Seconds to Live(22)
The overhead light went on, illuminating a cozy but dusty combined kitchen and living area. The air was stuffy and hot. The scents of must and mildew tickled Stella’s nose. She sneezed.
“Sorry.” Setting the food on the kitchen table, he went to the kitchen window and wrestled it open. The wood groaned. “The place has been closed up for weeks.”
“No air-conditioning?”
“Nah.” He opened three windows in the living area. “I spend a lot of time in the jungle. I’m used to serious heat, and I like the sounds of the forest at night.”
Warm and humid air flooded the cabin, and the scent of pine freshened the room. Something moved in her peripheral vision. A gigantic brown spider skittered across the floor. Stella jumped sideways.
“There are always a few squatters when I get home from a trip.” Mac laughed. “Relax, he won’t hurt you. He’s probably terrified.”
“You could saddle that thing and ride it.” Stella didn’t take her eyes off the spider for fear that it would move out of sight, and then she wouldn’t know where it was. Somehow that would be worse than having it right in front of her. Goose bumps rose on her arms.
“Wolf spiders only bite if they feel threatened, and they eat a lot of other insects.” He picked up a magazine, scooped up the spider, and released it on the porch.
“They can balance the ecosystem outside.”
Mac contemplated the food. “Would you mind if I took a quick shower?”
Stella gestured toward the discharge papers he’d tossed onto the table. “You should read those. The doctor said you’re not supposed to get your stitches wet for forty-eight hours.”
He sighed. “I need a shower.”
“Do you have plastic wrap?”
“Probably.” He opened a kitchen drawer and seemed surprised to find some. He handed her the box.
“Take off your shirt.” She probably should have phrased that differently.
“Yes, ma’am.” Humor glinted in Mac’s clear blue eyes, but his movements were slow and careful as he eased the shirt over his head.
Stella refused to admire his impressive physique as she began to wind clear plastic around his ribs. Not one bit. Except maybe the hard ridges of his tanned twelve-pack. Eyes up.
“You’re pretty good at that.”
“My mother was an ER nurse, and my brother was a regular customer. He didn’t grasp the concepts of gravity or mortality until our dad died.” She walked around him, keeping the wrap snug and her gaze off his muscles. Mostly.
“When was that?”
“He’s been gone fifteen years.”
“Must have been hard.”
“Yes. I still miss him every day. Dad was a great guy. He was an NYPD detective. Killed in the line of duty.” Stella swallowed the grapefruit in her throat.
Mac tilted his head. “I bet he’d be proud of you.”
How did he know the exact question she’d asked herself every day since the shooting? Would her dad be disappointed that she’d missed the opportunity to stop a killer before he hurt more innocents?
“I hope so.” She tore off the plastic, smoothed it against his hard belly, and tucked in the tail. “That should keep the stitches dry if you’re careful.”
“I’m not a very careful man.” Mischief lit his eyes again.
“No kidding.” She stepped back and pointed to his bandage. “Keep the spray on your other side.”
He reached forward. Stella froze. Part of her wanted him to touch her very, very much. But her sanity questioned her judgment. This man had too many secrets.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, draped his bloodstained T-shirt over his shoulder, and sauntered down a hallway. A minute later, she heard more windows opening, then the rush of water through pipes.
She definitely needed air-conditioning.
Keeping one wary eye on the shadows, she popped the top off her coffee cup and sipped with gratitude. Her day had been long, and it didn’t appear as if she’d see her bed any time soon. The thought of bed brought Mac’s ripped body to mind, but the only things she would be eliciting from him tonight were answers.
Dust coated every surface in Mac’s little cabin. Stella unwrapped a chicken sandwich and ate it while she snooped. His fridge was empty except for condiments, and the cupboards contained only canned goods. Wildlife magazines were stacked on the counter. She picked up the latest issue, not the one covered in spider cooties. The mailing label read Dr. McClellan Barrett.
“Find anything interesting?”
Stella turned. Mac stood in the doorway, dressed in a soft blue shirt, unbuttoned over a pair of low-slung jeans. His damp, shaggy blond hair hung well past his ears, and he obviously hadn’t shaved for weeks. Holy hell, the man could work ruggedly handsome like nobody’s business.