Apparently reading in her face the conclusion she’d reached, he crooked a finger, beckoning. Her lips tightened rebelliously. He beckoned again, then pointed to a spot on the floor that would put her within easy reach of his hands.
“Next time I’ll let you drown,” she said bitterly as, capitulating, she edged forward to the spot he indicated.
“If there ever is a next time, I’ll deserve it.” He sat up with a grimace and a hand to his side and was immediately way too close. Close enough so that she could smell the salty, musky scent of him, close enough so that her hand that was lifting to push a wayward lock behind her ear brushed the nest of hair darkening the center of his wide chest instead before she jerked it back, close enough so that she was eyeballing the stubble on his strong jaw at what was essentially point-blank range. Her body, stupid thing, was suddenly hypernaturally aware of him. She could feel a prickle of heat moving over her skin just because he was looking at her. Jerking her eyes upward, she encountered the stern set of his mouth, the ruthless glint in his eyes, and experienced an inner shiver that had nothing to do with fear. She was reminded of his height as his head brushed the nylon arch of the ceiling before he ducked, which made it worse because she then felt like he was looming over her. Even with his sitting and her kneeling with her legs folded beneath her, he was inches taller than she was, and a whole lot broader. Being confronted by so much nearly naked masculinity was unsettling. And, as much as she hated to admit it, arousing. He was a stranger, she was leery of his intentions toward her, and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop what was going to happen: he was going to put his hands all over her and she was going to let him because she had no choice. Resisting would only make the situation more combustible.
And to make matters just that much worse, he was turning her on.
Nice bear, she thought grimly, and steeled herself. The width of his shoulders and the muscularity of his bare arms and chest would have been intimidating if she hadn’t been seething with temper—and if she hadn’t absolutely refused to let herself be intimidated. She thought of the bleeding she’d just stopped, wondered whether he’d made it start again by sitting up, and decided she hoped so.
He said, “Lift up your arms.”
Rigid with outrage, she did as she was told, then stared fixedly at him as he patted her down. Face expressionless, he ran both hands down her arms and over her armpits, her breasts, her back, her waist, her stomach and butt. Then he had her stretch out her legs so that he could feel her wool socks–clad feet and slide his hands up her legs and over her crotch. It was done quickly and with a professionalism that told her that he’d performed such searches before. His touch was light and impersonal even in the most personal places. No groping, no hint of trying to cop a feel.
Didn’t matter. The feel of his hands moving over her breasts and butt and sliding between her legs made her body react in a way that reminded her, infuriatingly, that he was a man and she was a woman. Her breasts tightened under his hands; her nipples tingled. When he ran his palms over her butt, she was all too acutely aware. As his hands slid up the insides of her thighs to pass lightly between her legs, she wasn’t even surprised by the way her body quivered and clenched deep inside. Despite her body’s (unanticipated and unwelcome) response, the manner in which he touched her was way too invasive and intimate for it to be anything but offensive. By the time he finished, angry steam was practically coming out of her ears. Her fists were clenched, and she knew her face had to be flaming red.
“You’re clean,” he said as his hands withdrew from where they’d just met at her nape after thoroughly combing through her hair.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You look mad.”
“Mad? Me?” As she shook her now straggling-all-over-the-place hair back from her face, her voice was silky sweet. She was, however, all but shooting poison darts at him from her eyes. She could still feel the imprint of his hands everywhere—and she didn’t like it. “You ever think that I might be a ninja assassin planning to kill you with my bare hands while you sleep?”
Infuriatingly, that made him smile. A full-on crooked and charming smile that smacked her in the face with how really good-looking he was. That smile hit her the wrong way. It made her want to—
Before she could finish the thought, he slid a hand along her jaw, bent his head, and kissed her.
Chapter Twelve