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It wasn’t just the size of the place that had her gasping, but the beauty. Historic and grand, with at least five stories, little terraces from all of the windows with wrought iron balustrades, a delightfully manicured garden that was at odds with the wildness of the forest from which they’d just emerged, it looked like a five-star hotel rather than a home.
“No.”
She jerked her gaze to his face. “I thought you said this is your land.”
He began to walk again, cutting through the very formal garden with miniature box hedges. “It is my land, but I do not live here.”
“Then this is, what? Like a holiday home?”
A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“But you own it?”
“Yes.”
He shouldered in the door, careful not to bang her head, before striding down the wide corridor with high ceilings and very old brass light fittings. They were both soaking wet and left puddles of water behind them. He didn’t seem to notice or care. He took the steps, still carrying her easily, then finally, deposited Georgia in a leather armchair, turning his back and leaving without a backwards glance.
She stared after him, consternation making her heart race and her mouth dry.
Gingerly, she turned her attention to her ankle, dreading the removal of her shoes and the vision she feared awaited her.
However, whether she dreaded it or not, Dante was back and he was determined to liberate her feet from her boots. It was a strange thing to be self-conscious of in that moment, but as he crouched down and began to undo her laces, she hoped and prayed that her feet didn’t smell.
“Ouch!” She almost swore when his fingers brushed against her swollen ankle.
“You have made it a thousand times worse by walking on it.”
“I was ordered off your land, remember?”
He tossed her a cynical look. “To drive, not walk.”
She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She didn’t want to argue with him right now. In truth, she felt close to tears, which for Georgia was a remarkable surprise in and of itself.
She became aware of the sound of the shower running.
“Can you stand with my support?”
“Yes,” she said with a confidence she was far from feeling.
“Good.” He nodded his approval and that little nod did something strange to her, like it was stitching her back together somehow. “Show me.” He held out an arm and she maneuvered herself to the end of the sofa, shivering as she did so. He grimaced.
“Forget about it,” he replied, and before she could guess his intention, he had lifted her up once more, placing her against his chest and carrying her down the corridor and through a doorway that housed the most exquisitely sumptuous bathroom she’d ever seen. The shower was running, and he’d placed a plastic chair in it.
“I’m not—I don’t need to shower.”
“You need to warm up,” he contradicted. “Your clothes are soaking.”
She blanched. “Really, I’m fine?—,”
“Listen to me—,” he frowned. “What is your name?”
She swallowed, wondering why it felt so intimate to give him her name? “Georgia,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He nodded once, as though that too was something he approved of. “Georgia, we do not need to argue over every small detail. You are dangerously cold. Your ankle is swollen. We need to take care of both of these things, and in that order. So you will sit, and have a quick shower to warm up, and then I will place you on a sofa and evaluate the damage. Okay?”
She wanted to tell him that of course it wasn’t okay, but how could she?
“Okay, okay,” she snapped, annoyed at how churlish she sounded. “Thank you,” she muttered, tacked on as an obvious afterthought.
