Page 18 of Straight Shooter

Then he shook out a big red hypothermia blanket and fit it around her shoulders, then did the same with his blanket. She watched the corded muscle in his arms move as he sifted through the medical bag that had come rolled up in the lifeboat. His hands trembled, but not nearly as badly as her entire body. Water dripped from his hair and splattered on his blanket.

His dark-gray eyes found hers, and he wrapped his hand around her ankle. “There. Let’s have a look at that leg, shall we?”

She shifted her gaze to the medical scissors in his hand and curled her leg closer to her body. “I’m f-fine.”

He snorted, and she squinted in annoyance.

“You passed out back there, so yeah, we’re dealing with this injury.”

“I was tired.” The excuse was weak, and it sounded even more unconvincing with her lips blubbering together as if she’d just thrown back three shots of tequila. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but god, if they had some of that liquid gold right now . . . she’d do anything for its warmth.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look,” he said, gesturing at her upper thigh. She lowered her gaze to the gash. Pain no longer blasted through her muscle—the cold and salt had numbed it to some degree. Blood stained the black suit, and the three-inch-long cut oozed dark liquid.

“You don’t want that getting infected.”

She made a face but didn’t pull away when he turned her hip to get a better view. His nose crinkled, and he made a hissing sound. “Beanie did that?” His warm palm covered her knee, thawing the frostiness that coated her bones.

“Yes. I fought him off and he slashed my leg.”

“I should’ve fucking killed him,” he spat. He turned and laid the life jackets next to her. “Lie down on your left side.”

She did as he said and pillowed her hand beneath her cheek. “I need to cut open your pant leg.” As the sound of material ripping echoed through the tent, she bolted into a sitting position and jerked out of his reach.

“Don’t. Please.” Her words came out on a sob. Confusion etched his face, and his hand froze in midair. She squeezed her eyes tight as the ferocious memories of Beanie ripping her dress flashed in her mind.

Stop it. You’re being stupid. He’s gone. It’s just Rhett.

But the thrashing of the raft and the howling of the wind hammered her senses, taking her back to the moment when Beanie’s slimy hands were on her naked rear end. She pressed her hands to her ears, and tears burned a river down her cheeks.

Chapter

Eight

“Hey. It’s all right. It’s just me.” The words grated Rhett’s throat, and he fought the urge to pull her against him. He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out something had triggered the memory of Beanie touching her. He curled his hand into a tight mallet and fought the urge to pummel his own stupid head. He should have considered what had happened on the yacht before trying to rip off half her clothes.

“I’m sorry. I just—it keeps flashing through my mind, you know?”

Her sobs ripped at his heart. He scooted closer to her but held back from touching her shivering body. She needed to get warm, and probably take off her wetsuit, but right now what she needed most was reassurance.

He picked up the blanket she’d thrown off and tossed it over her. “Keep this on. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She lifted her chin, and the sight of her ashen face and blue lips injected terror into his veins. He cursed and grabbed her shoulders, hauling her to him. She didn’t flinch but stayed stiff in his hold.

“I think you’re going into shock. Let me warm you.”

A big fat tear hovered at her lashes. Her chin dimpled as she frowned.

“Please?” he added.

She swiped her nose with her wet hand and nodded. He pulled her onto his lap and circled the blanket around them. Her body spasmed even more, and the heat his core had started to generate began leaching out of his skin. He didn’t care. As long as the heat was going to her, he’d survive.

He rubbed his hands rapidly over her arms, then her back, then her legs, taking great care to avoid the gash. She pressed her nose into his throat and goosebumps puckered his flesh. Jesus, she was so cold. Scary cold. He lifted his hand to her hair and tossed it over his shoulder so it’d be one less wet thing on her skin.

“Why didn’t you d-d-do it?”

“What?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears, strained. The only thing he cared about was keeping her from going into shock. If blood rushed back to her heart too quickly, she could go into cardiac arrest. The best thing he could do was warm her core, which was next to impossible given that her wetsuit prevented skin-to-skin contact. He repositioned her on his lap, draping her legs around his waist and pressing her chest against his. She didn’t protest the closeness, which alarmed him even more.

“Kill B-Beanie.”