Sarah Morgan - Christmas Ever After

“I’m not going to the hospital. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. They might take a photo.”

He felt a rush of impatience. “Don’t worry, you still look beautiful and I’ll make sure they only get your good side.”

The look she gave him should have fried him to a crisp. “I don’t care how I look, dumbass. I care about what questions the press might ask. And I care even more about seeing their theories expounded in public. But it’s always good to know I’m the fortunate beneficiary of your good opinion. You can leave now. I appreciate you checking on me. I hope you break your nose on the way out.”

He breathed deeply. “It was a stupid comment. I apologize.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Wow. Now I am worried. I’m hallucinating, or hearing voices or something, because for a moment there I thought I heard you apologize. I don’t suppose you’d do it again? This time on your knees?” She gave a weak laugh. “Just kidding. Go, Alec. You’re done here. Off the hook.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why? You think I’m a vain waste of space. Why would you care what happens to me?” She closed her eyes again. “News flash. When a girl hits a crappy part of her life she needs friends around her, not someone who is going to make her feel more crappy.”

He ignored that. “Do you feel sick?”

“Yeah, but it will pass as soon as you’ve left. Don’t take it personally. You’re just not my type.”

It was a relief that she could still take a swipe at him. “Good to know. Come on, princess, let’s get out of here.”

“Princess? Did you seriously just call me princess again?” She cracked open one eye. “Are you trying to wind me up?”

“Yes. If you’re spitting mad, at least I know you don’t have brain damage.”

“You don’t think I have a brain. How can I have brain damage when I don’t have a brain?” Her muttered retort was so much in character that his concern eased slightly.

“In case you do have a brain, we need to get you checked out. If you don’t want an ambulance, we can take a taxi.”

“Why are you helping me? You hate me. Hence the reason you call me princess.”

“I seem to remember that last time we met you called me an asshole, so you’re not exactly complimentary.”

“Asshat, not asshole.”

“I think the exact phrase you used was ‘Professor Asshat.’” He rose to his feet. “Don’t move. I’m going to get a taxi by the back entrance. I’ll make sure no one sees you.”

He wondered who she was protecting. Richard Everson or herself?

He stepped out into the snowy street. For once luck was on his side and he hailed a taxi almost immediately. Instructing the driver to wait, he walked back through the rear entrance of the gallery and was surprised to find Skylar standing up and clutching the table for support.

He couldn’t believe she was on her feet. “I told you to stay where you were. I’m going to help you.”

“I don’t need you to help me. But my dress is covered in blood. It’s ruined.” She was shivering and Alec removed his coat and covered her up.

“Your dress is the least of your worries.”

“Not true. We princesses are very particular about how we look. We never know when a handsome prince might come riding by.”

Ignoring the dig, he eyed her bruise. “Right now you look more like a heroine from a Hitchcock movie than a princess.” Her hair was the glistening white gold of a Caribbean beach in the sunlight. Even streaked with blood, it was her most striking feature.

“Am I scary?” She gave a faint smile and let go of the table. She swayed and he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the waiting taxi without pausing to ask for permission. “Oh, for— Put me down! I can walk.”

“You’ll fall, and that will draw more attention.” He tried to ignore the scent of her and the feel of her slender curves.

“Whatever. If it validates your manhood, go right ahead and sweep me up, but if you slip on black ice and put your back out, don’t blame me.” But she stopped wriggling. “This is the point where you tell me I don’t weigh anything.”

He waited a beat. “If I had to guess, I’d say you weigh the same as a small hippo.”

“You have no idea how much I hate you.”

“I know exactly how much you hate me.” He lowered her gently onto the seat of the cab. “Wait there.”

She eased herself into a more comfortable position. “Where are you going? To find a chiropractor?”

He didn’t bother holding back the smile. “I’m going to tell a few lies about where you are.”

Alec strode back into the gallery, found the owner, made up something that he hoped sounded plausible, picked up Skylar’s coat and bag and joined her in the taxi.

The driver looked at him expectantly. “Where to, mate?”

It was a question he hadn’t considered until now.

Alec looked at Sky. Her eyes were closed, the livid bruising darkening before his eyes.

“Sky?”

She didn’t move.

His instinct was to ask the driver to deliver them to the nearest emergency department but she’d begged him not to, and he understood now it was because she didn’t want to risk the publicity.

He didn’t even know where she was staying. Was she checked into a hotel somewhere with Richard Everson?

“Sky.” He nudged her and her eyes opened slowly, as if she had lead weights attached to her eyelids.

“Go away. I’m going to sleep, probably for a hundred years, and if you kiss me to wake me up I’ll kill you.” Her eyes drifted shut again and Alec leaned his head back against the seat, wondering what he’d done to deserve this. He was kind to old ladies and tried never to forget his mother’s birthday but apparently someone still thought he needed to be punished.

Unable to come up with a viable alternative, he reluctantly gave the address of the hotel where he was staying.

The cab driver did a U-turn and Skylar’s head flopped against his shoulder. Alec tried to shift her away, but her body settled against his as if it had been custom designed to fit.

The only way to stop her sliding off the seat was to put his arm round her and he did that with the same degree of enthusiasm he displayed when completing his tax return.

The coat he’d lent her was open at the front and he saw that the silver fabric of her incredible dress clung to her curves like a body stocking. A perfectly wrapped Christmas parcel.

She had the face and body of a Victoria’s Secret model.

He imagined unzipping that dress and revealing those curves and quickly averted his eyes.

No way.

Not only was she injured and involved with someone else, but their relationship bordered on adversarial.

Who was he kidding? They didn’t have a relationship.

So why did he suddenly want to strip her naked and bone her into next week?

What the hell was wrong with him?

Given the circumstances his response bordered on the depraved, but knowing that seemed to make no difference. His body was a throbbing ache and he tried again to ease away from her, but she nestled closer. Immediately he was engulfed by the light, fresh scent of flowers.

He glanced down again, to the shimmer of her nails and the elaborate silver cuff on her narrow wrist that was obviously one of her own unique designs, forcing himself to admit the truth—he was turned on by a woman who set off every alarm in his body. The type of high-maintenance female he went out of his way to avoid.

And he was taking her back to his hotel room.

Last time he’d helped a woman in trouble it had ended badly.

He hoped the minibar was well stocked because he was going to need every bottle in the fridge to get through the next few hours.