“It proves,” she drawled, reaching out to take his arm and placing it around her neck so that her shoulder was braced under his left arm, “that you're a stubborn, bullheaded...man who doesn't know what's good for him. Come on, lean on me.”
“Can't,” he muttered even as she pushed him forward. He was amazed at how the combination of sun, hangover and sudden loss of blood made a challenge of the simple act of standing erect and putting one foot in front of the other. “My extra weight on you will only make the stones hurt your feet more.”
“Don't worry about me,” she told him through clenched teeth, making it sound as if she was the one in pain. Connor straightened so that he wasn't leaning on her even a little bit.
“Not likely,” he said, breathing hard, concentrating on reaching the steps, which seemed a million miles away. The initial shock must have worn off, because all of a sudden his hand was throbbing like crazy. “I worry about you all the time, Gabrielle. I have to. Don't you know that?”
“I don't know any such thing. In fact, it's the craziest thing I ever heard.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, if I don't, who will? Did you ever ask yourself that?” His voice sounded as languid as he felt.
“No. Never.”
“Well, I do. All the time.” He grimaced as he reached for the banister with his good hand. “All the, ah, time. I think about you all the time, Gaby.”
They climbed the stairs to the deck in silence. Gaby hurried ahead to open the door, and he heeded her command to head straight for the kitchen sink. Following him, she turned on the faucet and let it run until she decided it was the proper temperature before instructing him to hold his hand under the gentle flow.
Connor took pains not to wince as the first drops struck the open wound. He'd already come off looking like a damn wuss, but he could always blame that on heatstroke and initial shock. There was no way he was going to let her think he couldn't handle a little pain. Make that a lot of pain, he thought, wondering if maybe he'd cut a tendon or something. He spread his fingers experimentally. They all seemed to be working all right. It beat him how a cut on the back of his hand could be causing him more aggravation than a bullet he once took in the shoulder.
“Just keep holding it under the water,” Gaby told him. “I'll check in the bathroom and see what I can find to bandage it.”
As soon as she left the room, he pulled his hand away from the still-running water and took his first close look at the damage. Gaby was right. It did look nasty. And deep. He recalled that the propeller was rusty, but for the life of him couldn't remember the date of his last tetanus shot. Oh, well, it really didn't matter. It was going to take more than the risk of tetanus to get him down from there before he'd found out what he needed to know.
“I found something,” Gaby said, hurrying back into the room. She was holding a package of Band-Aids, elastic bandage and a tube of something. “This isn't quite what I would prefer, but it will have to do. I'm going to try to smear some of this antiseptic ointment on there and then we'll just wrap it with the elastic bandage. It's bigger than the Band-Aids and it's still in the package, so it should be sterile. That ought to hold you until we can get you to an emergency room. The question is, do you want to call 911 or try making it there on the motorcycle? Personally Iâ”
“Neither.”
She looked puzzled. “What did you say?”
“I said neither. No emergency room.”
“Listen, Connor, I'm sure there are women somewhere in the world who find that tough-guy routine appealing rather than downright ridiculous. It might even come in real handy at times, as a matter of fact, but this isn't a singles bar, I'm not a candidate to be the next notch on your belt and you need to be seen by a doctor. Fast.”
“No doctors.”
“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded in exasperation.
“I'm listening, are you? I said no doctors.”
“Why on earth not?” Her mouth tightened into a thin smile. “Oh, I get it. You're afraid to go to a hospital or see a doctor because that would give me a chance to get away. For heaven's sake, Connor, will you forget about all that? You got what you wanted by stopping the wedding. This way I'll get to go home and see my son and you can still go on with the investigation, but most importantly you'll get proper attention for your hand.”
He shook his head as he rewrapped his hand in her shirt. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped completely. Walking into the living room, he looked around, trying to remember where he'd seen that sewing basket. He figured it must belong to Charlie's wife, Marie, and he remembered coming across it when he drove up there earlier and was looking for... He struggled to remember what he might have been looking for when he came across the basket.
