averted.
He sighed. “What will convince you that I won’t keel over? I assure you I don’t intend to for roughly the next fifty years.”
The out-of-nowhere flashes of his dry-as-tinder sense of humor amazed her.
Her lips quivered. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Another sideways glance, longer this time, and even more unsettling. But he said nothing more as he navigated out of the hospital and into the freezing night.
She fought the urge to take his hand as they crossed the road. Driving him here and escorting him inside were two things he’d grudgingly consented to. Literally holding his hand was another level of infringement altogether. And she’d rather not be exposed to more eyebrow action.
But she was, in response to her rushing to take the wheel.
He reinforced that eyebrow’s censure by remaining outside, his bulk blocking the passenger-side window.
A button wound it down. “Get in already.”
He only stood there, uncaring of the icy wind as his coat flowed around him like a magician’s cape. “You’d rather drive yourself home instead of giving me directions?”
She thought of saying yes, just so he’d get in from the cold. But even if she didn’t suffer from advanced candor, she wouldn’t bargain with him with anything less than the full truth.
She looked up at him with her unequivocal intention. “I’m driving you home.”
Widening his stance, he shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets, evidently having no problem with haggling over this all night. “Our deal wasn’t open-ended. It ended when you heard with your own ears that my injury was trivial.”
“So the injury wasn’t as bad as you’re used to, and the blood loss turned out to be a kick. But the stitches must be hurting like hell, especially since you went all Rambo and refused anesthesia and painkillers. Even if you have an inhuman pain threshold and feel nothing, bottom line is, I’m still driving. And I won’t just drop you home and leave. I’m coming in with you.”
That silenced him. For at least thirty seconds.
Then he leaned down, looked straight into her eyes, the night of his own eyes deep enough to engulf her whole.
Slowly, distinctly, he said, “I’ve been in three wars, princess. I forget how many other lesser scale, if sometimes even more vicious, armed conflicts. Not to mention all those missions I undertook with one-way tickets because coming back at all, let alone in one piece, was a one in a hundred shot at best. I’ve seen and done and had done to me some of the absolute worst things imaginable. Two-dozen stitches actually feels nostalgic now that I’ve left the battlefield behind for the boardroom. I assure you, I can tuck myself into bed.”
That image filled her with heat. How many women had fought for that privilege, had had that pleasure…?
She bit her lip at the disconcerting projections. “I’m sure you can also lug the whole world on your back, Sheikh Atlas. But that doesn’t mean that you have to, or that you have to do it alone. No matter what, you’re not alone tonight. You got those stitches in my defense, so that makes them mine, too, and I have an equal right in deciding how to view them. You think they’re negligible or nostalgic, I think they’re premium grounds for fussing. You evidently find being fussed over an alien concept, but you’ll have to suck it up, since fuss over you I will. So you might as well give in, get in and let me take you home.”
Judging by the infinitesimal widening of his eyes, she’d definitely flabbergasted him. She’d bet no one had ever dared talk to him like that.
When he finally spoke, his voice was an octave deeper, if that was possible, “I really don’t need—”
“I know you need nothing from anyone.” Now that she had him miraculously off-balance, she had to strike the red-hot iron of his indecision and get the obdurate man in from the cold. “It’s a given you can take care of yourself at the absolute worst of times, having done so all your life. But you won’t tonight. Tonight, I take care of you.”
She’d pushed her luck too far.
From the way Rashid was looking at her, as if she were an alien life form, she feared she’d done worse. Instead of persuading him to get into the car, she might have convinced him to walk home on foot.
What the hell. Might as well go all the way.
She leaned farther so she could look up at him. “If you’re thinking of calling a cab, I’ll follow it. If you decide to walk, I’ll cruise along beside you. Or I’ll get out and walk with you and you’ll have my hypothermia on your hands and your conscience.”
He clearly couldn’t believe his ears.
She grinned up at him. Stick around and, according to my family, you’ll hear plenty of pretty unbelievable stuff.
Before she could utter another word he was in the car, and she sat back quickly into her seat, stunned by how fast he had moved.
She blinked at him. How could someone of his height and bulk flow so effortlessly? It was as if he had a stealth mode and tricked her senses into not registering his movement.
Had they taught him that in black ops training? Or were those powers of undetectability why he’d been sought for the position in the first place?
After closing the window, he presented her with his profile. Not even his horrific scar detracted from its hewn perfection.
Ya Ullah, but he was utter beauty.
Her one complaint was that he’d almost shaved off his hair. She’d once made a profound study of how its lush silkiness framed his masterpiece of a face, how its virile hairline outlined his lion’s forehead, how it captured light only to emit it in glimmers of raven gloss. She’d been grateful when he’d kept growing it so there’d been more of it for her to delight in. When she’d been twelve or thirteen, he’d worn it in a ponytail midway down his back. She’d lived for the times when he’d unbound it.
Even when he’d joined the army, he hadn’t gotten a military cut. But now he had barely half an inch to adorn his warrior’s head. That was an injustice of massive proportions.
Burning to ask why he kept it so ruthlessly cropped, she waited for him to say something. Like where to drive.
His continued silence told her she should figure out what to do with the rest of her one-sided plan. He’d contribute nothing more.
She started the ignition, cranked up the heater, turned back to him. “I’ll need directions.”
Without a word, he set the GPS then resumed his position.
So. The silent treatment. Two could play at this game.
Twenty minutes later, cruising the powerful car down almost-empty streets on the outskirts of the city, she’d long realized that that was easier bragged about than achieved.
She’d spent a lifetime yearning to talk to him and failing. Now she wanted to make up for all of those frustrating times. She wanted to deluge him with a thousand questions, yammer on about all the things she’d longed to say to him all her life.
But his silence was like a barrier. It made her awareness of him highly distressing. She felt as if his every breath expanded in her own chest, as if every impulse powering his magnificent body quivered through her nerves.
Then she felt him slide a discreet glance her way.
She tore her gaze from the road to his face. For a fraction of a second she saw something… unguarded.
It was gone before she could latch on to it, but she