Lover Unbound(53)

As she met his brilliant eyes, she knew for sure he was not human. She had seen the insides of too many bodies and witnessed the struggle to heal too many times to think otherwise. What she wasn't sure of was where that left her. Or the rest of the human race.

How was this possible? That there was another species with so many human characteristics? Then again, that was probably how they stayed hidden.

Jane covered the center of his chest with a light layer of gauze, which she then taped in place. As she finished up the patient grimaced, and his hand, the one with the glove, went to his stomach.

"You all right?" Jane asked as his face drained of color.

"Queasy." A line of sweat broke out over his upper lip.

She looked at Red Sox. "I think you're going to want to take off."

"Why?"

"He's about to be sick."

"I'm fine," the patient muttered, closing his eyes.

Jane headed for the duffels for a bedpan and talked at Red Sox. "Go on, now. Let me see to him. We aren't going to need an audience for this."

Goddamn Demerol. It worked great on pain, but sometimes the side effects were a real problem for patients.

Red Sox hesitated until the patient groaned and started to swallow compulsively. "Umm, okay. Listen, before I go, can I get you something fresh to eat? Anything in particular you want?"

"You're kidding me, right? Like I'm supposed to forget the abduction and the mortal threat and give you a drive thru order?"

"No reason not to eat while you're here." He picked up the tray.

God, that voice of his… that rough, hoarse voice with the Boston accent. "I know you. I definitely know you from somewhere. Take the hat off. I want to see your face."#p#分页标题#e#

The guy went across the room with the wilted food. "I'll bring you something else to eat."

As the door shut and locked she had a childish urge to run at the thing and pound on it.

But the patient moaned and she looked at him. "You going to stop fighting the urge to throw up now?"

"Fuck… me…" Curling over on his side, the patient began retching.

No bedpan was needed, because he didn't have anything in his stomach, so Jane hauled herself into the bathroom, brought back a towel, and put it to his mouth. While he gagged miserably, he held on to the center of his chest as if he didn't want to pop his wound open.

"It's okay," she said as she put her hand on his smooth back. "You're healed up enough. You're not going to tear that scar open."

"Feels… like… I… Fuck—"

God, he was suffering, his face strained and red, sweat all over him, body heaving. "It's okay, just let it roll through you. The less you fight it, the easier it will be. Yeah… there you go… breathe between them. Okay, now…"

She stroked his spine and held the towel and couldn't help but keep murmuring to him. When it was over, the patient lay still, breathing through his mouth, his hand with the glove clenched around a tangle of sheets.

"That was so not fun," he rasped.

"We'll find you another painkiller," she murmured, brushing his hair from his eyes. "No more Dem for you. Listen, I want to check your wounds, okay?"

He nodded and eased onto his back, the expanse of his chest seeming as big as the damn bed. She was careful with the adhesive tape, gentle as she lifted the gauze. Good lord… The skin that had been perforated by the staples just fifteen minutes ago was completely healed. All that remained was a small pink line down his sternum.

"What are you?" she blurted.

Her patient rolled back toward her. "Tired."

Without even thinking about it she started stroking him again, the sound of her hand smoothing up and down his skin making a hushed noise. It wasn't long before she noticed that his shoulders were all hard muscle… and that what she was touching was warm and very male.

She took back her palm.

"Please." He caught her wrist with his unmarked hand—even though his eyes were closed. "Touch me or… shit, hold on to me, I'm… all adrift. Like I'm going to float away. I can't feel anything. Not the bed… not my body."

She looked down at where he held on to her, then measured his biceps and the breadth of his chest. She had the passing thought that he could snap her arm in two, but she knew he wouldn't. He'd been ready to rip the throat out of one of his nearest and dearest a half hour ago to protect her—

Stop it.

Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm syndrome is not your friend.

"Please," he said on a shaky breath, shame constricting his voice.

God, she'd never understood how kidnapping victims developed relationships with their captors. It went against all logic as well as the laws of self-preservation: Your enemy cannot be your friend.