right now, but you really shouldn’t be walking on this. It should be elevated with ice to help with the swelling.” She reached for his calf, the first brush of her hand on his skin causing his gut to join in on the stiff tension knotting his arms and the rest of his torso.

      Gently, she lifted his leg, craning her neck to look at the underside of his calf. There was soreness there, but there was something else in the feel of her cool, soft hands on his skin. It was nice, if you discounted the pain.

      She felt it too. Her complexion had been leaning toward pale since the pool, but the first brush of her hands on his flesh brought color zinging back to her cheeks. She either felt it or suddenly just remembered her embarrassment—which was too probable for him to count on any silly theory about connections and strange touches.

      His leg just hurt, and he was more aware of anything to do with it now. Even the fan in his bedroom ruffling his leg hair this morning had made him do a double take. The hair had felt like it had been six inches long.

      “Does it hurt up here?” She lightly squeezed the top of his calf, up beneath his knee, looking him in the eye finally.

      Liam shook his head, holding her gaze.

      The pink blooming on her cheeks set off the rest of her coloring, and everything about her was golden—from the light tan testifying to her active outdoor life, to the flecks of gold in her warm brown eyes. Her hair was darker than he remembered—she’d always spent so much time outside that her light brown hair had always looked sun-kissed, but now, wet and pulled back into a ponytail, it was hard to tell whether she remained the quintessential California girl or not.

      “Slightly sore, but not actual pain,” he murmured. The undercurrents and tension made things weird, just not weird enough for him to change his plans. Grace had to be the one.

      “I can see you had it elevated right after the fall and blood pooled up the back of your calf. You’re sore up there because you’re black-and-blue to the back of your knee.” She laid his leg down again, and then went on talking about the injury. Something about tearing or stretching tendons, and all he could think about was the contrast between black lace and golden skin...

      She paused long enough that Liam looked back to her eyes. Was he supposed to say something?

      “Did they say anything like that?”

      “Like what?”

      “Like surgery to repair it?”

      “Surgery?” The word snapped his attention back to what she was doing rather than how she looked. “No. I really don’t have time for surgery. I have a premiere tonight in town. Two more tomorrow—a big one in New York and a small, local one where the movie was filmed in Virginia. And then another day of interviews when I get back here...”

      She sat back and looked at him over the tortured ankle, one brow lifted screaming idiot at him, even if she held off actually giving the word voice—he recognized that Watson family expression.

      Get it together. This is business. He still saw one of the Watsons on a regular basis, which made this mental trip down memory lane ridiculous. He’d lost her six years ago, not six minutes ago.

      “I know you can wrap it with tape to give it support enough to power through this,” he said, lifting his foot away from her hands and putting the recliner arm back down. Getting upright would help. “That’s why I came to you, Grace. You’ve worked with athletes injured mid-game, kept them playing and all that. Certainly you can work with me long enough to simply keep me walking for a couple of days. And then I will do whatever it is you tell me to do in order to recover. But right now...I need to play through this.”

      “Those athletes who get taped are only mildly sprained. They can bear weight, just need some extra support to keep up with their range of motion. This is not that kind of sprain. You need crutches.”

      God. Another person with the crutches. “No. No crutches. Athletes—”

      “Don’t use them on the court,” she cut in, sounding irritated with him now. “I know, but I told you—this is different. And even if it weren’t different, there’s a big difference between taping an ankle before it starts to swell and after. And you’re already terribly swollen. Tape won’t do anything for you, it can’t СКАЧАТЬ