Summer Games (21 page)

And even asleep, she clung to his hand.

For several minutes he didn’t move. He simply looked at the silky half circles of her eyelashes, the shimmering wealth of her chestnut hair tumbling over the lounge’s pale cushion, the pink curve of her lips, and the skin stretched smoothly over her cheekbones. When he could take no more of the gentle torment, he bent and kissed the hollow of her cheek. Softly, reluctantly, he eased his hand out of hers.

When he glanced up, Thorne was pointedly looking somewhere else. Nor did Thorne say any of the sensible things about getting involved with the woman you were supposed to guard, a woman whose father was one of the most powerful men in the government.

Thorne kept silent even when Cord carried Raine into the communications room of the motor home, put her in his own bed, and locked the door. She stirred fitfully, but calmed as soon as he bent and murmured a few words against her cheek.

As soon as she was fully asleep, he went to the swivel chair in front of the computer, punched in his code, and began updating himself on all that had happened in the last half day.

Next to him a radio scanner worked ceaselessly, hunting among all local, state, and federal law-enforcement frequencies. When the scanner found a channel that was in use, it stopped to listen in on the transmission. Unless Cord intervened, the scanner would soon move on, surfing the frequencies, picking up disembodied voices.

For the most part, he ignored the transmissions, halting the scanner only if he heard certain codes used. Occasionally he would reach for the two-way radio set that was nearby. Like the scanner, the radio was capable of reaching all law-enforcement frequencies. He also had a top-secret satellite phone that he could use when absolute security was required.

One way or another, he had at his fingertips all of the various civil and military agencies whose responsibility it was to protect Olympic athletes, VIPs, and spectators against everything from pickpockets to a full-scale terrorist attack.

Working quietly, Cord sifted through intelligence reports graded according to their reliability. He read them, then made assessments and reports of his own.

Every half hour he checked on Raine. Each time he did, she reached for him as she came out of sleep, holding his hand against her and curling around it like a lover. Each time, it was harder for him to pull away.

He wanted to lie down beside her, let her burrow against him and sigh with contentment while he held her. He would settle for that. Just holding her. He was lucky to get even that much.

She could have died this morning, and she had a dented riding helmet to prove it.

For a time he sat on his bed next to her, watching her. Her color was normal now, not even a hint of paleness beneath her smooth, translucent skin. She was neither hot nor cold, and still vaguely dusty from her fall in the ring. Her breathing and pulse were normal.

Slowly he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Wake up, honey. It’s Cord.”

She awakened as before, her hand reaching up to curl around his. When her lips touched his palm, he felt a wave of heat all the way to his knees.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured. Carefully, thoroughly, he rubbed his fingers over her scalp. There were no lumps, no swellings, barely even a tender spot to make her flinch. “That was one hell of a good riding helmet, lady.”

Her eyes flew open, wide awake and startled. Both pupils were evenly dilated. Both responded with equal quickness to the light level in the room.

The tension in him eased a few more percentage points.

“Cord?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep. She looked past him, seeing the room for the first time. “Where am I?”

“In the motor home.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost five. Hungry?”

“Starved. Whatever happened to lunch?”

“You turned it down in favor of sleep.”

“Do I get a second chance?”

“Anytime,” he said, caressing her cheek with his captive fingers.

Abruptly Raine realized that she was holding Cord’s hand against her cheek. Color bloomed beneath her skin. She let go of his fingers as though she had been burned and sat up hurriedly.

“Dizzy?” he asked.

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“How does your stomach feel now?”

“Predatory.”

Smiling, he stood up. “If you can still tell me that when you’re on your feet, I’ll fix an omelet for you.”

Immediately she stood up. His ice-blue eyes noted every hesitation, every wince.

“Nauseated?” he asked after a minute.

“No. Just hungry. And—does this place come equipped with a bathroom?”

“First door on the left.”

