Daisy sighed as she walked in.
The sight of Brody’s naked body might have short-circuited her hormones, but she was not going to allow it to short-circuit her brain cells too. The very last thing she needed was for anything to happen between her and her arrogant new neighbour. He might be dishy, but she’d only needed to spend a few minutes in his company—and his home—to know he was so not right for her it wasn’t even funny.
‘He’ll probably drift in and out until the temperature breaks,’ Maya Patel announced, slinging her black bag under her arm. ‘Keep dousing him with ice water. And if you can, get some more paracetamol down him in four hours’ time.’
Daisy nodded, the butterflies having a ball in her stomach at the thought of the long night ahead.
‘Are you sure it’s not serious?’ Daisy asked. Like most doctors, Maya didn’t seem to think anything short of double pneumonia was worth getting excited about.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine once he’s sweated it out of his system. His temperature’s hovering around one hundred and two, but that’s to be expected. If it gets any higher give me a call. But his breathing’s okay and he’s a young, healthy guy.’ Maya smiled at Daisy. ‘Actually, if I wasn’t here in a professional capacity, not to mention married and a mother of three children—I’d say he was a total hunk.’
Daisy dropped her head to concentrate on undoing the front door latch, her cheeks boiling.
‘He’s been in the wars a few times,’ Maya continued. ‘But he seems to have come through them surprisingly well.’
‘You mean the scars on his back?’ Daisy asked as she yanked the heavy door open.
‘Yeah, do you know where he got them?’
‘No, I hardly know the guy,’ Daisy replied. Then her curiosity got the better of her. ‘What’s your professional opinion?’
‘Old, probably from before he hit puberty would be my guess, but I’m no expert,’ Maya said matter-of-factly, then chuckled as she stepped onto the stoop. ‘And why, might I ask, do you care if you hardly know the guy?’
Daisy struggled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t sound totally suspicious. She might as well not have bothered.
‘Ah-ha.’ Maya pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘I thought so. Seems I’m not the only one who thinks our patient is a hunk.’
‘He’s okay,’ Daisy replied flatly, praying her rosy cheeks weren’t a total giveaway.
Maya jogged down the front steps. ‘Let me know how he’s doing tomorrow if the fever still hasn’t broken.’ She turned by the kerb and wiggled her eyebrows at Daisy. ‘And keep an eye on your own temperature, Daze. Being in a room with a guy that hunky and that naked all night long can be hard work.’ She winked. ‘But I’m sure you’re up to the job.’
She laughed as Daisy’s cheeks shot from rosy to beetroot, and climbed into her car.
Daisy locked the front door and leaned back against it, focussing on the room down the hall where her hunk of a patient awaited.
A platoon of butterflies dive-bombed under her breastbone.
Hard work indeed. Maya didn’t know the half of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
CONNOR awoke with a start to the dazzle of morning sunlight. The shadows from the long, traumatic night still lingered at the edges of his consciousness.
He squinted, threw his arm up to ward off the glare, and noticed several things at once. The hammer in his head had quit banging, his muscles had stopped throbbing in time with it and he was no longer sleeping in a sauna. He eased his arm down as his eyes adjusted to the light, gazed out at the leafy old chestnut in his back garden, and the last of the dark disappeared.
Hell, it was good not to feel as if he’d gone six rounds with the champ any more.
How long had he been out? He didn’t have a clue. He caught a whiff of perfume: flowery, spicy and wildly erotic. Recollections from the night before washed over him: the pain, the heat, the terror. But more vivid was the recollection of calm words, of whispered reassurances, of firm hands soothing him back to oblivion when the cruel flashbacks had wrenched him to the surface. And all the good memories were wrapped in that enticing scent.
She’d stayed with him. Just as she’d promised.
He pushed up on his elbows as panic sprinted up his spine.
Where is she? Has she left?
His heartbeat slowed when he spotted her curled up in the armchair across the room. He drank in the sight of her—like the icy water she’d made him sip through the night—then felt like a fool.
When had he turned into such a girl? The nightmares had stalked him on and off throughout his life, always catching him at a weak moment, but he’d learned to handle them a long time ago. They didn’t bother him now the way they once had. It was good of her to stay last night, to see him through the fever and the familiar demons it had brought with it, but he didn’t need her here.
But as he gazed at her a smile curved his lips. He might not need her, but she was still grand to look at in the daylight.
He folded his arms behind his head, relaxed into the pillows and indulged himself.
She’d changed her cat-burglar outfit, which was kind of a shame. The creased summer dress did amazing things for her figure, but the hint of satin at the plunging neckline, which he guessed matched her panties, meant her nipples were no longer clearly visible. Still, the pale, plump flesh of her cleavage was some compensation.
Her rich red hair, which had been springing out all over her head last night as if she’d had an electric shock, fell in soft unruly curls to her shoulder, framing high cheekbones. His lips quirked as his gaze wandered to her feet, which were folded under her bum, and he spotted a pair of battered blue basketball boots tied with lurid green laces.
The funky mix of styles suited her. From the little he could remember of last night, before he’d passed out, she’d been headstrong and prickly as hell—with a surprisingly soft centre when her angel-of-mercy tendencies had come charging to the rescue.
He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, glad that they didn’t even wobble as he stood up. He wrapped the sheet around his waist, and his smile widened as he spotted his sweat pants neatly folded at the end of the bed. She must have stripped him. The smile became a grin. What he wouldn’t give to have been conscious at that moment.
He stretched, yawned and rubbed his throat—pleased to discover the rawness gone—but kept his eyes on his angel of mercy.
Jesus, but she was pretty, in a cute, off-the-wall way. Not his usual type for sure, but then he considered himself very flexible where women were concerned.
Despite the horrors of the previous night, desire stirred. Then his stomach growled, interrupting the erotic direction of his thoughts—and reminding him all he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours was her brownies.
The memory of the rich chocolate squares—crusty on the outside with a luxuriously moist centre—had his senses stirring again and his stomach giving another loud rumble of protest. She didn’t move, her breasts rising and falling in steady rhythm. Connor’s heart stuttered. She really had exhausted herself on his behalf. No one had ever done that before.
Once you factored in the gift of the brownies and her mad mission to save her landlady’s cat, it occurred to Connor his sweet and captivating neighbour was quite the little Good Samaritan. Definitely not his type, then. But he still ought to thank her for being so neighbourly. At the very least he should show her there were no hard feelings for sneaking over his garden wall.
He chuckled. What he’d like to do was scoop