Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon: Nikki and the Lone Wolf / Mardie and the City Surgeon

Like a caged tiger. This guy was not meant to be constrained.

That was what she was doing now, she thought. She was constraining him, but she wasn’t backing down. There was no way she could calmly go to bed and leave him to die next door.

She met his gaze and jutted her chin some more and tried to look determined. She was determined.

‘Every two hours or Raff,’ she said.

‘Fine.’ He threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Have it your way. You can sleep tomorrow; I can’t. I’m going to bed. If you shine your torch in my eyes every two hours I might well tell you what I think of you.’

‘Fine by me,’ she said evenly. ‘As long as you’re alive.’

‘Goodnight,’ he snapped and turned away. But as he did she saw him wince again.

She really had hurt him.

She showered and tried not to think about dead landlords and starving dogs. What else?

Live landlords. Two-hourly checks. Pupil dilation?

Maybe not. Questions would have to do.

Her pipes gurgled.

She thought briefly about discussing antiquated pipes every two hours but decided, on balance, maybe not. Name and date. Keep it formal and brief.

She set her alarm for two hours on but she didn’t sleep. Two hours later she tiptoed in next door.

She’d forgotten to ask which was his bedroom. It was a huge house.

There was a note on the floor in the passage, with an arrow pointing to the left.

‘Florence Nightingale, this way.’

She managed a smile. Her first smile of the night. Okay, he’d accepted her help.

She tiptoed in.

He was sprawled on a big bed, the covers only to his waist. Face down, arms akimbo.

Bare back. Very bare back.

She was using her torch. She should quickly focus on his head, wake him, make sure he was coherent, then slip away.

Instead, she took just a moment to check out that body.

Wow.

Double wow.

His shoulders were twice the size of Jon’s, but there was no hint of fat. This was pure muscle. A lifetime of pulling in nets, of hauling cray-pots, of hard manual labour, had tuned his body to …

Perfection.

It wasn’t often that Nikki let herself look at a guy and think sheer physical perfection but she did now.

The weathering of the man … a life on the sea …

There was a scar on his shoulder, thin and white. She wanted, quite suddenly, to reach out and trace …

‘I’m alive,’ he snapped. ‘Gabriel Carver, Tuesday the fourteenth. Go away.’

She almost yelped again. Habit-forming?

‘Your … your head’s hurting?’

‘Not if I close my eyes and think of England. Instead of thinking of women with pokers. Go away.’

She went.

At least he was alive.

And at least she hadn’t touched him. She hadn’t traced that scar.

She still wanted to.

Nonsense.

She didn’t sleep for another two hours. She checked again. He was sprawled on his back. He looked as if he’d been fighting with the bed.

He was deeply asleep this time, but he looked … done. The bruise on his face looked awful.

She couldn’t see the scar on his back. All she could see was his face, exhaustion—pain?

Something inside her twisted. A giant of a man.

Just a little bit vulnerable?

He wouldn’t thank her for thinking it but, stupid or not, the thought was there.

It was two in the morning. She glanced at his bedside clock. His alarm was set for four.

She hesitated. Then, carefully, she removed the clock, flicked the alarm off and slipped it in her pocket. His phone was on the bedside table. Why not go all the way? She pocketed that, too.

Then she touched his face. The good side.

His eyes opened. He looked a bit dazed, but he did focus. This was nothing more than someone waking from deep sleep.

‘I’ll live,’ he said, slurred.