He unlocked the door and walked out of the room. Though he seemed not to notice whether she followed, he was listening very carefully, ready to turn around and grab her if he heard her stumble or hesitate at all. She didn’t. Like her stallion, she was very steady on her feet. Utterly normal.

“Holler if you need me,” he said. “I’ll be in the galley.”

Raine took one look at herself in the bathroom mirror and shuddered. “Put a hold on that omelet,” she called out. “I’m taking a shower first.”

Very quickly Cord appeared in the doorway. “Sure you’re up to it?”

“Positive.”

He hesitated. The shower had a bench and a long-necked flexible wand so that she didn’t have to stand up. But he didn’t like the thought of her falling when he wasn’t around to catch her.

“Don’t wash your hair,” he said finally.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It will crawl right off my head if I don’t.”

He smiled. “Then I’ll wash it.” He waited long enough for her expression to get indignant, before he added, “In the sink.”

“What?”

“I’ll wash your hair in the sink. That way, if you get dizzy, I’ll be right there to catch you.”

“It’s not necessary. I’m fine. Hardly even a headache.”

“That’s nice. In the sink or not at all.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he spoke first. “Want me to sweep you off your feet again?”

Muttering beneath her breath, she walked two steps to the sink. His razor, toothbrush, and aftershave were laid out on the narrow counter. Next to his things, lined up in a neat row, were a squeeze bottle of her shampoo, her toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and the colorful packet of birth control pills that made certain her period wouldn’t come in the middle of a world-class competition.

“What’s going on?” she asked tightly. It was an effort to keep her voice level.

“You refused to stay in the hospital.”

“Of course I—”

“You have to have someone wake you every hour or so during the night,” he continued ruthlessly. “Otherwise you could slip into a coma with nobody the wiser. You didn’t have a roommate who could check on you, so you’ll stay here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

Her mouth flattened. “Like bloody hell I will.”

Cord watched with lazy interest while color and anger changed Raine’s face. “There’s more than one bed in this place,” he said calmly. “Just one bathroom, though. Don’t worry about it. I may wear a gun, but I’m quite civilized about closed doors.”

She felt like a fool. Again. An ungrateful fool at that.

“Do you want your blouse on or off while I wash your hair?” he asked as he walked to the sink.

Her eyes widened. Silvery heat prickled over her breasts and shot straight down to her thighs at the thought of Cord undressing her. She swallowed quickly. “On.”

“Okay,” he said, reaching for her blouse.

Before she could protest, he had the first two buttons undone and was folding her collar underneath. She jerked back, entirely too conscious of his fingers brushing over her neck and the hollow of her throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, startled.

“Getting your collar out of the way. Or did you want the blouse washed, too? If so, it would be easier if you took it off. Not nearly as interesting, though. All in all, I like your idea better. Wash the blouse with you still in it.”

His voice was so bland, the implication of his words so outrageous, that he had her head in the sink and was running warm water over her hair before she realized precisely what he had said.

“Cord Elliot,” she told the bottom of the sink, “whoever taught you how to talk should have been shot!”

His only answer was a chuckle that could have been the sound of water flowing.

She muttered some words she usually reserved for Dev at his worst, then gave in to the luxury of having her hair washed by strong, gentle fingers. The only problem was that water—and soap—kept trying to run into her eyes and nose.

The third time she had to come up for air, Cord reached for a towel. He mopped off her face.

“You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t working. Let’s try your idea.”

“Mffph?” was all she could get past the towel drying her chin.

“Washing everything at once.” He smiled slowly, wickedly, knowing she couldn’t see. Then he kicked off his shoes and pulled her into the shower.

“Sit.” Gently he pushed her down onto the bench and pulled the towel away from her face. “Tip your head back so soap won’t run in your eyes.”

Raine sat, head tilted slightly back, off-balance again. Ruefully she admitted that he had a definite talent for keeping people that way, teetering on the edge, unsure, a step behind and not very damn likely to catch up.

