Fit for a Sheikh

Slowly Fiona lowered her hand toward his fly then drew back. She couldn’t do it, but she could take a peek at the cut by removing the towel, or at least until she had permission to take off his clothes. His pants, she corrected. Only his pants and only to administer some first aid.

As she gingerly gripped the knotted towel with her fingertips, his large hand clamped her wrist with the speed of a cobra, causing her to nearly jump out of her own skin or at the very least, off the sofa.

“What are you doing?” he asked without opening his eyes or releasing her wrist.

At least he wasn’t comatose. “I’m trying to look at your wound. It needs to be cleaned up.”

He raised his head and stared at her with those intense black eyes that made her want to squirm and sweat. “Do you have any antiseptic?”

“You’re in luck. I have that and some bandages.” And limited first aid knowledge thanks to her one-year stint as a volunteer member of Shadowvale, Idaho’s, fire and rescue unit. Of course, she’d probably been on three whole calls during that time, none that had involved knife wounds. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.”

“I would appreciate any assistance you might give me.” He gave her a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re not injured?”

She was moved by the sincerity in his expression and his worry over her well-being. At least he had that much honor. “I promise, I’m fine. Nothing more than a scratch or two on my back.”

“I’m relieved. I was afraid he might have cut you, as well.”

“He tried, but I managed to keep him from doing it.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself.”

“But you saved me. I doubt we’d be here now if you hadn’t come along.”

“Had it not been for me, you would not have been put in that position.”

Fiona didn’t care to debate the workings of fate, so she said, “Uh, you might want to get comfortable. I mean, you might need to take off…” Why couldn’t she just say it?

He lifted a dark brow. “My pants?”

“Yeah. So I can see it better. Your cut. The one on your thigh. And your boots and socks, of course.”

“Should I remove my shirt, as well?” He sounded almost amused, but then she sounded like a blithering idiot.

Her traitorous gaze picked that moment to land on his fly. “Sure. Or I could just lift it up.” She yanked her attention back to his face. “Your shirt, I mean.”

For a minute she thought he might actually smile, but it didn’t happen. “Anything else you require of me?”

“Can I have my hand back now?” she asked.

“Most certainly,” he said as he released his grip, but not before he brushed the inside of her wrist with a fingertip. Or at least that’s what she thought he’d done. Maybe she was just hovering in imagination overdrive.

Attacked by a sudden case of the chills, Fiona came to her feet and pulled the throw her grandmother had knitted from the back of the chair. It was lopsided and an interesting shade of lime green, but it should be big enough to provide some privacy for him should he decide to undress. Of course, there was the matter of all those little holes and loose threads, thanks to Lottie’s incessant chewing. But it was the best she could do at the moment.

She tossed him the throw and told him, “You can cover up with this,” then headed for the bathroom before she did something really stupid—like insist he remove his pants immediately so she could get a good look at all his assets. How desperate she must be to consider seducing an injured stranger. At least she’d be assured he wouldn’t be able to move very fast.

Stop it, Fiona.

Once in the bathroom, she rummaged through the cabinet beneath the sink, knocking over several boxes and bottles before she found what she needed. After retrieving bandages, a damp rag and some antiseptic cream, she made her way back into the living room…and nearly dropped the supplies she clutched tightly to her chest.

Two bare, blatantly masculine legs covered in a fine layer of dark hair extended from their owner who had stretched out on his back lengthwise, his head resting on the sofa’s arm and his eyes once again closed against the light. His bare chest, smooth as a baby’s behind except for a slight shading of hair between his pecs, revealed valleys and planes of tanned muscular terrain. No shoes, no socks, no denying the man was prime perfection without his clothes. But Fiona couldn’t see anything vital due to the throw draped across his manly strategic area.

Manly strategic area? A few hours in his presence and she was thinking in sexual military-speak. She was also thinking that she would bet her dog that he had one notable missile beneath his briefs. Black briefs, she’d guess. Maybe she would have the opportunity to confirm that. And she needed to get her mind out of the sewer and back on the situation at hand—examining his wounds, not his essentials.

Fiona dropped to her knees beside the sofa and considered praying to Planet Mars for strength. Instead, she took the warm cloth and pressed it against his side. His eyes drifted open but she saw no indication she was hurting him.

She focused on the cut, willing her hand to hold steady. “This doesn’t look too bad. I don’t think it even needs a bandage.” She could use one to tape her mouth closed before she moaned with approval.

“Only a scratch,” he said, his voice grainy and seriously sensual. “I’m more concerned with my thigh and ankle.”

Fiona was more concerned with what was above his thigh. Putting away those concerns for the time being, she scooted down and examined the gash. “This looks worse. It could probably use a few stitches.”

“A bandage will suffice.”

“If you say so,” she said as she dabbed at the cut, then applied the ointment. After positioning several adhesive glow-in-the-dark, happy-face bandages lengthwise across his skin, she noticed they did little to close the edges of the wound. But boy, did he have one heck of a solid thigh. Lots of muscle and tone. She wondered if he did squats or if he just came by his physique naturally.

He scrutinized the bandages, looking displeased. “Very festive. And somewhat ridiculous.”

“It’s all I have, so you’ll have to live with it.”

“My ankle now,” he said in a tone that sounded just a little too demanding.

She sent him an acid look. “I’m getting to that. Roll over.”

He did, and Fiona nearly swallowed her razor-sharp tongue. Well, now she knew. He didn’t have on black briefs or white ones. He didn’t have on boxers, either. Nothing covered his sculpted buttocks aside from taut skin a shade paler than his hair-spattered thighs. His lack of underwear somewhat surprised her, not to mention what it did to unseen places on her person. She could analyze his reason for removing his drawers, or she could get back down to business and check out his ankle.

But who in their right mind wanted to look at a foot when faced with a fine, bare bottom? Come to think of it, she had no doubt his feet were probably as sexy as the rest of him.

Fiona tore her gaze away from his fanny and forced her attention on his injured ankle. When she flexed his foot forward, revealing the depth of the gash, she heard his sharp intake of breath, the only indication whatsoever he was in any pain.

This particular wound was much worse than the others. This cut couldn’t be fixed right with a few flimsy bandages and cream. Since he had his face now buried in his folded arms, Fiona stared at his bare back that sported a lengthy horizontal scar. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“It will heal.”

“Dear Frank,” she said in a syrupy-sweet voice. “The guy nearly cut your foot off. You’ll be lucky if you’re able to walk on it again. Someone needs to look at this.”

He regarded her over one broad shoulder. “Do you know a doctor? Someone you can trust?”

Fiona didn’t know any doctors aside from the one she’d seen annually since she’d been in Vegas. She doubted he made house calls, and even if he did, this was not a gynecological problem. But she did know Peg, her friend two doors down who worked as a nurse in a medical office. Peg might know what to do. It was worth a shot.

Fiona pushed up from the floor to stand. “I know a woman who can help.”

He frowned. “A female doctor?”

“Do you have something against women, Frankie?”

He looked as if he’d just downed a dill pickle. “No, and I do not answer to Frankie.”

“Your name’s not Frank at all, is it?”