“There. How does it feel now?” he asked, releasing her hand. Roan didn’t want to. Instead, he had a vision of tugging her hand gently toward him and then levering her breasts against his chest, angling her chin and dropping a hot, searching kiss on those mobile lips of hers.
Turning her hand that still vibrated with heat from his touch, she said softly, “Much better. Thank you,” and she looked up at him as he soundlessly rose, the medical kit in his hand. “How did you—”
“Special Forces operators are trained for all kinds of things,” he told her. Turning, he walked out of the living room and disappeared down the hall.
Sitting there, Shiloh felt as if the sun had left the room. Did Roan Taggart realize how larger than life he was? The man filled the room with his quiet, intense presence. Was that because of his black ops background, too? She’d run into a lot of people in New York City, but never anyone like him. His presence soothed her, calmed her, and made her feel protected when she hadn’t felt safe in six months. Moving her hand, Shiloh had no pain from the injury. She felt him appear and looked up. He was heading to the kitchen.
“Were you making yourself something to eat?” he asked over his shoulder. Reaching up into the cupboard, Roan brought down two cups.
“Yes,” she admitted, standing up. “When I get this nightmare, I need to drink a cup of milk so I make myself some hot chocolate. That way, I’ll go back to sleep.”
“Take a seat at the table,” he directed. “I’ll make us some.”
“But you said I needed to take care of myself while I’m here. I could make—”
Roan gave her a dark look. “It wasn’t written in stone, Shiloh. Relax and have a seat.”
Frowning, she took the chair at the other end of the table where she could watch him. Did Roan know how delicious he was to watch? The sleek, graceful movements of his body? She watched the ropy play of muscles in his forearms as he brought the chocolate out of the cupboard, lined up the sugar bowl, a salt shaker and located marshmallows. Going to the fridge, he pulled out a carton of milk. Even after he pulled on that T-shirt, she could see every detail of his magnificent chest and abs. He was in such great shape.
“Do you work out in a gym?” she wondered.
“Yes, it’s called being a wrangler,” he answered, and Roan hitched up one eyebrow and glanced with amusement at Shiloh. Her face was partly shadowed because the only light on in the kitchen was over the stove. She looked so earnest. Serious. And when she moved her fingers through her hair, trying to tame those stubborn strands, Roan felt his heart stir. God knew, he had put a steel clamp over his desire for her as he stitched up her finger. The shadows caressed and emphasized her breasts and he saw the nipples standing out, pushing against the fabric, as if begging to be touched. Roan didn’t see any arousal in Shiloh’s eyes. Just tiredness and a type of lingering exhaustion that came from long-term stress. The stalker was making her pay in so many ways and he found himself getting angry, wishing he could find the son of a bitch.
“You’d put the guys in Manhattan to shame,” she told him.
“Oh, the gym routine?” Roan asked, and chuckled a little, pouring the milk into a pan and turning on the gas stove.
“Yes.”
“Do you work out, Shiloh?”
“Sort of . . . I jog in Central Park every day that I can. Just . . . well . . . lately, the last few months, I haven’t. I can’t just sit and create all day long. I’m restless by nature. Usually, I get up about every twenty minutes from what I’m writing and go do something else.”
“Because you were worried about the stalker? Is that why you haven’t jogged?”
Grimly, Shiloh nodded. “Yes. And believe me, it was killing me in another way. I have to get up and move around.”
Roan put the chocolate, sugar, and a bit of salt into the saucepan, and stirred the contents. “I couldn’t sit more than ten minutes if you asked me to. Not in my DNA.”
“Is that a good thing if you’re black ops?” Shiloh wondered. Roan was a tall man, his shoulders pulled back with unconscious pride, confidence radiating from around him like a galaxy. There simply was no hint of weakness anywhere in Roan. She liked his droll sense of humor, too. And she waited, almost breathless, to see him smile. Oh, he never really smiled, just that one corner of his mouth hooking upward sometimes. Shiloh felt like she was some kind of amusing little toy barging into his masculine world. He didn’t laugh at her, however. She just felt like she was so different from him. Like two aliens from two different planets getting together for the first time to learn about each other.
“I don’t know many operators who aren’t wanting to be on the move. We’re a restless lot by nature.”