Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,85
her mouth, “I’m feeling a lot better. Might even be cured.”
Lightheaded, soaking wet, and out of her ever-loving mind, she succumbed to the sweet kisses of this gentle warrior. Her body fit perfectly where she’d landed, her belly alongside his hip, and her breasts pressed against his ribcage.
But when he inhaled a ragged breath, she grabbed the opportunity and placed a stern hand between them. Too bad it landed on his right pec. Temptation flared all over again.
But somehow… common sense ruled. “No,” she squeaked. Okay, that tone wouldn’t work. Persia pulled her hand off that hot bod and boldly cleared the rasp from her throat. “Hotrod, no. Let me up.”
“Awww…”
There was that little boy within the badasssed male again. He was incorrigible, and she was an idiot. Alex would surely fire her for fraternizing with his client now.
“Hot chicken soup!” she nearly yelled as she extricated her arms from his and climbed very carefully out of the tub. “I’m not going far, just far enough to fix lunch and soup and… and…”
Her gaze settled on the manly muscle between his leg, and she lost her train of thought. Hotrod might be sick, but he wasn’t dead. There was still a lot of life left in this guy. In that guy, too.
He held one muscled arm out to her, his fingertips fluttering for her to come back to him. “I’ll get better quicker with you in here with me.”
And I’m in trouble. “No, sugar. Playtime’s over,” she said airily, before she changed her mind. Or lost it. “Bath first, then soup, then sleep. I’ll see what else there is to eat. Wait here. I’ll be right b-back.”
Persia left him sitting with the water still running and her heart pounding out a snappy salsa tango. He needed to eat and she needed to get her head back in the game. The real game. The TEAM game. Not Hotrod’s game.
Distracted, she walked to her bedroom, jerked her last set of dry clothes out of her bag, and all but tore the wet clothes off. Thank goodness she’d dropped her smaller bag back at the front door, or everything she owned would’ve been soaked and ruined. Speaking of which…
That man! Her sat phone had been in her jeans pocket. Damn! Hurriedly, she retrieved it, and thank goodness for ruggedized, waterproof equipment. It was none the worse from the impromptu dunking. Izza hadn’t called yet, but she would.
After Persia dressed and made sure her phone was operational, she peeked in on Hotrod to make sure he’d turned the tap off. What a sight, all that lean muscle against the back of the tub, his long arms stretched along the edge, his fingers curled over the lip. His breathing was more even, but till raspy enough she could hear it from where she stood and ogled.
Walker’s poor blackened eyes were closed, and the dark circles under them made his face seem gaunt. He looked tired and alone. She nearly ran to him when she thought of all those bruises. He’d been kicked when he was down. That seemed to be the vicious circle of life he was stuck in. But he also needed decent food in his stomach. Knowing what she now knew about the ICC, she doubted he’d been fed properly. She wondered about the yacht he’d mentioned. Where was the gear bag he’d been so protective of in Florida?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Life sure had a way of crapping all over a guy, but for once, something decent and good had happened to Walker. Out of nowhere, Persia had stepped back into his screwed-up life, and she didn’t hate him like he’d expected. She’d even let him kiss her. As sick as he was, she’d kissed him back. And her fingers on his cheek and in his hair? They’d felt so damned sweet and gentle, he’d nearly teared up.
Ducking deeper into the chilled water, Walker let it wash the sweat and those damned tears off his face. He hadn’t been this sick in years, didn’t want to be now. High fevers made a man weak when he needed to be strong. Being sick could get a guy killed. But the weight of Persia’s lush body on his when he’d tripped over the curb, and the brush of her sweet breasts against his tender ribs when he’d pulled her into the water, had given him an odd sense of strength that had nothing to do with physical fitness or core workouts.