He reached for Olive’s wrist before she could protest, his touch careful, yet unyielding. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Thought so,” he muttered.
“Thought wh?—?”
“No more whats,” he interrupted. “Olive’s hurt her wrist.”
“Oh, Olive, no,” Miss Carlisle’s voice broke through, full of concern. Emil glanced up to see the ashen-cheeked beauty on the verge of tears. She brushed Winnie’s hands aside and struggled to her feet. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Olive reassured her quickly.
She was too good for this world.
Emil continued to examine her wrist, resolutely tuning out the women’s chatter, including Miss Lewis, who had appeared at his shoulder and was hovering a little too possessively. He didn’t give a damn what she thought. He wasn’t moving until he was finished. Finally, he sat back on his haunches.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but we need to get you to the doctor.”
“We’ll take her,” Winnie said. When he glared at her, she added hastily, “You may escort us. If that’s what Olive wants.”
“It is,” Olive said softly, a soft flush warming her pale cheeks.
“Good.” He stood. “But I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Her mouth opened in a silent oh.
“I have to stay with the auto,” Miss Carlisle said, her tone low and flat.
“Jude and I will stay with you,” Miss Lewis said, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s arm.
“And Mack,” Jude added. “As good as I am with two women?—”
“Yes, yes, you’re so manly.” Miss Lewis rolled her eyes. “We know.”
“What I meant was that I can’t bend a warped hood back into place and keep an eye on the two of you.”
“Do you think you can?” Miss Carlisle asked.
“I’ll give it a try. How else will Sprite forgive me?”
“You could start by using my name, lumberjack.”
“Psh. Where’s the fun in that?”
Emil and Winnie exchanged a quick look, and by tacit agreement, they urged Olive to her feet and began to lead her away.
“Let’s get out of here before David skewers Goliath,” he murmured in Olive’s ear.
She smiled up at him, and Emil decided he didn’t care who saw.
Emil hated waiting.
It gave too much time for the adrenaline of action to fade away and be replaced by thoughts. Distressing thoughts. Thoughts like: what if Olive had broken her wrist after all? What if she couldn’t perform for a long time? What if she couldn’t afford food to eat? What if?—
What if, what if, what if.
Christ, he was even starting to sound like Olive. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. It was torture enough sitting with these thoughts for half an hour. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live with undoubtedly more worries every single day. Obviously, he had troubles. Everyone did. And his—a lack of success, an over-involved father, and a distracting woman—were particularly bothersome at the moment. But he didn’t have to worry about having enough to eat. Or a brother who struggled in school. A mother with some sort of illness that prevented her from leaving the home.
His thoughts flitted back to that day on the floor of his floating house. He was not in the habit of providing a woman’s first kiss, nor in caring whether he’d fulfilled a woman’s desires beyond the physical. But there was something about this wallflower that had him acting all kinds of strange. Hell, he’d tried his damnedest to make her hear angels’ harps, or whatever the hell she wanted. And as they’d lain tangled together, perilously close to the act of cuddling, he’d felt…content. Peaceful.
It had scared the hell out of him.
