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She unzipped her borrowed rain parka and struggled to pull her arms out. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Can you help me undress?”
Wired like he was right now, undressing her would lead to a heap of trouble. What was wrong with him? He had helped her suit up. He had seen her in a thin T-shirt. But since then he’d kissed her as if she were the last woman on earth.
“Please. I’m exhausted.”
He dropped her parka to the floor, followed that with the sweatshirt. Before he could discard the vest, his lungs stopped working. A bullet nestled in the back panel. He clenched his jaw. “You did get shot.”
“Where?” Cath reached a hand to her back and winced.
To hell with the niceties. He had to see the worst. Cath hugged herself again, and he lowered her arms. “Let me look at your back.”
A big, red welt rose beneath her bra clasp. No wonder she’d been gasping for air. “Are you still having trouble breathing?”
She shook her head, flicking drops of water from her wet hair.
He located his phone to call an ambulance. “You need an X-ray.”
Her brows furrowed. “Why?”
He led her over to the full-length mirror. “Look at your back. That swelling is going to make a pretty bruise, but you could have bruised ribs too. Do you feel pinched when you take a breath?”
“I can breathe now, but we can’t leave, anyway. Those gunmen could spot us.” She turned to assess the damage to her back, and he glimpsed the sheer triangles doing a terrible job covering her breasts. His nerves stood at attention down his chest, through his groin, all the way to his toes. As if Cath were his magnetic north.
He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and handed it to her. “Can you hold on to this?” He jiggled the terry cloth while focusing on the brocaded Victorian chair. “I’m going to get the shower going. Make sure the water’s hot.”
The shower ran a minute before beginning to steam the bathroom. He laid the mat on the floor and held the door open. “Do you need help with the rest of your clothes?”
Criminy. He cleared his throat, ignored the sweat rolling down his face. “I mean your shoes.”
“You really want to kneel at my feet?”
His humming nerves ignited. Kneeling at her feet would be tons better for him than kneeling between her legs. “Keep the towel in place.”
She sank into the chair. “Are you embarrassed?”
“I’m trying to give you some privacy.” He worked to loosen her wet boot buckles before grabbing her heel. “Can I just pull these off?”
“No, you have to unbuckle them. Let me—” She reached down to undo them.
“I’ll do it.” In her present state, she might lose the towel, and he’d seen enough to keep him awake all night. His fingers managed to loosen the buckles and he tugged a heel. “Hold on to the chair.”
With the boots finally off, she curled her toes against the rug. Frozen, dammit. He cupped both feet in his hands a moment before pushing open the bathroom. “If you don’t get into the shower now and warm up, you’ll go hypothermic. Then we really will have to visit the hospital.”
She put a hand on his sleeve. “Y-y-your jacket is ice. Y-you need to get warm too.”
“I’ll take a shower later.” Getting in that stall with her would be his one-way ticket to hell. He turned his back and stared into the steam-misted mirror, her image over his shoulder blurry.
“We can save water if we take one together.”
What was wrong with her? The real Cath Hurley would never tempt him like this. She must be in shock. Mitch kept his eyes on the hand he pressed to her forehead, but his foolish gaze wandered lower.
Her blue eyes stared at him. Vacantly? No, but—“What are you doing?”
Even her voice sounded different. “Seeing if you have a temperature.”
“Do I?” The ends of her mouth twitched.
She was teasing him, dammit. He opened the shower stall. “Get in there now.”
