Going to the minibar, she took the ice tray out of the small refrigerator and returned to her workstation. “You probably need stitches,” she snapped, keeping her emotions in check as she dumped the ice into a towel and shoved it in his hand.
“Hold this to your broken face. You’re sure to have severe brain damage. Not that anyone would necessarily notice.” She was only half kidding. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She made a quick trip to her bathroom where she filled the ice bucket with hot tap water and grabbed a handful of white washcloths, then made a quick detour to the mini fridge for a couple of bottles of cold water. When she got back, Navarro was leaning back in the chair, eyes closed.
Setting the water and smaller towels on the side table, she gave him a searching and worried look. The bruising was getting worse, especially around his temple. “You can’t sleep,” she told him unsympathetically, giving him a nudge with her foot as she stepped to the side of the chair so she could treat his face. “Not yet, anyway. Open your eyes, Double-Oh-Seven.”
She handed him one of the glass bottles.
He opened one eye. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Don’t leave yourself wide open to a suggestion, Navarro. Drink it, or hold it wherever it hurts the most.”
Closing his eyes, he put it gingerly between his legs. “I think I was gelded.”
“Gelded, huh?” Gently she took the ice pack from his hand, transferring it to his groin. “That should make you calmer and better-behaved.”
Efficiently, she spread a towel out on the table, and opened the first-aid kit, lying out quickly and efficiently what she thought she’d need. Disinfectant, antibiotic salve, a roll of gauze and tape to hold it in place, sterile needle and thread, butterfly bandages, tweezers, and a pair of small, sharp scissors.
The small vial of painkiller and the disposable syringe stayed in the kit, for now.
She dropped a washcloth into the hot water. “Looks like you got the business end of someone’s boot right here.” So close to his eye.
Again
. She washed the area carefully. “You hurt anywhere else?”
“Bruises. No more holes.”
“How apropos that this hole is in your head.” Her nerves were jittery and would be until she cleaned him up and really saw what she was dealing with. Knocking him out and calling an ambulance wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. In truth, it was tempting, but she didn’t want to deal with the aftermath. She took a quick breath and got down to business.
She wrung out the towel and applied it gently to his face, wiping then rinsing then wiping again until most of the blood was gone and she could see what lay beneath. It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared but it wasn’t pretty. Lifting his free hand, she manipulated it so he held the cold bottle of water to ease the swelling, then moved on to rinse the blood out of his hair, parting it gently with her fingers as she went, making sure it wasn’t hiding any other cuts.
“You know I have to keep an eye on you for concussion.” She saw he’d closed his eyes again. “Keep your eyes open, Navarro, so I can see if you need an aspirin or the morgue.”
He opened his eyes a crack, wincing against the light. “Anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner sucks, Winston?”
“Nobody’s ever complained about my manners in bed,” she told him sweetly.
He groaned. “Please don’t kick me while I’m down. Wait until I’m back to my fighting form before you throw out challenges like that.”
“It was an unadorned statement, not an offer. Tilt your head a bit—Yeah, like that.” She checked his pupils. Normal and responsive, especially when his gaze dropped level with her chest and the pupils dilated. “Were you unconscious at any point?” With most of the blood off his skin, she could see the bruising across his forehead and the two-inch gash that was still seeping blood but it was already starting to crust over. It ran inside the old scar and probably needed stitches.
“Long enough for all the other bodies to get up and walk away. Any aspirin in there?”
She reached into the kit, pulled out a bottle, opened it, and handed him a couple tablets along with the glass of warm water he’d brought out. Grimacing, he popped the pills without the water. As he fumbled the glass back on the table without looking, his forearm brushed against her belly, sending a warning to her nerve endings.
“Put the shade back on the lamp. That light is killing me.”
“In a minute; I need to see what I’m doing. Here, lean on me. I can see and shade your eyes at the same time.” Honey guided his head to rest on her chest as she worked. His warm breath fanned her breast through her sweater. She liked the weight of his head against her. Liked the cool brush of his hair against her throat. Like the masculine smell of clean sweat on his skin. Annoying man.
Gently, she cleaned the cut with the towel. The area was already swelling and going dark. The light caught the edges of a few bits of grit, small stones that she carefully removed with the tweezers; they were just the sort of thing to get a wound infected. Impressed by his self-control, knowing it must hurt like hell, she asked, “How many bodies?”
He shrugged then winced, his short black lashes fluttering on his cheeks. “Five or twelve. I called in Garbage; they’ll police the area and give us a full report in the morning.”
“Great.” When she decided the wound was truly clean, she said, “This will sting,” and used a gauze pad to apply the disinfectant. He didn’t make a sound, but she felt his muscles jerk. After smearing on a liberal amount of antibiotic cream, she did her best with a few butterfly bandages. “Why were you walking? Why didn’t you just take a cab like a normal person?” His damp hair slid over his cheek, and she used the tips of her fingers to nudge it out of her way. It felt cool and silky as she tucked it behind his ear. She brushed the outer rim of his ear with a feather-light stroke.
Something inside her tugged and loosened at how trusting he was with his head on her breast. Her nipples responded even though there was nothing sexual about the situation.
“I like walking, clears my head.”
“Well, it probably fractured your hard head instead,” she muttered, stroking his hair absently. “I hope your assailants—all twelve of them—look worse than you do.”
“Killed at least three. They weren’t there when I woke up, though.”
She’d done as much as she could for his laceration, but she stayed where she was, fingers sifting through the damp, silky strands. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
She reached out and turned off the lamp so it didn’t bother his eyes. The room plunged into semidarkness, leaving the wedge of light from her room as the only illumination. “What made you think I was there or were you just saying that to get a rise out of me?” The soft tenor of her voice frightened her.
