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‘Women aren’t what they used to be,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to a nice, tidy slap across the cheek? That’s what they do in movies.’
‘I’ll remember it next time.’
‘There won’t be a next time,’ he said, and she thought uh-oh, was her tenancy on the line?
‘I’m not about to evict you,’ he said wearily, and she flinched. Beside being clumsy and stupid, was she also transparent?
‘I didn’t think …’
‘That I was about to evict you for hitting me? Good.’
‘Thank you,’ she said feebly and he went on concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
He didn’t stop until they reached the house. The lights were still on. He stood back to let her precede him into the porch. Instead of going straight into her side of the house, she paused.
Under the porch-light he looked … ill. Yes, he still looked large, dark and dangerous, but he also looked pale under the weathering, and the thin trickle of blood was at the centre of a bruise that promised to be ugly.
He staggered a bit. She reached out instinctively but he grabbed the veranda post. Steadied.
She could have killed him. He looked so … so …
Male?
There was a sensible thought.
‘You could have me arrested,’ she managed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But you weren’t planning to hit the dog.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘N … no.’
‘That’s why I won’t have you arrested. You meant well.’
‘You need to see a doctor.’
‘I need to go to bed.’
‘But what if it’s terrible?’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘I’ve read about head wounds. People get hit on the head and go to bed and never wake up. You should get your pupils looked at. If one’s bigger than the other … or is it if one doesn’t move? I don’t know, but I do know that you should get yourself checked. Please, can I drive you to the hospital?’
‘No.’ Flat. Inflexible. Non negotiable.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve spent my life on boats. Believe it or not, I’ve been thumped a lot worse than this. I’m fine.’
‘You should be checked.’
‘You want to look at my pupils?’
‘I wouldn’t know what to look for. But if you go to bed now … It could be dangerous. Please …’
He was too close, she thought. He was too big. He smelled of the sea. But maybe it wasn’t just the sea. He smelled of diesel oil, and fish, and salt, and other incredibly masculine smells she’d never smelled before.
The only man she’d been this close to in the last few years was Jon. Jon of the sleek business suits, of expensive aftershave, of cool, sleek, corporate style.
Compared to Jon, Gabe was another species. They both might be guys at the core, but externally Gabe had been left behind in the cave. Or at sea.
Beside Gabe she felt small and insignificant and stupid. And he made her feel … vulnerable? Maybe, but something more. Exposed. It was a feeling she couldn’t explain and she didn’t want to explain. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be beside him one moment longer, but she was still worried about him. That worry wouldn’t be ignored.
‘You should be checked every couple of hours,’ she said, doggedly now. Once upon a time, well before Jon, she’d dated a medical student. She knew this much.
‘I’m fine.’ He was getting irritated. ‘In eight hours I’ll be out at sea. I need to go to bed now. Goodnight.’
‘At least let me check.’
‘Check what?’
‘Check you. All night.’
He stilled. They were far too close. The porch was far too small. Exposed? It was a dumb thought, but that was definitely how he made her feel. His face was lined, worn, craggy. He couldn’t be much over thirty, she thought, but he looked as if life had been hard.
It could get harder if she didn’t check him. If he was to die …
‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded.
‘I need to check you every two hours,’ she said miserably, knowing her conscience would let her off with nothing less. ‘I’ll come in and make sure you’re conscious.’
‘I won’t be conscious. I’ll be asleep.’
‘Then I’ll wake you and you can tell me your name and what day it is and then you can go back to sleep.’
‘I won’t know which day it is.’
‘Then tell me how much you dislike the tenant next door,’ she said, starting to feel desperate. ‘For worrying. But I need to do this.’ Deep breath. ‘It’s two-hour checks or I’ll phone your friend, the cop, and I tell him how badly I hit you. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’s the kind of guy who’ll be up here with sirens blazing making you see sense.’
Silence.
Her guess was right, she thought. In that one short phone conversation she’d sensed friendship between the two men, and maybe the unknown cop was as tough as the guy standing in front of her.
