Further evidence that this was, in fact, Dante Sinclair were the visible cut on his face and the massive bruising to a sculpted chest and torso that would otherwise be absolutely perfect. He was dressed in only a pair of sweatpants, the elastic clinging low on his hips like a lover, the happy trail of dark hair beneath his belly button disappearing disappointingly into the waistband of his pants.
Her eyes flew back to his face, watching as the sweat beaded and dripped down his forehead and sculpted cheekbones, landing on his chest. His dark hair was almost military short, and it was saturated with perspiration. His face was contorted with pain, and Sarah knew it wasn’t from his workout. Ordinarily, it would take a lot more effort to actually make a toned, ripped body like his sweat. But with his type of injuries, she’d seen grown men cry just from a few wrong movements, or simply by breathing. Broken ribs were excruciatingly painful, and the activities he was engaging in at the moment made absolutely no sense.
What the hell is he thinking?
Moving forward, she snatched one of the weights from his hand on a downward stroke and dropped it to the floor. Before he could react to her presence, she swiped the other one, letting it hit the ground with a very loud clang, recognizing the noise as exactly what she had heard from upstairs. He’d obviously dropped the weight.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled in a low, dangerous voice. He pulled the headphones off and the music ceased. After dropping them into a nearby chair, he turned and scowled at her.
Irritated now, Sarah ignored him. “Are you trying to make your injuries worse than they already are?” Putting her hands on her hips, she glared right back at him. She was tall for a woman, five foot eight, but she still had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He had to be at least six foot three. Honestly, she was surprised Dante Sinclair was even on his feet, much less lifting weights in his condition. “If it hurts, don’t do it while you’re recovering. Are you a masochist, or just completely ignorant?” It was a reasonable question after what she’d just seen. It was obvious that the notes about his self-destructive behavior were correct. Her question was . . . why was he doing this? He’d been lucky, considering how many shots he’d taken. Why in the world would he want to make an already painful medical situation worse?
Sarah watched his face, fascinated as his nostrils flared and his hazel eyes grew stormy and hostile. He didn’t look like he was in pain anymore—not physical pain, anyway. The look he was giving her was like he wanted to throttle her, or anyone else who kept him from doing exactly what he wanted to do.
Is this the same guy everyone wants me to help because they care about him?
Somehow, she couldn’t seem to reconcile the man standing in front of her with the guy everyone wanted to be healed. His jaw was scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and he didn’t look like he wanted a damn thing except to be left alone.
“Masochist and ignorant?” Sarah murmured aloud, wondering if he was ever going to say anything.
“You broke into my house. And I told Grady I didn’t need a fucking babysitter,” Dante finally replied, his voice rough and graveled. “Leave.”
Sarah crossed her arms in front of her. “Grady didn’t send me. And I didn’t break into your house. The door wasn’t locked.”
“I don’t care who sent you. Just get the hell out of my house.”
“I can’t. I’m not a babysitter,” Sarah replied calmly. “I’m here to take care of you.”
“In that case . . . strip and bend over,” he replied, deadpan. “I haven’t gotten off in a while, and that’s the only kind of help I need from you.”
He doesn’t mean a word of what he’s saying. He’s trying to shock me to make me go away.
“Sex is another activity you shouldn’t indulge in for at least a few weeks,” Sarah answered, not letting him get any satisfaction from his salacious comments. “You need to move around, but nothing strenuous.” She was used to lewd comments from male patients, but the men uttering them were usually over the age of eighty, with dementia. “Do you need help upstairs?”
Sarah waited as she watched his expression go from hostile and angry to confused and irritated. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it told her exactly what she needed to know. She was beginning to realize that this Dante, the angry man in front of her, was a facade. He’d lost his best friend—his partner—and almost his own life. Part of him wished he would have died in his partner’s place, and he was going to make himself suffer because he didn’t die, even though the incident wasn’t his fault. It was part of her job to make sure he got through this stage of his recovery without hurting himself. He’d been through enough, and her indignation faded away as compassion took its place. She was still angry that he was doing something so stupid, but she sort of understood why.