When she woke up, Denver Black was asking her questions in that sexy growl of his. His voice reached down into her solar plexus and plucked a chord of deep response. She looped her arms around his neck.
Ouch.
That hurt. She looked at her left arm. A bloody streak ran across it. How embarrassing in front of Denver Black. She closed her eyes because her head hurt too. Shards of pain made her wonder if steel spikes were being hammered into her skull.
“Head,” she murmured.
“Yeah, you hit it pretty hard. Don’t move. Paramedics will be here in a minute.”
“But you…” Denver Black had a degree in trauma medicine. He’d put it to use in Afghanistan working on the frontlines.
“I know the basics from my days in the Army, and from the set. But you need the real professionals.”
The set? What was Denver talking about…oh. Oh!
Through the pain, she opened her eyes and found herself gazing into the amused gray ones of Denver—No, Jack Finnegan.
She yanked her arms away from his neck as her awareness locked back into place. Pain streaked across her arm again. “I hit my head. Not responsible for anything?—”
“Don’t worry, no one will hold it against you. Just stay still, will you? I need to check you out, make sure you don’t have a concussion. Can you follow my finger?”
She tracked his index finger as it moved back and forth before her. Although her ears were still ringing, the only sounds she heard were voices and footsteps and furniture being moved around. “The gunfire stopped.”
“Yes, finally. They shot about twenty rounds into this place. Don’t look, but it’s a mess.” She kept her eyes on him, which wasn’t hard to do. Being this close to him made her feel safe and comforted, which was probably a residual effect of watching him solve hundreds of cases over ten seasons on the air.
“Injuries?”
“Minor. We got lucky, and you probably saved a few lives yourself, making everyone get down. Quick thinking.”
She shrugged. “It’s my job. How do my pupils look? Same size? Operating properly?”
“Looking good.”
“Then let me up. I have work to do.” She struggled to sit up, embarrassed that she needed a little boost from him. “How long was I out?”
“Just a few minutes. I saw you start to fall and crawled across the floor to you, but didn’t get there in time before your head hit that chair.”
She saw now that his shirt was folded into a pillow, and that’s what her head had been resting on.
Jack had stripped down to his undershirt for her. His muscles were right there, in her face, impossible to ignore.
“You could have used a tablecloth,” she said irritably.
“But where would be the fun in that?” Jack winked at someone, who turned out to be Sally McPhee, crouching next to them with a glass of crushed ice and a napkin. Sally blushed and waved air against her face.
“Here, hon, I brought you some ice for that bonk on the head.” She wrapped some ice in the napkin, but Tina waved her off.
“I’m fine. There must be someone else you guys can fuss over. Is Luke here yet?”
“Luke and Marigold are both here, and the fire department is on its way,” said Jack. “Luke is down at the dock talking to witnesses.”
She needed to get to him, show him the photos she’d taken of the boat. They could contact the Coast Guard immediately. “Help me up,” she demanded.
“Are you sure about this?” Jack frowned at her. “I can’t stop you, but I highly recommend you wait for the paramedics.”
If he wasn’t going to help her, she’d do it herself. Swatting him away, she struggled to her feet, only to sway there for a dramatic moment as the world spun around her.
“Jeez, just help her, will ya? Some people are just too stubborn to live.” Sally threw up her hands and hurried away to help a customer who was moaning at the counter.
