Hard Limits(8)

Paige followed him, carrying the large first-aid kit she'd used earlier to stitch him up. She sat beside him on the bed and pulled out fresh gauze, an Ace bandage, antibiotic cream, and a prescription bottle. This time when she offered the pills, he took them.

"Where did this bottle come from?"

"Standard equipment in posh guesthouses-didn't you know?" Doggedly, she got busy. The nightmare still rattled her, her hands a bit shaky, but concentrating her attention on a task helped tons. And thank God for that, because the last thing she wanted was to end up breathing into a paper bag and having to explain why to a drug lord. When she lifted her gaze to his, though, all her musings flew out the window. 

Man, he looked so good, even after being gunned down and all but bleeding out. Go figure.

There was something about Nico that compelled her to forget the world around her. He held her complete attention. No room for panic or hesitation. Same as had happened at their first meeting. Knowing now that he wasn't a regular guy but a drug lord didn't change the end result: she was spellbound.

"What was the nightmare about?" Nico asked, his icy eyes fixed on hers.

She thought for a second about lying and then canned the idea. "You were trying to kill me with a knife."

He didn't look surprised or affronted. "I see." After a short pause, he continued. "Just so you know, knives are not my thing. I do better with guns."

A short, nervous giggle bubbled up. "Good to know."

She cleaned his wound, unable to ignore the tent in his boxers. "I see from the waist down, it's all happy days."

Kudos to him, he looked contrite. "Sorry. Combat adrenaline."

She pouted playfully. "Oh, really? And here I thought it was all about this gorgeous woman in front of you playing Nightingale."

He held her gaze, his face inscrutable. "That too."

Her playfulness died in her throat at his matter-of-fact tone. She smiled, uneasy, and gesturing toward his chest, tried changing the subject. "Some tattoos you got there." They were crude and raw, and he'd hardly gotten them in a fancy tattoo parlor.

"Jail tattoos. Russian jail tattoos."

Right. And that was why she should stop admiring his abs and the tent in his boxers and keep her distance. Easier said than done. Something about him called to her.

Her therapist had been very clear: ease into the intimacy. No scary guys. Go for the laid-back, playful types. Sure. For over a year she hadn't clicked with anyone. If they abided by her rules, she got bored. If they didn't, she got scared. Either way, she never got hot, as if that part of her had been turned off. Not that she could be blamed for it. Still, big letdown.

Under Nico's scrutinizing stare, she felt scared and panicked and hot and bothered all at once. It was a heady sensation. A very inappropriate and untimely one, though.

She'd experienced it too that time at Rosita's. They'd spoken for hours. Joked. Laughed and flirted, an undercurrent of danger sizzling all around. She'd been so tempted to go out with him when he asked. So damned tempted. She hadn't felt that strong an attraction since … well, since ever.

But something had stopped her. Maybe that sense of self-preservation that dream-Nico had mentioned in her nightmare?

While bandaging his wound, she motioned to the beautiful Orthodox cross dangling on his chest. "Are you religious?"

He shook his head. "I'm an eye-for-an-eye kind of guy."

"And the cross?"

"Not mine." He didn't offer any more explanation, his intense glare burning her.

Trying to block all the sensory input, Paige worked methodically. After she wrapped the Ace bandage around him, she addressed the gash over his eyebrow. Bad idea. She was so close to him, she felt his breath on her.

"What's up with all the piercings?" he asked.

She snorted drily. "I didn't get them in jail, I'll tell you that."

"No, you didn't," he assented, his gaze glued to the piercings on her bottom lip. "Too clean a mark. They would have botched that sweet mouth."

The way he was staring at her lips gave her goose bumps. "Snake bite."

"What?"

"What you are looking at. They are called a snake bite."

"Fancy name," he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers and leaving it there.




 

 

He was very tan, especially for someone with such clear Nordic ancestry. His hair was blond, some strands almost white from the sun. He hadn't spent last winter in Boston, that was for sure. His blue eyes were piercing, the more so because they were surrounded by dark-blond eyelashes. For all his roughness and scars, his broken and reset nose, he was classically handsome, with harsh angles and planes.

Before she could stop herself, she brushed her fingers over one of the tattoos on his pecs. He froze at the contact, all his muscles bulging. Whether pain or pleasure caused it, she didn't know, but his breath had caught.