Moving as quietly as she could so as not to wake Dimitri, she pushed the sheet off her and lowered her feet to the floor. She still couldn’t put much weight on her right foot, and she didn’t know where the crutches were, but she could lean on the wall and furniture while she hobbled to the master bathroom.
In the dark. Without her glasses. This was a great idea.
Still, it was fewer steps than the hall bathroom.
She was wincing by the time she made it to the toilet stall in the master bath. When she was done and opened the door to step out, Dimitri was waiting for her, squinting in the light from the stall and looking sexy and sleep-rumpled in nothing but navy blue briefs.
Her heart gave a lurch. Her blood burned for him. But self-preservation kicked in, and the walls around her heart slammed down.
You can’t rely on him,a little voice whispered through her mind.Resist him.
When he murmured her name and reached for her, she jerked back. And because it was the middle of the night and she was tired and emotionally wrought, she forgot all about her stupid ankle and put her full weight on it.
22
Natasha didn’t scream, but from the way she gasped and grimaced, Dimitri knew it had to hurt. He leaped to pull her into his arms, taking the weight off her feet.
“What are you doing, Tasha?” He cradled her close. “Why are you walking around without crutches? You should have woken me up.”
“Put me down,” she demanded in a firm voice.
“Kroshka, I’m too tired to argue with you about this. Come back to bed.” He carried her through the bathroom, holding her with care, but she struggled.
“Damn it,Macho,Isaidput me down.”
With a sigh, Dimitri sat on the edge of the jacuzzi and cuddled her in his lap. She squirmed, trying to get away from him, so he set her beside him on the wide lip of the tub but kept her injured ankle elevated across his lap.
Ignoring her glare, he unwrapped the bandages and skimmed his fingers gently over the fading bruises. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She was breathing hard. “Dimitri, I need you to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” With slow, methodical movements, he wrapped her ankle again. They’d ramp up the light physical therapy exercises tomorrow, to make sure her ankle healed right. “Caring about you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be silly.” He was too tired for this conversation. He’d stayed up late, flipping through his “Idea Book,” as it was labeled on the front in big block letters written in permanent black marker. When he’d woken to find her side of the bed empty, he’d gone looking for her. The crutches were still in the living room—his fault, for not thinking to bring them into the bedroom—and he’d worried she’d hurt herself. And then she had.
“There’s no need for it,” she continued.
“For what?” He yawned.
“For you to care about me. I don’t need it.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Everyone needs someone to care about them. And I’m good at it.”
“You never cared about me before.”
At that nonsense, he pinned her with a hard look. “I havealwayscared about you.”
She shrugged. “You’ve never shown it. Why should I believe you?”
Damn it. She was right. “I’m trying to show you now.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she muttered, looking away from him.
“Why not?”
And then, to his intense horror, her breathing hitched. His heart broke for her, and he crooned her name as he pulled her into his lap.