“I smelled your perfume.”
Her fingers paused on his hair. “First, I don’t wear fragrance when I’m working, and second, how on earth would you know what my perfume smells l— Oh, Jack’s house?” The fact that he remembered under the circumstances was…disconcerting.
“Okay, so some woman attacked you, and because she smelled similar, you instantly decided she was me?”
“No, Winston,” he said, turning his cheek into the valley between her breasts as if snuggling into a pillow before falling asleep. “She didn’t smell
similar
. She wore Carolina Herrera. She was your weight and build; she had your moves. She called me by name and asked me to kiss her again.”
Not only did he remember the fragrance, he knew the name of it. God help her, he knew her “moves”. The Spanish Stallion knew women. “The e-mail from Savage. Our visitor to the safe house. And now this.”
“
Was
it you?” he asked, breath hot on the inner curve of her breast.
She drew in a shaky breath. “No.”
His pause was insulting, but finally, he said, “Good enough. Then we have to figure out who and why.”
There wasn’t any
we
about it. He claimed to believe her, but his turnaround from ten minutes earlier was suspect in her book. He still had reservations about her veracity. She could tell from that tiny pause and the way his head turned just a fraction away from her. He could lie, but body language usually told the truth. No, she was in this on her own. Someone was messing with her. Using her identity to screw their mission up—just like Savage said they’d done to her when accused of being a double agent. She’d figure it out. Then she’d deal with it.
“Do you think this woman has anything to do with the bombings, or is she working with a different playbook? One thing I’m sure of, she’s trying to drive a wedge of distrust between us. Divide and conquer makes the most sense in derailing the investigation.”
The conversation dropped into a pool of silence. The room quiet, shadowy, far too intimate for two colleagues, one of whom was injured. His head was heavy against her breasts. They should at least try to get some sleep for a few hours. Even though her knees were starting to lock from standing still for so long, Honey was loath to break the peace.
It was a good thing the rest of the team wasn’t sharing the suite, because this was a hell of a compromising position for two operatives to be in.
It was a bad idea, but God help her, she liked the quiet, the feeling of calm. Out there, the world was going to hell in a hand basket, but inside the dimly lit hotel room was détente. For now.
Except one of them had to be sensible.
She made a move to disengage, an almost imperceptible shift of her feet.
Reaching up he captured her wrist with her fingers tangled in his hair. “Don’t.”
“We have to get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be another long day. And I have to wake you every thirty minutes, so you might as well be horizontal and allow your body to get some rest.”
“In a few minutes.” Disappointment gave an unwelcome twinge as he withdrew his hand. Her skin tingled, and her heartbeat
thumped
a little too fast.
“Right now, my head feels as though it’s a log split for the fire, moving might make me puke. Five more minutes, Winston.” He lifted his head slightly to slip his hand, palm down, on her breast, then rested his head on his hand.
If he hadn’t vomited in the last forty minutes, he was unlikely to do so now. His fingers curled around the weight of her breast. He had no nerve endings in his hand if he couldn’t feel the hard peak of her nipple.
Her heart stuttered then sped up. Her face went hot. She felt dizzy, light-headed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Your sweater’s scratching my sore, beat-up face.”
She huffed out a laugh. “My cashmere sweater is scratching your face that hasn’t seen a razor in three days?”
“Take it off.”
“Your face?”
“I’m too beat-up to make any moves on you, Winston. I just want to feel skin to skin for a few minutes. A little human contact.”
“This sweater was made from
Capra Hircus,
wild, nomadic goats in China. There
is
nothing softer.”
“Chicken?” The teasing tone of his voice curled like smoke around her senses. Where there was smoke, there was fire that burned.
“Childish?”
“Dare you.”
She sighed. “Take your hand off my breast.”
“Your nipple’s hard.”
Honey stiffened. “It’s cold in here. Take your hand off and I’ll give you five minutes of skin before we go to bed-Hell.
No
. You know what I mean.”
“I’ll be as good as gold, Winston. Boy Scout’s honor.” He lifted his head a few inches, giving her the opportunity to do as he asked.
Her thin, T-shirt bra had no embellishments and was as decent as if she were wearing a bikini on the beach. With a coworker called the Spanish Stallion. At four in the morning. On an op.
She’d officially lost her mind. Shockingly, she was okay with that. Honey pulled her sweater and cami over her head, dropping them on the floor behind her.
Certifiable
.
He put his head back, his breath warm on her cleavage.
She fingered a strand of dark hair off his rough cheek. “
Were
you a Boy Scout?”
She felt his wicked smile through the thin fabric of her bra. “Hell no.”
THIRTEEN
S
tanding still for so long, thigh steadied against the arm of the chair, his head on her breast. Honey almost dozed off. Navarro’s breath was moist and warm, and foolish as this was, she didn’t want to move and break the moment. His eyelashes, brushing her skin with every blink, made her cognizant of how easily this could slip from a middle of the night whim, to something far more dangerous. At that precise moment, she didn’t care. When was the last time she’d been this intimate with anyone? Ever?
He did nothing more than rest his head against her, but her nerve endings were hyperaware of the proximity of his mouth to her nipple. She braced herself for him to cross her—admittedly faint—line in the sand. Instead, he seemed perfectly content and relaxed as she intermittently combed her fingers through his hair. As still and quiet as things were on the outside, inside adrenaline coursed through her veins, and her heartbeat
thrummed
. It was impossible
not
to anticipate the other shoe dropping.