He was once again reminded of that old Eaglessong, “Witchy Woman.” She had the raven hair and the ruby lips. He wasn’t sure her restless spirit was on an endless flight so much as it was a force to be reckoned with. But there was absolutely no question—none—that she held him spellbound in the night.
In the day too. And in all the twilight hours in-between.
“Needing a haircut is the story of your life,” she said in that delicious voice of hers that hinted at her youth in NYC. “The story ofmylife is being called a smart-ass. My mom always said,‘Cami, you’ve got a good heart, but that mouth… Girl, it’s going to get you into more trouble than you can handle.’”
The teasing in her eyes faded to sadness at the mention of her mother. Her expression left no doubt that thoughts of the woman who’d birthed her, a woman who’d since let her down, tore at the child that still lived inside her.
He could relate. He, too, missed the days when his relationship with his mother felt affectionate instead of simply accommodating.Comfortinginstead of uncomfortable. And he couldn’t help wondering if that was just the way of the world. The way of growing up.
Didallchildren eventually become disappointed by their parents?
“Okay, let’s have it.” She made a come-hither motion with her fingers while hitching her chin toward his forearm.
The injury was little more than a surface scrape. Most of the blood had already congealed. He had no doubt it would’ve been fine to simply ignore it and let it heal on its own.
Nonetheless, he dutifully extended his arm. Mostly because he’d gone a whole three minutes without her touching him and hemissedthe feel of her cool fingers on his heated flesh. Missed the way her perfume reached out to him, fresh and floral, whenever she got close.
Although, thirty seconds later, he was wishing she would put a quick end to her Florence Nightingale routine.
Cami approached doctoring the same way she approached life. With a single-minded focus that reminded him of a bull in a china shop. With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she scrubbed his scratch with a soapy washcloth as if the wound had personally offended her.
“Good lord, woman.” He barely refrained from jerking his arm from her grip. “Now I know why you became a lawyer and not a doctor. Your bedside manner is about as subtle as a sumo wrestler.”
“Pfft.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get mad at me for pulling a you on you. You weren’t exactly Mr. Cotton Candy Hands when you were doctoring me up earlier. But you didn’t hearmecomplaining, did you?”
“The blade that stabbed you was corroded,” he said defensively. “I had to make sure there wasn’t any dirt or rust left in your wound.” And truly, he’d been as gentle as he dared.
Had he hurt her? He hated the thought of that.
“And you think the window glass was sanitary?” She widened her eyes to dramatic effect. Even though she wasn’t trying to be seductive, the way the candlelight cast shadows across her high cheekbones and smooth skin was sexy all the same. He felt the familiar stirrings of desire low in his gut.
“Point taken,” he was forced to concede.
She blinked. “Are you feeling okay? Has your wound festered? Are you running a fever?” She placed her palm across his brow. “You’ve never given up a fight that fast.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
She looked around, patting the sides of her borrowed boxer briefs. “Damn. My phone is in my overnight bag. I was hoping to have you repeat that so I could record it for posterity.”
He was suddenly overcome with the urge to pull her into his lap and kiss her until she went cross-eyed. Kiss her until that self-satisfied grin was replaced by a gasp of need.
“Now”—she tossed her long hair over her shoulder as she washed the soap away from his wound with warm water—“be quiet so I can concentrate. And while you’re at it, stop bleeding.”
Her vigorous ministrations had his scratch leaking anew.
“If only it were that easy,” he muttered, sitting stoically through the rest of her ferocious first aid.
She dusted off her hands after slathering antibiotic ointment on his injury and taping a bandage over it. “There. All done. And not too shabby, if I do say so myself. See?” She cocked an eyebrow. “I could’ve been a doctor. It’s not so hard.”
“And imagine how much better the world would have been with one less lawyer around.”
He’d meant for it to be a joke. Like healwaysjoked with her. But there was an unintended sharpness in his voice.
His hope that she hadn’t picked up on it was dashed when she fisted a hand on her cocked hip. It was a position he knew well. He’d secretly dubbed it hersassy pantsstance.
She usually whipped it out right before she laid into him. It was sometimes combined with a smart-alecky head tilt. This time, however, she simply narrowed her eyes.
“Okay. That’s it. You either come clean and tell me why you hate my profession so much, or you never make another snide comment about it or tell another lawyer joke again. Because I’m done taking it on the chin with no acceptable explanation.”