At least, he had that effect on her. The smooth, bland voice coupled with outrageous words. The gentleness and humor that made her forget the lethal knowledge implicit in the gun he wore. The heat and hunger of his hands contrasting with the icy assessment she had seen in his eyes.

Cord stepped out of the shower. With easy, familiar motions he unfastened his holster, ammunition clip, and beeper, and set them aside. He came back to the shower and stood in front of her, legs braced.

“I should object,” she said.

“Why? I won’t drown you.”

She gave him a bittersweet smile. She was already drowning, and he didn’t even know it.

Wrong man, wrong time, wrong place.

Wrong.

Yet her body was humming and she ached for his kiss, a kiss that was both claim and plea, victory and submission, blissful heaven shot through with a bright, sweet streak of hell that brought every nerve alive.

Cord picked up the shower wand, turned on the water, and waited until it was just the right temperature. He certainly was. Or wasn’t. Something about having his hands deep in Raine’s wet, slippery hair was viciously arousing. He told himself that he was grateful she still had her blouse on.

He lied.

He wanted to peel her blouse off, unhook her bra, slide his fingers under the silky weight of her breasts. He knew just how her nipples would feel, velvet and hard at once, pouting for his mouth, demanding the caresses that were their due. He could see them, feel them, taste them . . . and they were just the beginning of her female riches. There was a heat in her that made his whole body heavy with desire.

Maybe I should turn the water on cold and stuff the wand in my jeans, he told himself sardonically. Better yet, I should let her wash her own hair and watch from a safe distance.

A mile might be about enough.

But he doubted it.

“Cord?” she asked, looking at his grim face. “Is something wrong?”

“Just adjusting the temperature. The water heater is sulky.”

Smiling, she waited while he fiddled with the wand. He had rolled up his sleeves before he tried to wash her hair in the sink, but he should have taken off his shirt, too. Water had splashed over him, turning the light blue cloth into a rich autumn sky color that clung to the lines of his chest and arms. Black hair curled over his tanned skin like a satin shadow. When he adjusted the faucets, muscles slid and coiled with casual strength.

She watched with admiring eyes, fascinated by his masculine grace, remembering the moments when she had kissed him and her fingertips had traced the full, thick veins just beneath his skin.

With a muttered word, Cord nudged the faucets again. They didn’t need fussing, but he did. He wasn’t going to turn back toward her until his arousal was under control. Or semi-control. That seemed to be as good as it got when he was close to her.

“Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” he said, turning around finally.

Even as he spoke, he tilted her head back for her. The thought of having her mouth level with the bottom button on his jeans was making him get hard all over again.

She stared at the wet shirt that concealed nothing of Cord’s strength, at the very male lines of his chest and shoulders, sinew and muscle; and the pale, wild blaze of his eyes in a face that belonged to a dark angel.

Heat and dizziness swept over her, a reaction that had nothing to do with her fall. She closed her eyes, but still she saw him standing only inches away, another memory to haunt her nights. When his fingers eased into her hair, she couldn’t entirely conceal the delicious shiver of response that raced through her body.

“Cold?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

Numbly she shook her head, not trusting her own voice. Another picture had flashed behind her eyes: a headlong fall beneath a berserk horse, steel-shod hooves flailing near her face, just missing her eyes, then the dark dirt of the ring exploding around her.

She had always known that there was a possibility of serious injury, even death, in the strenuous demands of the three-day event. She thought she had accepted the danger as simply part of the life she had chosen. But twice within a few days her world had been stood on end and shaken until she fell out, slamming face first into a new reality.

Tomorrow was a matter of faith, not a guarantee. The only guarantee was here and now.

Understanding that all the way to her soul was subtly rearranging her thoughts, her expectations, her self-assurance. Questions she had never asked before were turning in the depths of her mind, demanding answers that were neither easy nor comfortable.

Who am I to smile and blithely plan for life-ever-after with some imaginary man I can’t even see in my dreams?