If You Can't Stand the Heat...

‘Can I help?’ she asked eventually.

‘I’ll get there,’ Jack muttered.

He couldn’t, and with a slight shake of her head she stepped closer to the bed, grabbed the edges of his T-shirt and helped him pull it over his head. A beautiful body was there—somewhere underneath the blue-black plate-sized bruises that looked like angry thunderclouds. He had a wicked vertical scar bisecting his chest that suggested a major operation at one time, and Ellie bit her lip when she walked around his knees to look at his back. She couldn’t stifle her horrified gasp. The damage on his back was even worse, and on his tanned skin she could see clear imprints of a heel here and the toe of a boot there.

‘What does the other guy look like?’ she asked, trying to be casual.

‘Guys. Not as bad as me, unfortunately.’ Jack balled his T-shirt in his hand and tossed it towards his rucksack. ‘The Somalians decided to give me something to remember them by.’

Jack sat on the edge of the bed, bent over and, using one hand and taking short breaths, undid the laces of his scuffed trainers. When they were loose enough, he toed them off.

Jack sent her a crooked grin that didn’t fool her for a second. ‘As you can see, all in working order.’

‘Anything broken?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I think they bruised a rib or two. I’ll live. I’ve had worse.’

Ellie shook her head. ‘Worse than this?’

‘A bullet does more damage,’ Jack said, standing up and slowly walking to the en-suite bathroom.

Ellie gasped. ‘You’ve been shot?’

‘Twice. Hurts like a bitch.’

Hearing water running in the basin, Ellie abruptly sat down. She was instantly catapulted back in time to when she’d spent a holiday with Mitchell and his mother—her grandmother Ginger—in London when she was fourteen. He’d run to Bosnia to do a ‘quick report’ and come back in an ambulance plane, shot in the thigh. He’d lost a lot of blood and spent a couple of days in the ICU.

It wasn’t her favourite holiday memory.

Jack didn’t seem to be particularly fazed about his injuries; like Mitchell he probably fed on danger and adrenalin...it made no sense to her.

‘You do realise that you could’ve died?’ Ellie said, wondering why she even bothered.

Jack walked back into the room, dried his face on a towel he’d picked up from the bed and shrugged. ‘Nah. They were lousy shots.’

Ellie sighed. She couldn’t understand why getting hurt, shot or putting yourself in danger wasn’t a bigger deterrent. She knew that Jack, like her father, preferred to work solo, shunning the protection of the army or the police, wanting to get the mood on the streets, the story from the locals. Such independence ratcheted up the danger quotient to the nth degree.

There was a reason why war reporting was rated as one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Were they dedicated to the job or just plain stupid? Right now, seeing those bruises, she couldn’t help but choose stupid.

‘So, before I go...do you want something to eat?’

Jack shook his head. ‘The pilot stood me a couple of burgers at the airport. Thanks, though.’

‘Okay, well, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything...’ Ellie couldn’t resist dropping her eyes to sneak a peek at his stomach. As she’d suspected, he had a gorgeous six-pack—but her attention was immediately diverted by a mucky, bloody sanitary pad held in place by the waistband of his jeans.

She pursed her lips. ‘And that?’

Jack glanced down and winced. With an enviable lack of modesty he flipped open the top two buttons of his jeans, pulled down the side of his boxer shorts and pulled off the pad. Ellie winced at the seeping, bloody, six-inch slash that bisected the artistic knife and broken heart tattoo on his hip.

‘Not too bad,’ Jack said, after prodding the wound with a blunt-edged finger.

‘What is that? A knife wound?’

‘Mmm. Psycho bastards.’

‘You sound so calm,’ Ellie said, her eyes wide.

‘I am calm. I’m always calm.’

Too calm, she thought. ‘Jack, it needs stitches.’

‘This is minor, Ellie.’ Jack looked mutinous. ‘I’m going to give it a good scrub, slather it in the antiseptic I always carry with me and slap another pad on it.’

‘Who uses sanitary pads for this?’

‘It’s an army thing and it serves the purpose. I’m an old hand at doctoring myself.’

Ellie sighed when Jack turned away to rummage in his rucksack. He pulled out another sanitary pad, stripped the plastic away and slapped the clean pad onto his still bleeding wound. She saw his stubborn look and knew that he’d made up his mind. If she couldn’t get Jack to a hospital—he was six-two and built; how could she force him?—she’d have to trust him when he said that he was an old hand at patching himself up.

‘When my bank cards arrive I’ll go down to the pharmacy and get some proper supplies,’ Jack told her.

Ellie sucked in a frustrated sigh. ‘Give me a list of what you need and I’ll run down and get it. I’ll be back before you’re finished showering.’ She held up her hand. ‘And, yes, you can pay me back.’

Jack looked hesitant and Ellie resisted the impulse to smack the back of his head. ‘Jack, you need some decent medical supplies.’

Jack glared at the floor. She saw his broad shoulders dip in defeat before hearing his reluctant agreement. Within a minute he’d located a notebook from the side pocket of his rucksack and a pen, and he wrote in a strong, clear hand exactly what he wanted. He handed her the list and Ellie knew, by his miserable eyes, that he was embarrassed that he had to ask for her help. Again.

Men. Really...

The mobile in her pocket jangled and Ellie pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar number. Answering, she heard a low, distinctively feminine voice asking for Jack. Ellie’s brows pulled together... How on earth could anyone know that Jack was with her? She had hardly completed that thought before realising that the jungle drums must be working well in the war journalists’ world. Her father was spreading the news...

Ellie handed her mobile to Jack and couldn’t help wondering who the owner of the low, subtly sexy voice was. Lover? Colleague? Friend?

‘Hi, Ma.’

Or his mother. Horribly uncomfortable with the level of relief she felt on hearing that he was talking to his mother, Ellie scuttled from the room.

* * *

Jack lifted the mobile to his ear on an internal groan. He just wanted to go and lie down on that bed and sleep. Was that too much to ask? Really?

‘I haven’t been able to reach you for a week!’ said his mother Rae in a semi-hysterical voice.

‘Mum, we had an agreement. You only get to worry about me after you haven’t spoken to me for three weeks.’ Jack rubbed his forehead, actively trying to be patient. He understood her worry—after all that he’d put her and his father through how could he not?—but her over-protectiveness got very old, very quickly.

‘Are you hurt?’ his mother demanded curtly.

He wished he’d learnt to lie to her. ‘Let me talk to Dad, Mum.’