He imagined so, slavering over her the way he was, like a wolf wishing to dine on a ewe.
“Not to mention self-conscious,” she added.
At last, he managed to close his mouth. Clearing his throat, he tried to remember what he had been saying. “You wander along the shores garbed so sparsely?”
She glanced down and stepped out of the breeches. “Actually, no. I sunburn too easily. But I’ve seen women at the beach who wore less.”
“Less than that?” he asked incredulously.
Her brow crinkled slightly. “Aye. Lots of times. Especially during spring break.”
He didn’t know what spring break was, but surely she jested.
“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing him dubiously.
All right? Nay, he was not all right. He trembled with need. He was on fire. He was a breath away from losing both his control and his sanity. And she seemed completely oblivious to the effect her near nudity had on him.
Robert bent to scoop up her breeches and froze. “Your feet!”
“What about them?”
“Why did you not tell me they were injured?” Dropping the bundle of clothes he held, he knelt and reached for her left foot.
“They aren’t. What are you—?”
She rested one of her hands on his shoulder as he carefully placed her cool foot on his bent knee and stared at her toes in dismay. She had shown no sign of injury, no limp or other evidence, so he had not thought to ask.
Swearing silently, Robert berated himself for letting her walk from the campsite when he obviously should have carried her.
“Oh,” she said, understanding lightening her voice. “Robert, that’s not blood. That’s nail polish.”
Robert squinted down at the red that coated her toes and realized that it only covered the short, perfectly shaped nails at their tips. “Nail polish?”
“Yes. I don’t paint my fingernails very often. I have to keep them short because I spend so much time at the computer. And with all of the criminals and quote-unquote good ole boys I have to deal with, I’ve found that it’s best not to add too many feminine frills to my appearance. So I paint my toenails instead.”
This time Robert failed to decipher most of her words, apart from her admission that she painted her toenails. What a peculiar practice. He drew one finger across the nail of her big toe. Smooth, shiny, and oh-so-red. Peculiar indeed.
Yet he could not deny that it looked quite appealing next to her alabaster skin.
Again he frowned. That alabaster skin was as icy as the river water. Sliding his hand across the top of her foot and around her narrow ankle in an attempt to infuse some warmth into her, Robert made a second, even more astonishing discovery.
“Beth, you have no hair on your leg.”
“I know. I just shaved.”
“You shaved the hair off your leg? For what purpose?” Had she been ill? Was she recovering from some fever as well as the attack she had suffered?
“Legs plural. And I did it for the usual reasons.”
If suppressing the need to touch her had been difficult before, it now proved impossible. He had to know what those smooth, sensuously curved limbs felt like.
Still holding her foot pressed against his thigh, Robert ran one hand up her calf, caressing his way to the back of her knee, around and down the front. So soft and tempting.
His heart thudded against his ribs. “What reasons might those be?” he asked hoarsely, repeating his slow foray up and down her leg, wishing he dared venture higher.
Goose flesh appeared in the wake of his touch. And he felt a shiver rock her.
Was it spawned by cold or by desire?
“B-because, like most women in our society,” she began, voice quieter, “I’ve been conditioned by men and the media to believe that—on a woman—hairy legs are ugly.”
The faint huskiness that entered her voice made his blood sing. But ere he could inch his hand up farther, eager to reach that shiny black triangle and really make her breath catch, his damnable honor resurfaced.
Was he not the one who had elicited her trust by assuring her he would not look and had no intentions of touching?
Swearing silently, he dropped her foot, collected her wadded-up garments and rose. He would have turned and, without another word, walked straight into the icy water to cool his raging ardor had she not stopped him.
“Wait!”
His pulse skipped, thrumming through his veins as he halted.
Would she call him back? Invite more caresses? Tell him it had been his touch, rather than the cold air or her wet hair that had made her shiver? “Aye?”
“On second thought,” she said, “you better not wash my clothes. The police might need them for DNA evidence.”
He sighed.
It must have been the cold.
Dropping the shirts without asking what police or DNA meant, he strode into the frigid water without removing his braies and hose.
“You forgot the soap,” she called after him.
“You may toss it to me when you are finished with it.” Under his breath, he muttered, “I have a feeling I will be here awhile.”