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Raoul. Nice name, she thought. Nice guy. And a seriously sexy accent. Almost French, with something else in the mix.
Sexy.
And there lay the rub. There lay the reason why she should stop thinking about Raoul right now.
‘Are you okay in there?’
His voice almost made her jump out of her skin and when she landed she had to fight to get her voice in order.
‘F... Fine.’
‘Dinner’s ready when you are. I already ate, but I’m ready to eat again.’
‘You already ate?’
‘Your refrigerator’s amazing. Or should I say refrigerators, plural. Wow. I opened one to check and three eggs almost fell into my hand. So I ate them. You do realise eating’s been low on my priority list over the last few days? Having had my pre-dinner boiled egg snack, I’m now serious about making dinner proper. But first I’m here to towel my lady’s back, if she wants it towelled, because it’s occurred to me that one-arm towelling might be hard.’
There were things there for a woman to consider. A lot of things. She was alone on the island with this guy. Every sensible part of her said she shouldn’t accept his help.
Raoul had put a plastic outdoor chair in the shower before he’d let her into the bathroom. He’d fussed, but she’d assured him she was okay. She’d been able to kick off her salty clothes herself, and sitting under the hot water had been easy. She’d even managed to shampoo her hair with one hand.
But now... The wussy part of her said she didn’t know how she could towel herself with one arm, especially as the painkillers were still making her feel a bit fuzzy. And there was a tiny part of her—a really dangerous part—that was saying she wouldn’t mind being towelled by this guy.
She was twenty-eight years old. She was hardly a prude. He was...
Yeah, enough.
But she had three voices in her head now. One saying, Safe, one saying, Sensible, the other saying, Yes!
She had an internal vote and Safe and Sensible were outvoted by about a hundred to two.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, but he didn’t hear.
‘Claire? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘And, yes, please—I think I do need help to get dry.’
* * *
It wasn’t a bad feeling.
Okay, it was an incredible feeling. He had his hands full of lush white towel and he was carefully towelling Claire Tremaine dry.
She was beautiful. Every inch of her was beautiful. She’d emerged naked from the shower. She’d stood with rivulets of warm water streaming down her body and he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
If he hadn’t spent the last two days having cold shower after cold shower, he might have seriously thought of taking one now. Instead of which he had to get his thoughts under control and do what he was here for—get the lady dry.
She’d grabbed a towel, too, but with only one good hand she could do little. She dried her face and rubbed her front, which was okay because that meant he didn’t have to dry her breasts. Which would have been hard. But he did have to towel her hair. He did have to run the towel down the smooth contours of her back. He did need to stoop to dry her gorgeous legs.
She was a small woman, but her legs seemed to go on forever. How did that happen?
She was gorgeous.
When he’d knocked on the bathroom door he’d just put steak in the microwave to defrost and until he’d entered the bathroom that steak had been pretty much uppermost in his thoughts.
Not now. The steak could turn into dust for all he cared. Every sense was tuned to this woman.
Every part of his body...
‘I think I’m dry,’ she said, in a voice that was shaky, but not shaky in a pained kind of way. It was shaky in a way that told him she was as aware of him as he was of her.
He could gather her up right now...
Yeah, like that could happen. This woman had hauled him out of the water and let him into her home. She’d been injured on his behalf. She was still slightly drug-affected. No, make that a lot drug-affected. He’d given her more painkillers before she’d gone to shower.
Hitting on her now would be all sorts of wrong.
But she was looking at him with huge eyes, slightly dazed, and her fingers were touching his hair as he stooped to dry her legs.
‘Raoul...’ she whispered, and he rose and stepped away fast.
‘Yeah. You’re done,’ he told her. ‘Where can I find you some clothes? Something sensible.’
He spoke too loud, too emphatically, and the emphasis on the last word was like a slap to them both. Sensible. That was the way to go.
‘I... My bedroom... It’s right next door. There’s a jogging suit in the third drawer of the dresser. Knickers in the top drawer. I’m ditching the idea of a bra. But I can get them.’
‘Stay where you are,’ he said roughly, and backed away fast.
Because it might be sensible to help her into the bedroom and help her get dressed, but there was a bed in the bedroom, and a man had limits, and his were already stretched close to breaking.
So he headed into the bedroom and found the jogging suit, and then he opened the knicker drawer and had to take a deep breath before he felt sensible again. He picked up the first pair of knickers that came to hand and practically slammed the drawer shut. A pair of sheepskin bootees stood beside the bed. Excellent. They weren’t sexy in the least.
He headed back to the bathroom, thought about helping her, then decided it might be hard but she should be able to cope herself and it would be far, far safer if he stayed on his side of the door.
He knocked and slipped the clothes around the door, without opening it wide enough for him to see her. They needed barriers, he thought. Big barriers. Preferably barriers with locks on them.
He stepped away from the door as if it was red-hot.
‘Steak in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it. If the painkillers aren’t making you too dizzy?’
‘The painkillers aren’t making me too dizzy,’ she told him, and then she stopped.
And he thought he knew what she was about to say because he was feeling the same.
The painkillers weren’t making her dizzy, but something else was.
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