While he played amateur doctor, she kept herself distracted by discreetly studying his body. It was amazing, but it wasn’t only due to his four-percent-body-fat physique. The man was a living canvas, covered in vibrantly colored tattoos. When he’d taken his shirt off she’d nearly lost her breath.
She’d only seen his tattoo “sleeves” up to where his work T-shirts stretched over his muscular upper arms, plus the letters between his knuckles that spelled cage on his right hand and rage on his left.
His left arm was a mural of ocean life. A lifelike octopus started at his shoulder with its tentacles swirling and reaching down his bicep. Everything from sea turtles to sea stars, from tropical fish to colorful coral filled in the rest of his arm, all the way around and down, and all surrounded by vivid blue water.
The right arm had an Asian theme with a beautiful geisha over his upper arm and a samurai warrior covering his forearm.
But the one she’d never seen before took up the majority of his chest. Centered over his sternum and spreading to cover part of each pectoral was a lotus flower in vivid greens, purples, and yellows on a background of bright blue Japanese-style waves that stretched across what remained of his chest. Above that, following the shallow arc of his collarbones and written in fancy script was what she assumed was his last name bracketed by Kelly green shamrocks.
Kat had been so lost in studying the designs—not to mention the sexy-as-hell silver barbells he had in both of his nipples, she almost flinched in surprise when he spoke.
“Does it hurt?”
Did it? Hell, yeah. But when compared to her history of injuries, this barely rated a four on the severity scale. “A little.”
He spread the last of the ointment. A dark eyebrow hitched up his forehead as he continued his nursing duties. “If either of my sisters had gotten cut like this, they’d have been screaming bloody murder.”
She shrugged her right shoulder so she wouldn’t interfere with him placing the gauze pads on her left hand. “High pain tolerance, I guess.”
His gaze landed briefly on the three-inch vertical scar that marked her below her collarbones. It was old and most people didn’t notice it. Then again, most people didn’t get as intimately close to her as Irish was now. She wished the uniform shirts weren’t V-necks that practically put the mark on display, but Lou liked the girls flashing their cleavage, and in reality the more flashing, the better the tips.
He grunted, though whether in agreement or disbelief, she wasn’t sure.
Irish held the pads in place with one hand and reached for the roll of gauze with the other. He wrapped it around her palm and wrist, securing the makeshift bandage in place.
“Feel okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Her eyes settled on his chest again as he busied himself with putting all the supplies back in the kit. “O’Brien, huh?”
Blue eyes peered through long, dark lashes for only a heartbeat before lowering to his task again. “Yeah,” he said with obvious hesitance. “You wanna even the score and tell me your real name?”
Her spine stiffened. “What makes you think Sydney isn’t my name?”
“Last night. You didn’t say, ‘I hate my name.’ You said, ‘that name.’ Plus,” he said, pinning her with a knowing look, “you have this thing every time someone uses it.”
“A thing? What thing?”
“I don’t know, like some sort of reaction. Like someone just insulted you or something.”
Great, she thought. So much for using an alias to protect her identity. Good thing she didn’t have any dreams of becoming a famous actress. Apparently she sucked at being someone else.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “I don’t think anyone believes you’re anyone other than who you claim to be.”
Right. Except him.
Oh, and Sicoli’s thugs, who were now here to kill her.
She shook her head. “No offense, but being a really observant Good Samaritan doesn’t automatically earn you my trust.” Biting her lip, she looked down at her bandaged hand and felt like she’d slapped him in the face after he so diligently tended to her. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right, it doesn’t.”
Kat jerked her head up in surprise, but he didn’t notice because he’d already turned to put the first-aid kit away.
Opening the coat closet, Irish rummaged around in a box until he emerged with one of the uniform T-shirts the coolers wore. “All right, I’m gonna go tell Xander we’re leaving,” he said, pulling the shirt on. “I saw Johnny by the pool tables. I’ll ask him to cover my shift for the rest of the night and then we can sneak out the back.”
Sneak out the back… Shit! Being so close to him shirtless had short-circuited her brain to the point she’d forgotten she was supposed to be sneaking out the back of her apartment tonight to escape Sicoli’s clutches. She didn’t have time for the hospital; she had to stick to her plan. Or a slightly modified version where she left early without Irish.