Relentless in Texas Page 6

  “Not tonight. You can barely sit, let alone stand.”

  “You could prop me up.” She was kidding, of course, but then she got caught up in the thought of warm water streaming over her head and sticky, sweat-coated skin…

  Gil stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Or food poisoning, as the case may be.” She could not sleep like this. If she took a deep breath, her own body odor was going to make her start gagging again.

  She stood, inch by inch, with one hand on the bed for balance. Yikes. The ol’ legs were definitely wobbly. No doubt her judgment was also impaired. Salmonella and Gil Sanchez both appeared to have that effect on her, but she would deal with the consequences in the morning. Right now, she had to have that shower. “I am willing to sacrifice what modesty I have to feel human.”

  It never had been one of her virtues. As a kid, she’d snuck away every chance she got to skinny-dip in Badger Creek, or bask naked in the tall summer grass, reveling in the total contact between her skin and the sun, the sky, and the earth.

  She waved a hand in front of her torso. “Anyone who watches R-rated westerns has seen all this anyway—minus the fifteen pounds I’ve put on since the last time I worked as a body double.”

  Gil blinked, and she could see him searching his mind for roles he might have seen her in. “How did you get into the movie business?”

  “My dad. If it was filmed in the U.S. in the past twenty years and had horses, he probably provided them. He’s the best wrangler in the business.” She swayed slightly, then caught herself. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

  She took a tentative step. Gil dumped the guitar and sprang off the couch to loop an arm around her waist. She let him guide her into the bathroom and steady her while she brushed her teeth. Then, without giving herself time to chicken out, she pushed her shorts and underwear down to her ankles. Shirt and bra followed, leaving her buck-ass naked in front of a man who looked like he wasn’t quite sure how his night had come to this.

  And not necessarily in a good way.

  * * *

  Don’t stare. Don’t stare.

  Gil jerked his gaze away, straight into the too-convenient mirror, and every thought in his head morphed into Boobs! Lush and full to match her hips, with nipples several shades darker than her smooth bronze skin. Whatever weight she’d gained had distributed itself very nicely.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, fighting the temptation to reach out and see for himself.

  Bracing one hand on his arm and the other on the vanity, she lowered herself to sit on the toilet lid. “A little weak in the knees, but I don’t think I’m going to upchuck again.” She tipped her head back and smiled. “Your turn.”

  Gil swallowed. Shit. He was not shy, but he’d never had a woman he barely knew strip down and expect him to do the same. At least not without a little foreplay.

  He gritted his teeth. Not sex. This is not about sex.

  When he hesitated, she said, “I can just sit on the floor in the shower while you operate the taps.”

  And let her think he didn’t have the guts to join her? No damn way. He yanked his T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside as he toed off his running shoes, then had to fight the urge to turn away when he peeled off his jeans and boxers.

  Her gaze locked on his torso, forehead pleating as she reached out to skim her fingers over the mottled, roughened skin that extended down his left side—ribs, hip, and thigh. “Burns?”

  “Road rash. I laid a motorcycle down on the highway doing seventy miles an hour.” He could still feel the asphalt tearing his flesh, eclipsed by the blinding agony when the bike slammed into an embankment, dislocating his hip and shattering his pelvis. Remembered wishing he hadn’t been wearing a helmet, so he could’ve been knocked senseless.

  Then he’d realized opiates were almost as good as a coma, especially if you washed them down with a slug of Jack Daniel’s.

  Carma touched the newest of the surgical scars, pink and raised compared to the thin white lines of the old ones. “It’s better since this?”

  “A hundred percent.” Thanks to his sister-in-law’s connections in the highest echelons of medicine. He was one of the first to undergo the experimental procedure that had reconstructed his shattered hip socket using computer imaging, robotic assistance, and a form of bone grafting akin to 3-D printing, allowing for the insertion of the hip prosthesis.

  Every pain-free step he’d taken since was a testament to the wonders of science.

  He cranked the taps, adjusted the temperature, then reached down and latched his hands under her armpits to hoist her onto her feet. “In we go.”

  He kept his back to the spray, shielding her as she leaned against the wall. With his palms planted on either side, she was bracketed between his arms, unable to slip down or sideways, but he was careful to keep his body canted away from hers so their only contact was the press of the sides of her breasts against his forearms.

  Soft, wet breasts.

  She closed her eyes and began running the bar of soap over her neck, arms, chest, and lower. The sight was enough to set his body throbbing, but he couldn’t close his eyes.

  Finished, she handed him the soap. “Shampoo?”

  He grabbed the bottle he’d brought from her suitcase and squeezed a dollop into her palm. The shower filled with a sweet cherry-almond scent that transported him back to Montana. She bowed her head and began working the lather into her scalp, and Gil had to bite back a groan as the trailing ends of her hair feathered over his hard-on. He didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or groan in disappointment when she twisted her hair into a sleek rope and looped it over her shoulder as she straightened.

