Double Exposure

“I’m sure you don’t. You’ve been through a lot. I promised not to talk about it anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.” She leaned down and pulled a small box from the second bag she’d brought in. “I bought a tube of antiseptic ointment, too. I want to put that on your scratches. Are there any others besides the one on your forehead and the one on your arm?”

“I don’t think so.” He’d forgotten all about the scratches. Having her notice them and go to the trouble and expense of getting something to put on them touched him. He wasn’t used to having someone fuss over him. Correction—he’d never wanted anyone to fuss over him. He’d gone to great lengths to make sure everyone he worked with thought of him as indestructible and oblivious to pain.

Because Kate wasn’t part of that world she didn’t know the drill. And come to find out, he liked knowing she was concerned about his minor injuries. Besides, he could allow her to tend his wounds because no one would know about it and his image as an iron man wouldn’t be tarnished.

She took the tube out of the box and tossed the box in the sandwich bag. “I should probably wash those scratches before I put this on. Come on into the bathroom with me. We can do both things in there.” She stood and put on a good show of nonchalance as she walked past him toward the bathroom.

He didn’t buy it. If he had to guess, he’d say she was as keyed up as he was. He followed her through the bedroom and into the bathroom. As they passed the canopy bed, he controlled the urge to reach for her and draw her down onto the mattress. Forget the scratches, forget the massage. He wanted to feel her body against his. He wondered what she’d do.

She turned at the doorway to the bathroom, her gaze straightforward, as if she had no thought whatsoever of getting cozy on that big bed. “Coming?”

“Um, sure.” If Kate had been in the movie business she would have intended her question as sexual innuendo and foreplay. But she wasn’t from Hollywood. He needed to remember that.

To the right of the doorway stretched a marble counter with two sinks, and on the left was another counter which served as a vanity. The walls behind both counters were mirrored. Hugh’s shaving mug and razor lay where he’d left them when she’d rapped on the cottage door. The large oval hot tub beckoned.

Kate set the tube of ointment on the vanity counter and gestured to a velvet cushioned stool positioned in front of it. “This’ll be easier if you sit there.”

He did as he was told and watched while she ran warm water over a washcloth before lathering it with soap. Then she soaked another washcloth with plain water and laid it on the counter. Her back was to him, but he could see in the mirror, too. As she worked, her breasts shimmied slightly under the tight T-shirt.

Visually tracing the seams of her bra, he located the puckered evidence of hooks and eyes in the middle of her back. As snug as the T-shirt was, he’d be able to unfasten her bra through the shirt without stripping it off. Of course, that might never happen. There were no guarantees here, only possibilities.

When she leaned over, he got a glimpse of her cleavage in the mirror. Cleavage should be no big deal for him anymore. He’d seen the best Tinsel Town had to offer. Yet the gentle rise of Kate’s breasts beneath her shirt made his mouth water.

Her shirt rode up in back again, giving him his second view of bare skin above the waistband of her jeans. He was close enough to reach over and touch her there as he’d fantasized while she was checking him in. He gripped his knees, instead. She should set the pace.

She squeezed excess water out of the soapy wash-cloth and turned to him. “I’ll do the one on your forehead first.”

“Okay.” He sat very still as she combed her fingers through his hair and held it back, exposing the scratch little Dillon had accidentally given him as he flailed in the water. Somebody had forgotten to trim the kid’s fingernails.

But Hugh didn’t have much time to think about Dillon now. Kate’s breasts rose and fell mere inches from his face as she dabbed the soapy cloth over the scratch. The soap smelled like vanilla, but mingled with that was the spicy aroma of her perfume and an undertone of her basic scent.

Sure enough, that last was his favorite. He’d read about pheromones and had dismissed the idea because he’d never experienced that moth-to-the-flame effect the researchers talked about. He was experiencing it now. He wanted to bury his nose between her breasts and take a deep breath.

As she worked he listened to the soft music of her bracelets and the rhythm of her breathing. Her breathing was uneven, and that gave him hope that this encounter would evolve into an outstanding experience before the night was over. He wondered if pheromones worked both ways. What a bummer if he wanted to inhale her scent from top to bottom and she had no such urges.

“Does that hurt?” she murmured.

“No.” His nerve endings registered the sting, but he was so busy dealing with his growing arousal that he barely noticed.

“You wouldn’t tell me if it did, would you?”

“No.”

She sighed, which caused her breasts to tremble invitingly. “That’s what I thought. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’d hate for these scratches to get infected. You of all people shouldn’t let that happen. You’ll set a bad example.”

He wasn’t sure exactly why an infected scratch would set any kind of example to anyone, but he decided not to question her reasoning. Now wasn’t the time to disagree with this wonderful creature and risk spoiling the mood. “Don’t worry. I heal fast.”

“Good.” She set the soapy cloth down, picked up the other one and rinsed the soap off his forehead. She wiped carefully, making sure she didn’t allow soapy water to drip into his eyes.

He gripped his knees harder. He’d never been this close to a woman he wanted without acting on his impulses.

Then she blew softly on the scratch, her breath sweet and cool, driving him right out of what was left of his mind. He closed his eyes and a sound escaped him—part moan, part whimper.

“I’m hurting you.”

“No.” What hurt was his penis, which was protesting the confinement of his jeans. He rested his left hand casually in his lap to disguise the evidence.

“Let me put the ointment on. That will take the sting out.” She smoothed something creamy over the scratch.

She must have leaned closer because he could feel her heat. He was afraid to open his eyes for fear he’d be looking directly into the scooped neckline of her T-shirt. A guy could only take so much before he cracked.

“That’s better,” she murmured. “Now for your arm.”

From the movement of air, he knew she was no longer hovering quite so close, so he dared to open his eyes.

She held the soapy washcloth in her right hand. “I guess you can stand, now.”

No, he couldn’t. Not without major groin pain. “How about if I just prop my arm on the counter?” He leaned over and rested his right forearm on the cool marble.

“That works.”

Instead of watching her doctor the scratch on his arm, he stared straight ahead and tried to will his erection back down. After the first aid would come the massage, and he’d better not start that procedure already fully aroused.

He tried to remember the last time he’d had such a quick response to a woman and he couldn’t think back that far. Maybe it was the environment he worked in. He’d heard that people who worked in a doughnut shop quickly got sick of the doughnuts because they were always available. Beautiful women were always available on a movie set.

Still, it didn’t make sense that he’d fly across the country and become instantly attracted to Kate simply because she lived and worked in Providence instead of L.A. He had to go back to the pheromone theory. She smelled…perfect. And he was so turned on he was about to embarrass both of them.