Vickie Taylor - The Renegade Steals A Lady

Right into the last pair of arms she wanted to catch her.

“What happened?” she asked when her vision cleared. The steady thump of Marco’s heart—maybe a notch faster than it ought to be—comforted her cheek.

“You fainted,” he replied roughly.

She straightened. Carefully. “I don’t faint.”

“Okay.” He sat her on the rim of the bathtub. “You took a little nap standing up—or falling down, rather—in the tub.”

“I mean it. I don’t faint.”

“I said okay.” He’d wet another washcloth for her forehead. Once he’d applied it, he tilted her head back and stared deeply into her eyes. This time there was nothing sensual about the gaze. “Maybe you’ve got a concussion, after all.”

She pulled the cloth from her forehead. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Why don’t you just go away and leave me the hell alone?”

“I can’t do that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means—” he pulled a towel off the bar and snugged it around her shoulders “—that I’ll be going, all right, but I won’t be leaving you alone.”

Shock raised gooseflesh on her arms as his meaning registered. He couldn’t— He wouldn’t—

One look into his shuttered black eyes, and she knew with dead certainty that he could. Most certainly would.

“I’m taking you with me,” he said.

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