She folded a couple more paper towels into a square pad, then pulled the scarf from around her neck.
“Hold this,” she told him as she slipped the scarf over the bandage and wrapped it around his waist, then over the bandage low at his back.
“God dammit!” she swore, her fingers clumsy.
“I can take it from here,” James told her. He grabbed both ends of the scarf and tied it off, then pulled the tail of his sweatshirt down over it.
She took dragged a hand through her hair as another knock, more persistent this time, came at the door.
“Fuck!” she swore. “Une minute!”
“Fuck?” he said, with what passed for a smile as he tossed the bloodied towel along with the paper towels into the bottom of the trash container, then pulled more from the dispenser and dropped them on top.
It wasn't that he'd never heard the word before. In his line of work it was usually part of any good conversation when things had a way of going sideways, which happened a lot, no matter how much planning had gone into the mission.
He just hadn't expected it from her—the polish, the designer clothes, the high-powered career, cool, always in control...almost always.
There was another knock and something in broken English about others needing the bathroom.
He stood and braced a hand against the wall of the bathroom. “I think you better open the door.”
The expression on the face of the woman on the other side of the door said it all—surprise, impatience, and then another comment in French—no translation needed.
He followed Kris from the small compartment, his body brushing hers in the narrow passage as the train swept around a curve. He leaned in.
“That was fantastic, dear,” he said, just loud enough for the woman to hear.
Kris looked at him as if he'd taken a hard right past sanity, then caught the look he gave her. She shook her head and would have stepped past him. He caught her against the opposite wall just outside the bathroom. His mouth brushed hers as he leaned in.
“There. Be a good girl now,” he said, just loud enough for anyone else to hear and with more far humor than he felt.
“Try to control yourself. This poor woman needs to use the facility.”
The poor woman said something that made mention about finding a hotel room, then slammed and latched the restroom door.
“If I wasn't afraid you'd start bleeding again...”
He slowly pushed away from her.
“I love it when you play rough.”
He was pale, a sheen of sweat at his forehead and looked as if he might go down at any second. She slipped an arm around his waist.
“Act like you've had too much to drink!” she whispered as she helped him back to his seat. He leaned in against her.
“It wouldn't taste nearly as good as you.”
It was after midnight when they pulled into the Gare de Montparnasse station, in Paris. He was awake, face drawn. But those dark eyes were alert.
They were the last to leave the train, stepping down from the car into the noise and chaos of the busy concourse even that late at night.
She was past exhaustion with no idea what the next step was supposed to be. One thing for certain, they couldn't just spend the night in the rail station.
They needed a place to stay. But the hotels she was familiar with were high profile, places she'd stayed with Cate on past book tours that had a way of drawing the media—the last thing they needed.
Marcus Aronson lived in Paris. His name had been on the list of calls Cate had made before the accident. But she had no idea where he lived, and was pretty certain he wouldn't appreciate late night visitors even if he was in the city. He traveled a great deal.
“Where are we going?”
