“You’re not?” He sounded disappointed. She ignored him. The wound only needed a few butterfly strips and he’d probably have a whopping headache on top of a hangover. Hmph. That’s what you get for making a woman flutter without her permission, hotshot.
His left eye was almost swollen shut and a bruise had already turned the skin around it a dark mottled red. She gently probed the area and found no shifting under the skin. No cracked bones, but he’d have a beaut of a shiner and his split lip looked painful enough to put a crimp in his social life.
No kissing in his immediate future.
Wondering where that thought had come from, Cassidy reached into the bag for packaged alcohol swabs. “He did a good job on your face,” she murmured, dabbing at the wound.
Something lethal came and went in his expression, too quickly for Cassidy to interpret. But when he smirked and said, “You should see the other guys,” she decided she must have been mistaken and finally gave in to the mental eye roll that had been threatening. Other guys?
Maybe he’d been listening to too many stories about his own exploits.
“And I guess the knife wasn’t clean either?”
He grunted, but as she wasn’t fluent in manspeak, she was unsure if he was agreeing with her or in pain. “Broken beer bottle. Talk about a cliché,” he snorted roughly. “And forget the tetanus shot. Had one a few months ago...so I’m good.”
Good? It was her turn to snort—silently, of course.
Her obvious skepticism prompted an exasperated grimace. “I’m not drunk.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not?”
He shook his head and yawned again. “Just tired. An’ it’s Friday,” he reminded her as though she should know what he was talking about.
“Been carousing it up with the boys, have you?”
His look was reproachful. “Fridays are busy and Hannah’s usual bartender has food poisoning.”
“So, you were what?” Cassidy inquired dryly. “Keeping the peace as you served up whiskey and bar nuts?”
His gold eyes gleamed with appreciation and his battered lip curved in a lopsided smile. “If you’re worried, you could always stay the night. Just to be sure I’m not suffering from anything...fatal.”
Flicking on a penlight, Cassidy leaned closer. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Major,” she responded dryly, checking his pupil reaction. The only fatal thing he was suffering from was testosterone overload.
She stepped back to pick up another alcohol swab, before returning to press it to the bloodied cut above his eye. His hissed reaction had her gentling her touch as she cleaned it. “How much did you have to drink?”
“A couple,” he murmured, then responded to her narrow-eyed survey with a cocky smile that looked far too harmless for a man with his reputation. “Of sodas,” he added innocently, and her assessing look turned speculative. For a man who slurred like a drunk and smelled as though he’d bathed in beer, his gaze was surprisingly sharp and clear.
“I don’t drink on the job,” he said, hooking a finger in the hem of her top, and giving a little tug. His knuckles brushed against bare skin and sent goose bumps chasing across her skin. “Beer and stupidity don’t mix well.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, straight-faced, turning away to hide her body’s reaction to that casual touch. “Do you need help removing your shirt?” she asked over her shoulder as she cleared away the soiled swabs. “I want to see your torso.”
He was silent for a few beats and when the air thickened, she lifted her gaze and her breath caught. “Your...um...torso wound, I mean.” It was no wonder he had women swooning all over the county.
As though reading her thoughts, his lips curled, drawing her reluctant gaze. The poet’s mouth and long inky lashes should have looked ridiculously feminine on a man so blatantly male but they only made him appear harder, more masculine somehow.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
Cursing the fair complexion that heated beneath his wicked gaze, Cassidy injected a little more frost into her tone. “Excuse me?”
His grin widened and he let out a rusty chuckle. “I like the way you say that. All cool and snooty and just a little bit superior.”
Leveling him with a look one generally reserved for ill-mannered adolescents, Cassidy queried mildly, “Are you flirting with me, Major Kellan?”
“Me?” Then he chuckled. “If you have to ask,” he drawled, leaning so close that she found herself retreating in an attempt to evade his potent masculine scent, “then I guess I’m out of practice.”
She said, “Uh huh,” and reached for the hem of his torn, bloodied T-shirt, pulling it from his waistband. The soft cotton was warm from his body and reeked of beer and something intrinsically male. She hastily drew it over his head and dropped it onto the bunk, ignoring his finely sculpted warrior’s body. It had been a long time since she’d found herself this close to a man who made her want to bury her nose in his throat and breathe in warm manly skin.
But medical professionals didn’t go around sniffing people’s necks or drooling over every set of spectacular biceps, triceps or awesome abs that ended up in their ER. And they certainly didn’t get the urge to follow that silky-looking happy trail that disappeared into a low-riding waistband with their lips either.
Or they shouldn’t, she lectured herself sternly, considering the last one had left her with a deep sense of betrayal and a determination not to get sucked in again by a set of hard abs and a wicked smile.
Relieved to focus on something other than silky hair and warm manly skin, she leaned closer to probe the wound, murmuring an apology when he gave a sharp hiss. Over three inches long, it angled upwards towards his pec and the surrounding area was already darkening into what looked like the shape of a fist. Wincing, she ran the tips of her fingers over the bruised area just as the outer door banged opened, slamming against the wall.
The sound was as loud and unexpected as a gunshot. In a blur of eerily silent movement, Major Kellan surged off the bunk, shoving her roughly aside as he dropped into a crouch. Deadly menace slashed the air, sending Cassidy stumbling backwards.
She gave a shocked gasp and gaped at a wide, perfectly proportioned, perfectly tanned, muscular back bare inches from her face.
CHAPTER TWO
INSTANTLY ALERT AND battle-ready, Sam barely felt the burn of his injured palm or the line of fire streaking across his belly. Adrenaline and blood stormed his system and in some distant corner of his brain he realized it was happening. Again. Dammit.
Not now. Please, not now.
But he was helpless to stop it—helpless against the firestorm of images that tended to explode in his brain—instantly warping his sense of reality and triggering an instinct to protect. With deadly force.
From somewhere behind him he heard a gasp, and the young deputy entering the holding area abruptly stopped in his tracks.
One look at Sam and the kid’s eyes widened to dinner plates. He went sheet-white and dropped the fold-up steel table. It teetered a moment then toppled over with loud clatter. The deputy jerked back as though he’d been prodded with a shock stick.
“M-Major K-Kellan?” he squeaked, his wide-eyed look of terrified embarrassment reaching Sam as though from a distance.
“It’s just m-me, M-Major Kellan. L-Larry?”
Pain lanced through Sam’s skull and he staggered, clutching his head. Sweat broke out along his spine so abruptly he felt dizzy. His strength drained, along with the surge of adrenaline that had fired his synapses and instinctively turned him