A notepad. That was it. He quickly moved to the desk in the corner, pulled open the bottom drawer and reached for the small open wicker basket filled with needles, spools of assorted colored thread and a small pair of scissors.
“...a serious infection. Or worse,” Gaby continued, and he realized belatedly that she must have been talking since they left the kitchen. Not that it mattered. There was nothing she could say that would change his mind. “You may have even done nerve damage. That's one more reason you have to have it looked at by a doctor.”
He turned to face her, aware of the concern etched on her face. He couldn't help wondering if she was more worried about him or about blowing this unexpected opportunity to make her escape.
“No doctors,” he repeated.
“Then I hope you're prepared to bleed to death,” she said. “Because while I may not know much about medicine, even I know that cut needs stitches and lots of them.”
“Then I'd say I'm a lucky man.” He held up the needle and spool of white thread he'd taken from the basket. “Just what the doctor ordered... or would order if he could be here.”
Her laugh of disbelief held an edge of nervousness, as well. “You can't be serious,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “You're not really going to attempt to suture your own hand.”
“Of course not,” he replied, shaking his head. “You are.”
Chapter 5
“Y
ou're insane,” Gabrielle told him, shaking her head as she took a step backward, away from the needle and thread he was casually holding out to her. “Certifiable.”
She watched, astonished, as his mouth quirked into that lazy, taunting smile she knew too well.
“Why?” he drawled. “Can't you sew?”
“Buttons, yes. Human flesh I've never tried.”
“Here's your chance.”
“Thanks, I think I'll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” He tossed the spool of thread with the needle tucked inside onto a nearby table, as if that was that. Gaby was drawing a relieved breath when he continued. “Just a reminder, in case I should develop an infection and become deliriousâor worseâwatch the bike on those curves going downhill. She has a tendency to spin out around thirty.”
Gaby tucked her tongue inside one cheek and regarded him stoically. The thought of riding that monster bike down the steep, endless hill by herself was almost as daunting as the prospect of stitching up his hand, but she wasn't about to reveal that to him. She was all too aware that Connor had a decidedly sharklike mentality, and any hint of weakness would be like spilling blood in the waters where he swam.
“It's not going to come to that,” she told him finally, reaching a decision. “I'm going to call for help whether you like it or not.”
“I don't think so. That is, not unless you've got a mighty creative way of packing a cellular phone on you.”
His insolent gaze drifted over her. Gaby hurriedly crossed her arms across her chest, acutely aware that she was still wearing only a bra. True, it wasn't some lacy confection and was no more revealing really than a bathing-suit top. It was still a bra, and one that he had chosen for her, no less. Somehow that added an even more intimate slant. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, the sacrifice of her shirt left her feeling more self-conscious than noble.
Connor looked disgustingly pleased with himself as she flushed in spite of herself.
“I didn't think you were that creative. In which case, you better take a look around, Gaby,” he suggested. “There's no phone here.”
She didn't need to look. How could she have forgotten? She'd already searched the whole cabin for a phone last night, the minute he'd left her alone, in fact. There were phone jacks in nearly every room, but the phones that were there when she'd last visited were nowhere to be found. Another example of how very thorough his preparation had been.
Of course, she mused, someone who had planned ahead so diligently wasn't likely to have left himself open to the possibility of being stranded here incommunicado in the event of a real crisis. There was every reason to believe that Connor had a cellular phone hidden around there somewhere. Her gaze slid to the window and to the acres and acres of thick woods beyond. And, she realized bleakly, almost no possibility of her getting her hands on it if he didn't want her to.
She turned back just as he was gingerly shifting the position of his hand against his chest and she saw the slight grimace he was clearly struggling to squelch.
“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth tipped upward in an ironic smile. “Defineâa lot.'”
“Never mind, it was a dumb question. Of course it hurts. Damn you, Connor, why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“Look who's talking. It must be contagious,” he muttered, adjusting the T-shirt, which was beginning to show bloodstains even on the outermost layer. “To answer your question, it hurts like hell. Sure you won't reconsider helping me out?”
