Fortune's Secret Daughter. Barbara McCauley

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СКАЧАТЬ the color of wild honey, the irises rimmed with a circle of dark brown. Her lashes were thick and long, the same deep shade of fire-brown as her wavy, shoulder-length hair. His gaze settled on her mouth and in spite of the pounding in his head, he couldn’t help but admire the wide, soft lips only inches from his own. Her skin was smooth and pale, the narrow bridge of her straight nose sprinkled with freckles.

      She smelled like…disinfectant?

      Disinfectant? He frowned. Strange, but who was he to argue with a woman who liked to clean? If he’d really gotten lucky, maybe she liked to cook, too.

      He had no idea who she was or where she’d come from, but he certainly could have done worse. What the hell. He’d always believed in making the best of a situation, hadn’t he? Now all he had to do was make his arm obey his brain and reach for her…

      “Mr. Blackwolf,” she said softly, those beautiful eyes of hers narrowing with concern. “How are you feeling?”

      Mr. Blackwolf? Somehow he doubted that she’d be so formal if he’d…if they’d…

      He glanced around the room. Not his bedroom, he realized. Or anyone’s bedroom for that matter. He wasn’t even in a bed. He was lying on some kind of vinyl-cushioned table. In an office. A doctor’s office.

      That’s when he remembered.

      His fantasy shattered, he slammed his eyes shut and groaned.

      “I’ll get the doctor.”

      “No.” He managed the single word through desert-dry lips. “Wait.”

      He opened his eyes again, watched her hesitate.

      “My plane,” he said hoarsely.

      “Quincy towed it out of the lake.” She stepped closer, frowned at him. “Let’s just worry about you right now, shall we?”

      “Well, since I seem to be alive and in one piece, there’s not much to worry about, is there?” He rose on one elbow, winced at the movement, then swung his legs around and sat. When the room started to spin, he grabbed the edge of the table.

      “Spoken like a real man.” She shook her head at him and smiled. “Just be careful if you beat that chest of yours, Tarzan. With two bruised ribs, it might smart a little.”

      Damn. He rubbed at his chest. It did feel as if an elephant had done a tap dance on top of him. When the room finally righted itself again, he narrowed his gaze at the woman. The image of a slender hand unbuckling his seat belt flashed in his mind, the sound of someone yelling at him over the thundering storm, then the press of a feminine body against his, forcing him to walk.

      Holly Douglas.

      Well, fate certainly did have a strange sense of humor, he thought wryly. He’d come here to change this woman’s life and she’d ended up saving his. He just might laugh if he wasn’t certain it would hurt.

      The ends of her hair were still damp, he noted, though her clothes were dry. She’d obviously changed. He glanced down at what he was wearing. Or should he say, what he wasn’t wearing. The thin blue cotton hospital gown he had on barely covered his thighs. And underneath, the only thing he wore was skin. Terrific. He was not only weak as a kitten, he was practically naked. Not exactly the scenario he’d envisioned as their first meeting.

      “Well, Miss Douglas, it seems that you have me at a disadvantage. If you could just bring me my—”

      “How did you know my name?”

      It seemed as though all her senses had gone on alert. Her eyes narrowed sharply, the smile that had played on her lips faded.

      Dammit. He wasn’t ready to tell her who he really was or why he was here. Especially now, under these circumstances.

      “Who else would be out in a storm waiting for a shipment but the person who placed the order?” He shrugged, did his best to ignore the pain that shot through his shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d really like my clothes.”

      Her shoulders relaxed, then she turned and moved toward a chair in the corner of the room. In spite of the throbbing ache that started at his temple and ended with his toes, Guy couldn’t help but admire the snug fit of denim over the woman’s behind and the long stretch of shapely legs. And to say he hadn’t noticed the gentle curve of breasts under her navy turtleneck sweater would be a big lie, too. Hell, he might be hurting, but he wasn’t dead.

      “Your shirt had blood on it and your jeans were ripped.” She picked up a brown paper shopping bag off the chair and brought it to him. “I brought some clothes from my store that ought to fit you. But you really should wait until Doc gets back before you try anything too physical.”

      He glanced in the bag at the new jeans and blue flannel shirt. “Thanks. I’ll take my chances.”

      “I threw in some boxers, too.”

      He looked at her, saw a hint of a smile on those gorgeous lips of hers, wondered if she’d guessed he wore boxers, or had found out firsthand. Someone had obviously undressed him, and she had been the one to bring him in…

      He decided he didn’t want to know. What he wanted to know, was when he could get the hell out of here.

      “Miss Douglas—” He started to stand, determined to get dressed with or without an audience, but the second his feet hit the gray speckled tile floor, his legs buckled. She moved quickly, had her arms around his waist before he went down.

      “Holly.” She sucked in a breath, held him steady. “It’s kind of a rule of mine that all the men I pull from burning planes and buy underwear for call me by my first name.”

      Her arms felt nice around him. Very nice. Firm, but warm and soft. But her arms weren’t the only thing that felt nice. Her breasts were also pressed against his chest. And like her arms, they were also firm, but warm and soft. His bruised ribs didn’t seem to mind the pressure one little bit. The faint scent of strawberries and something else…mint, he realized, drifted from her damp hair and though he knew it wasn’t wise, he simply let himself enjoy the moment. Holly.

      Holly knew that she should let go of the man. He seemed to be standing on his own just fine now and didn’t need her assistance any longer. But she really couldn’t be certain, could she? And besides, if he did fall, she’d have one hell of a time getting him up off the floor by herself. He was a good six-foot-three, at least seven or eight inches taller than she was. Built solid as a Western red cedar. So she held on, just another moment or two, she told herself, until she was sure he was all right.

      He still had the scent of the storm on him, she noticed, and his skin radiated heat with the intensity of a wood furnace. It had been a long time since she’d had her arms around a man—a nearly naked man at that—and against her wishes, her body reacted to the touch of male against female with a mind of its own.

      “It seems that I owe you a thank you—again,” he said quietly.

      “You’re welcome.” She heard the breathless quality in her voice, felt her cheeks warm at her foolishness. She was just feeling responsible for the man, that was all, she told herself. He’d nearly died, for heaven’s sake. Emotions were running a little high.

      And still she didn’t move.

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