‘I’m serious,’ she said, jutting her jaw.
‘I’ll be on the boat at dawn. This is nonsense.’
‘Being on the boat at dawn is nonsense. After a hit like that you should stay home.’
‘Butt out of my life!’ It was an explosion and she backed as far as the little porch allowed. Which wasn’t far, but something must have shown in her face.
‘Okay, sorry.’ He raked his hand through his thatch of dark, unruly hair. He needed a haircut, Nikki thought inconsequentially. And then she thought, even more inconsequentially, what would he look like in a suit?
Like a caged tiger. This guy was not meant to be constrained.
That was what she was doing now, she thought. She was constraining him, but she wasn’t backing down. There was no way she could calmly go to bed and leave him to die next door.
She met his gaze and jutted her chin some more and tried to look determined. She was determined.
‘Every two hours or Raff,’ she said.
‘Fine.’ He threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Have it your way. You can sleep tomorrow; I can’t. I’m going to bed. If you shine your torch in my eyes every two hours I might well tell you what I think of you.’
‘Fine by me,’ she said evenly. ‘As long as you’re alive.’
‘Goodnight,’ he snapped and turned away. But as he did she saw him wince again.
She really had hurt him.
She showered and tried not to think about dead landlords and starving dogs. What else?
Live landlords. Two-hourly checks. Pupil dilation?
Maybe not. Questions would have to do.
Her pipes gurgled.
She thought briefly about discussing antiquated pipes every two hours but decided, on balance, maybe not. Name and date. Keep it formal and brief.
She set her alarm for two hours on but she didn’t sleep. Two hours later she tiptoed in next door.
She’d forgotten to ask which was his bedroom. It was a huge house.
There was a note on the floor in the passage, with an arrow pointing to the left.
‘Florence Nightingale, this way.’
She managed a smile. Her first smile of the night. Okay, he’d accepted her help.
She tiptoed in.
He was sprawled on a big bed, the covers only to his waist. Face down, arms akimbo.
Bare back. Very bare back.
She was using her torch. She should quickly focus on his head, wake him, make sure he was coherent, then slip away.
Instead, she took just a moment to check out that body.
Wow.
Double wow.
His shoulders were twice the size of Jon’s, but there was no hint of fat. This was pure muscle. A lifetime of pulling in nets, of hauling cray-pots, of hard manual labour, had tuned his body to …
Perfection.
It wasn’t often that Nikki let herself look at a guy and think sheer physical perfection but she did now.
The weathering of the man … a life on the sea …
There was a scar on his shoulder, thin and white. She wanted, quite suddenly, to reach out and trace …
‘I’m alive,’ he snapped. ‘Gabriel Carver, Tuesday the fourteenth. Go away.’
She almost yelped again. Habit-forming?
‘Your … your head’s hurting?’
‘Not if I close my eyes and think of England. Instead of thinking of women with pokers. Go away.’
She went.
At least he was alive.
And at least she hadn’t touched him. She hadn’t traced that scar.
She still wanted to.
Nonsense.
She didn’t sleep for another two hours. She checked again. He was sprawled on his back. He looked as if he’d been fighting with the bed.
He was deeply asleep this time, but he looked … done. The bruise on his face looked awful.
She couldn’t see the scar on his back. All she could see was his face, exhaustion—pain?
Something inside her twisted. A giant of a man.
Just a little bit vulnerable?
He wouldn’t thank her for thinking it but, stupid or not, the thought was there.
It was two in the morning. She glanced at his bedside clock. His alarm was set for four.
She hesitated. Then, carefully, she removed the clock, flicked the alarm off and slipped it in her pocket. His phone was on the bedside table. Why not go all the way? She pocketed that, too.
Then she touched his face. The good side.
His eyes opened. He looked a bit dazed, but he did focus. This was nothing more than someone waking from deep sleep.
‘I’ll live,’ he said, slurred.
