Judy Duarte - Worth Fighting For

“Was anyone shot?”

“Just the ceiling. But Greg and I limped out of there with our share of cuts and bruises. We’ve been buddies ever since.”

She smiled, then glanced at his bad hand. “Speaking of cuts and bruises, I nearly forgot to fix that bandage for you. I’ll be right back.”

When she returned with the first-aid kit, she took a seat next to him on the sofa.

He caught a faint whiff of a tropical breeze, felt the sultry heat as she touched his arm. Was she feeling it, too? The attraction that seemed to grow stronger each time their gazes met?

As she removed the tape and gauze from his hand, her knee brushed against his thigh, sending a shimmy of heat through his blood. He watched her hair sweep along her shoulder and fought the urge to touch the golden strands, to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

Instead, as she rewrapped his hand and fastened the tape, he tried to waylay the flicker of desire that taunted his better judgment. “Let me know what the bodywork on your car is going to cost.”

“I’ll take it in for an estimate, but I still feel as though that accident was my fault.” She looked up from her work, then furrowed her brow when the scrape on his chin caught her eye. She probed around it lightly. Her soft, gentle fingers lingered on his jaw.

When she looked into his eyes, he was swept into that sea-blue gaze. Her tropical scent swirled around them, making him envision an evening luau for two on a deserted beach.

Something passed between them, something he suspected she’d felt, too. A need. A hunger.

He wouldn’t act on it, although it damned near killed him not to. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she said, her eyes still fixed on his.

He knew better than to reach out and touch her, but when she looked at him like that, with what seemed like virginal interest, his common sense flew by the wayside. He ran the knuckles of his good hand along the softness of her cheek.

Had she pulled away, that would have been the end of it. But she didn’t. She merely watched him, her lips parting, tempting him to take things a step further.

Ah, man. What an idiot. Why’d he have to go and do that? Stir things up. Make things complicated.

He withdrew his hand, then clicked his tongue. “I’m really sorry about that, Caitlin. I have no idea what got into me. I must have jarred my brains on the pavement.”

“No, I kind of lost it, too.” She fingered the place on her cheek where his knuckles had stroked. When their gazes met, she quickly looked away, and her hand dropped into her lap.

Yeah, she’d definitely lost it, too.

He got to his feet and dragged a hand though his hair. He wasn’t used to women wanting to take the blame for something he should have been able to avoid, like an accident or an inappropriate caress. So he changed the subject. “Thanks for dinner, Caitlin.”

“You’re welcome.” She followed him to the door to see him out. But something continued to hover between them. Something sensual. Something he ought to avoid, if he hadn’t complicated things by making a promise to her daughter.

“I was serious about letting Emily visit Fred,” he said. “Your call, of course.”

“She’s really attached to him.”

“Okay.” he said, even though he was now feeling as skittish as the psycho cat hiding under the bed. “Maybe tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fine.” She smiled. “Then I can take you to get that rental car.”

He nodded, then returned to the dark house alone. If he hadn’t already told Emily she could visit, he’d board up the windows of his place and lock himself inside.

Away from the woman and kid who promised to be nothing but trouble.

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