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“No, really. I know you’re used to taking charge, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll be just fine. You can go home now.”
She heard a hint of panic creep into her voice and bit her lip. She couldn’t concentrate enough to figure out why it was so vital that he leave. All she knew was that every instinct of self-preservation she possessed was screaming how it was imperative for him to go.
“Face it, Samantha, you need help.”
Sick as she was, the sound of her name on his lips still managed to send shivers of awareness up her spine. Those six words, spoken softly and with concern, penetrated the haze clouding her mind. In a moment of clarity, she knew exactly why she was so desperate for him to leave. She didn’t like the way he made her feel when he looked at her, all soft and feminine and trembly inside. Even less did she like the way her breathing went haywire when he smiled; how her heart raced when he spoke her name.
She’d had her chance at love, and it had been wonderful. No woman could have asked for more. Then James had died, and they’d buried her heart with him.
Apparently, however, her hormones had stayed behind.
When she was well again, none of this would matter, she told herself. When her weakness disappeared, so would her vulnerability.
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