He didn’t reply. Instead, his stare captured hers. Probed. She had the distinct feeling he was searching for something. Whatever it was, she didn’t think he’d been able to find it.
She was sure of it when he clipped a silent, almost resigned nod before spinning around and heading down the hall.
Bemused, she stepped out after him.
Two things struck her as Darian turned into the kitchen area instead of heading to the front door. One, he’d agreed to let her help, and two, he knew the layout of her apartment. Abby forced her racing pulse to slow. Yes, the man was gorgeous and, yes, she’d now lay odds he either lived in an identical apartment upstairs or knew someone who did. But even if that friend wasn’t a woman, it didn’t mean he was dating material. Not for her. She’d sworn off men after her fiasco of a breakup with Stuart. The only reason she’d returned to New York was to strengthen her bond with Brian. She certainly wasn’t here to get involved again, especially with a man as strange as this one, with even stranger hobbies.
Her resolve restored, Abby hooked her arm into one of the padded barstools at the breakfast counter and followed Darian into the kitchen proper. She dumped the brass stool beside the sink. The lingerie she’d inadvertently brought along went straight into the trash compactor. She threw the switch for good measure before retrieving her first-aid kit from the nest of kitchen utensils still cradling it at the top of the closest box. By the time she turned, her reluctant patient was leaning against the opposite counter, his dark, disconcerting gaze tracking her every move.
He shifted his stare to the still-chumming compactor for a brief, pointed moment, then drew it back to her.
No way. She’d let the man into her kitchen. He was not getting into her head, let alone her foolish heart. She glanced at the stool and shrugged. “You’re a giant. I’m not. I can’t reach.” He was six-two at least. At five-seven she was at a serious disadvantage if that cut was near his temple.
Her earlier suspicions regarding the man’s aversion to chit-chat were cemented as he crossed the modest galley kitchen and lowered his frame onto the stool, all without speaking. Or perhaps he’d been small-talked to death at whatever function he’d donned that tux for. She stuck out her hand, hoping to determine which. He simply stared. She redoubled her efforts, extending a genuine smile along with her hand. “Abigail Pembroke. My friends call me Abby. Given your hobby, I’m guessing yours call you Dare.”
He didn’t return her smile.
She must have shamed him into observing one of the tenets of etiquette, however, because his hand finally rose, slowly enveloping hers. His grip was warm and solid. His stare enveloped her as well.
“Dare will do…Abby.”
Oh, Lordy. The mellow note had returned to his voice, once again causing the strings of interest to vibrate deep within her belly. She muted them quickly and tugged her hand from his grasp, turning to the sink to scrub the lingering heat from her fingers along with the dust from her boxes. Fortunately, Mrs. Laurens had left a bottle of liquid soap behind and Abby used that to help with the sterilizing part of her efforts. Abby caught the rustle of fabric as she reached for the last of the paper towels the elderly woman had left as well. Dare had obviously decided to remove the jacket to his tux. By the time she returned to that steady gaze and surprisingly still-snowy shirt, her nerves were firmly under control.
Or so she’d thought.
Sweet mercy. She stared. Shamelessly.
Two weeks ago and forty feet away, the man’s chest had been ogle-worthy. Tonight, less than twelve inches away, it was downright riveting. The slightly crushed cotton of Dare’s shirt enhanced every inch of his broad shoulders, thick, sinewy arms and fiercely honed chest—right down to the silk cummerbund banded about his waist. She followed the line of studs back to his loosened tie and the tantalizing V of flesh at the base of his throat. Flesh that still bore the slight sheen of his unorthodox exertion.
And his scent.
This close, it was impossible to evade. Not that she wanted to. Abby savored the earthy musk drifting into her lungs. No ripe, commercial colognes for this man. Dare’s natural scent reflected his looks—dark and dangerous. Her second, slower whiff clogged in the middle of her throat as he cleared his. Expectantly.
She blushed.
Great. The man peeped into her window and she ended up pegged as the pervert. She purged his musk from her lungs along with her embarrassment, focusing instead on that sluggish, scarlet trickle as she stepped closer. Most of the blood appeared to have been soaked up by the dark waves that spilled past his right temple. She dumped the first-aid kit on the counter and smoothed the hair from his face.
He must have prepped himself better this time, because he managed to keep from stiffening.
She couldn’t. “Oh my.”
His brow lifted. The motion caused several fresh drops of blood to seep from the two-inch gash she’d located just past his temple. She wasn’t a doctor, but even she knew the cut required more than a Band-Aid.
“You need stitches.”
Unlike earlier in her bedroom, he offered no argument. Nor did he downplay her assessment. He simply shook his head.
Firmly.
Abby studied the thin scar running the length of his outer right cheek and jaw, the one on his bottom lip. Neither showed evidence of stitches. She wouldn’t be able to change his mind, then. Might as well do what she could. Popping open the first-aid kit, she rummaged through her meager supplies, culling a bottle of antibacterial wash, half a dozen squares of sterile gauze and her stash of slim butterfly bandages. She washed the gash as best she could, then used all seven of the butterfly strips to seal the slightly jagged edges together. Satisfied the strips would hold, she dampened the remaining squares of gauze with the antiseptic wash, then used the pads to clean the remaining blood from Dare’s cheek.
The end result was surprisingly neat.
“There.” She pitched the last of the gauze on the counter as he lifted his fingers to probe his cut.
Bandaged or not, that gash had to hurt.
She nodded to her kit. “I’m sorry. There should be a packet of ibuprofen in there but it’s gone. I must have used it up before I moved.”
“That’s okay. You’ve done enough as it is. I appreciate all your help…and your concern.”
She glanced at her watch as he stood, stunned as she realized he’d been there for nearly half an hour. It had felt like five minutes, ten tops. Even more disconcerting was that she was reluctant to see him go. She risked a teasing smile as he pushed the stool against the counter. “Glad to help. Just promise you’ll take the elevator, okay? I’m out of bandages.”
His lips actually quirked, then eased into a slow, mesmerizing smile. Somewhere along the way, she stopped breathing. She’d forgotten how.
She had the distinct impression Dare knew it.
To her disappointment, his smile faded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. The haunted look that had struck her so deeply when she’d first spotted it in the doorway of her bedroom returned. His gaze seemed almost guarded now. He seemed guarded—against her. But that didn’t make sense. What reason did he have to be threatened by her? They hadn’t even met until tonight. Not really. Was it his head? Did it hurt worse than he’d said?
It must. Not only had his mood shifted, she could almost feel the energy draining out of him. He’d paled, too. “Look, why don’t you sit back down?” She tipped her chin toward the breakfast counter and the forest of cardboard still cluttering the living room beyond. “It shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to locate the rest of my medical supplies. There’s bound to be a bottle of ibuprofen in the mix.”
“Thank