“I can't,” she said, unconsciously thrusting her hands behind her back. “Please don't ask me to or look at me that way. I just can't do it.”
“Sure you can.” He retrieved the needle and thread and smiled at her. “Just pretend I'm a great big button.”
Gaby shuddered.
“Same principle,” he went on. “In, out, in, out. Heck, I'd do the job myself if I weren't so clumsy with my left hand. Wouldn't want to leave any unsightly scars.”
Knowing as she did that his body already bore its share of scarsâsouvenirs of such past adventures as a motorcycle crash, a diving accident and at least one gunshot wound that she knew ofâGaby could only assume his remark was meant as a joke. Unfortunately she wasn't in the mood to smile.
He moved closer until he was standing only inches away from her, idly tossing the spool of thread in the air and catching it. When he stopped, he looked directly into her eyes without smiling.
“Please, Gaby,” he said. “Not for me. I'm sure you don't much care if I lose the damn hand. Do it for your own sake. Think about it...there's no telling what someone like me might do if I get truly delirious.”
His grin reappeared, but it was pulled tight at the corners, as if it was costing him a great deal of effort to maintain it. He looked a little pale, too, she noted. At least as pale as skin burned brown by the Mexican sun could look. More to the point, he looked, she decided, like a man in pain. And even though he'd brought it on himself and deserved it, she couldn't stand by like a coward and watch him suffer.
She snatched the thread from his hand. “All right, I'll do it. But only for my own sake.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way,” he said drolly.
Five minutes later they were seated at the kitchen table, with her trembling hand holding the threaded needle just inches away from the end of the cut nearest his thumb. With his good hand Connor held the skin taut. Thank goodness it was a nice straight slice, she thought, wetting her lips and steeling her nerves for the task ahead.
Once she'd agreed to do it, Connor had become all business, directing her to fetch a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the downstairs bathroom and instructing her how to sterilize the needle in the flame of his lighter. She had a niggling suspicion he had done this a time or two before. When she had everything assembled on the table, she asked him to wait one more second while she ran upstairs to grab a clean shirt. He'd caught her lightly by the wrist as she passed.
“Don't,” he urged, his voice thick, his eyes hooded either with pain or something else. Gaby wasn't sure. “Please. I'm going to need a diversion while you do this, and you're veryâ” his eyes rested on her chest above the plunging neckline of the brassiere “âdiverting just as you are.”
Reluctantly she had acquiesced to his ill-mannered request and taken her place in the chair in front of him. Under the circumstances it seemed a bit obsessive to be a stickler about propriety.
It took her the better part of a half hour to do the job. She got through it by focusing on each separate stitch and not thinking about the fact that she was sewing up a man's hand rather than simply a pair of Toby's ripped jeans.
To her amazement, Connor never flinched. Only once did she dare to lift her gaze to see if he could possibly be as relaxed about this as his steady hands suggested. The sight of his rigid jaw and his gaze riveted on her bare shoulders convinced her that
relaxed
wasn't the right word.
Resolute
was more like it.
She had a sudden awareness that there wasn't much Connor couldn't endure if he set his mind to it. Or much he couldn't accomplish. Oh, she had already known there wasn't much he wouldn't do on a dare, but she had always attributed that to stupidity rather than courage. Now she was seeing a different side of his steely determination, and while it might not bode well for her immediate future, Gabrielle couldn't help feeling a grudging new respect for the man.
When it was done, she carefully cleaned the injured area with peroxide, gently applied the antiseptic ointment and bandaged it securely. Straightening at last, she wiggled her shoulders and rolled her neck from side to side. Both her jaw and her back ached from the tension that had collected in the muscles there as she worked.
Connor simply closed his eyes and exhaled deeply and with obvious relief. She would have been hard-pressed to say which of them was more thankful that it was over.
Opening his eyes, he managed to grin at her in spite of the ordeal. “See?” he taunted, “I told you that you could do it.”
“Don't look so cocky,” Gaby advised, shrugging off his backhanded compliment and the unexpected swell of pride it brought her. “It could still become infected.”
“Not a chance. You're the best.”
“Yeah. Right.”
As she started to get up, he held her in her seat by reaching for her arm with his left hand. “I mean it, Gaby. Thank you.”
She shrugged again. “Don't thank me. I did it for myself, remember?”
“Yeah. Right,” he said, echoing both her laconic tone and her words, making it clear he wasn't buying her claim for a second.
He released her arm and she stood.
“I do think you ought to take it easy for a while,” she told him.
“You might be right. At any rate I seem to have lost my enthusiasm for fixing Charlie's motor.”
“What's wrong with it anyway?”
“Good question. I thought if I could get the cowling off I might be able to figure it out, but I can't even get that far. The blasted screwdriver is too long. I can't get the right angle to loosen the screw that's holding it.”
“How about trying a smaller screwdriver?” she suggest offhandedly as she gathered together the thread and other supplies.
“Not a bad idea,” Connor replied, “except for the fact that Charlie's selection of screwdrivers is a little on the limited side.”
“Did you check the basket where you found the thread? I know I keep one of those tiny little screwdrivers in with my sewing stuff. They come in handy for a bunch of things.”
“Such as?”
She smiled. “Fixing outboard motors. Sit,” she ordered as he made a move to stand. “I'll take a look for you when I put the thread back.”
“All right. But I think I'll sit outside for a while. I could use a change of scenery and some fresh air. Let me know what you find.”
“I will, but first let me give you a hand getting outside.”
His mouthed twisted with annoyance. “I cut my hand, Gaby, that doesn't make me an invalid.”
“Excuse me,” she retorted, lifting her brows. “It's just that you seemed a little woozy when it first happened, and I thought having the stitches put in might have left you feeling woozy all over again.”
“I was not woozy,” he declared, indignant. “I never get woozy. Whatever the hell that means.”
“Oh, no? Then what exactly were you when you stood up out there and started swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane?”
“Hungover.”
Her gaze narrowed. “What?”
“You heard me. I was hungover. Still am a little, although I have to admit that having your hand stitched without painkillers ranks right up there with black coffee for snapping you back to hard, cold reality in a hurry.” He eyed her mockingly. “I know you've probably never done anything as wild and reckless as having one drink too many, Gabrielle, but I'm assuming you do understand what a hangover is.”
“Of course I know what a hangover is. I just don't understand why you had one this morning.”
He looked exasperated. “Then by all means let me spell it out for you. I had a hangover for the usual time-honored reason. Because I drank too much last night. Way too much, actually.” His stare drilled into her. “Now, would you like to know why I drank too much?”
“Not especially,” she replied, calling on a shrug to hide a sudden feeling of apprehension. “I think I'll just go check out that sewing basket.”
Irked, she first went upstairs to grab a clean T-shirt from the bag of clothes he'd provided. The peep show was definitely over. While she was in her room, she heard Connor go outside. The slamming of the door echoed through the cabin just as his sarcastic words still reverberated in her head.
I know you've probably never done anything as wild and reckless as having one drink too many,
he'd said.
His smug tone had left no doubt that he hadn't meant it as a compliment. As if she cared. Since when, she asked herself, was it a character flaw not to get drunk and wake up with a hangover? Not that such a comment should surprise her in the least coming from Connor. The man didn't know the meaning of the word
responsibility
. Never had. Never would.
She didn't even need to ask why he'd gotten drunk last night. Because the beer was there and so was he. For a man like Connor that would be reason enough for a party. Wouldn't it? She frowned as she ran back down the stairs. Tugging open the bottom drawer of the desk in the living room, she lifted out the sewing basket and paused with it in her hand. Had he simply been drinking for the heck of it? Or was it possible his drinking too much last night had something to do with her parting shot to him?