  She glanced down, then up, then leaned in to plant a soft, openmouthed kiss below his ear. “I guess I owe you a double rain check.”

  He gave a pained laugh. “Is that like the double coupons at the grocery store?”

  “You clip coupons?”

  “I have insomnia and a teenage son. Who lives with me.” He still couldn’t say it without a slight, disbelieving shake of his head.

  “I take it that’s recent.” Carma narrowed her eyes, doing some kind of calculation. “About…three weeks?”

  He shoved out to arm’s length, as if she’d poked him in the gut. Was this another of her…whatever they were?

  She shook her head as if in answer. “That’s about the time you sent the GIF of the guy getting buried by a dump truck full of chocolate kisses. Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Oh. Right. That was the day he volunteered me to help run his home track meets.”

  At the mention of the text, there was an almost audible click in his mind, as if the real, physical Carma and his electronic pen pal had finally snapped together into one person. Why was he even surprised to find himself standing in a shower with her? This was the woman who—when Gil had memed that late-night television was designed to torture insomniacs—had presented the entire plot of Fifty Shades of Grey in emojis, leaving him laughing his ass off.

  And weirdly turned on.

  The water started to go cold, so he reached back to turn off the faucets. “Bing didn’t tell you about Quint?”

  “We don’t call each other every Sunday to giggle over boys. Actually, we haven’t really talked since she moved down here, except when she was home for Grandma’s funeral.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize her grandmother and yours were the same person.” Or what? He would have sent her a So sorry for your loss meme? “I know she meant a lot to you.”

  “Yes. She did.”

  And they were still standing in the shower, but at least the conversation had put a damper on his arousal. He grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist, bundled Carma into another, then set her on the toilet. There. Much better. He was having enough trouble with her stepping out of his dr
eams and into his life without the nakedness.

  He handed her a third towel for her hair. “You knew about me before we met.”

  “Duh.” Her smile was only about half-strength, but still packed a punch. “The mysterious Gil Sanchez who popped in every month or so to visit the nearly as mysterious Hank who was squatting in the woods with Aunt Norma? Everyone asked Bing about you.”

  He gawked at her. “Aunt Norma? The hermit? With the shotgun?”

  “Yep. My personal worst-case scenario.”

  Gil frowned. “How’s that?”

  Carma ducked her head, letting the towel fall over her face and muffle her words. “Oh, you know. One of those things that runs in families. Speaking of… Will this be a problem for your son? Me, I mean.”

  She was blatantly changing the subject, but Gil had been trying to figure out how to bring this one up since he’d gotten over the shock of seeing her pass out. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I…um…wasn’t expecting the two of you to meet.”

  She dropped the towel and flipped her damp, tangled hair over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “I’m not expecting anything.”

  Oh. Well. That was…good? He tried for a wicked grin. “Not even a rain check?”

  She smiled—the real deal—and his pulse stuttered. “Let me know when you’re ready to cash it in.”

  Now would be good, his randy body whispered.

  No chance. Even though she looked much better, her face was still chalky and her eyes were a little glassy, so he said, “Count on it.”

  He walked her to the bedroom, sat her on the edge of the bed, and did not offer to help her off with the towel. “Pajamas?”

  “Sleep shirt and underwear in my suitcase.”

  He dug them out of the roller bag and set them in her lap. “I’ll be right back.”

  After a quick pause in the bathroom to pull on boxers and jeans, he grabbed a couple of single-serving cups of lemon Jell-O and a ginger ale from the refrigerator. He found Carma dressed and half-heartedly tugging a wide-toothed comb through her hair.

  “Let’s see if you can keep this down.” He plucked the comb from her hand and gave her a Jell-O cup and a spoon.

  She scooped out a tiny bite, set it on her tongue, and sighed blissfully. “Ah. That’s perfect.”

  She finished both Jell-O cups and a few sips of the ginger ale, then toppled sideways onto the pillow. “Okay. I’m done.”

  “What about your hair?”

  She grimaced, raising a hand to her head. “I don’t have the energy to dry it.”

  But she’d be chilled all night if she slept with it wet. He fished out the blow-dryer he’d seen in her suitcase. “Roll over.”

  She did, and he gently scraped her hair back so it spilled off the mattress.

  “What are you doing?” she mumbled, already fading.

  “I can’t let you catch pneumonia on top of everything else.” Plugging the dryer into the outlet beside the nightstand, he sat cross-legged on the floor and began to work his fingers through the strands, scalp to tips, following with the dryer.

  She angled him a drowsy, bemused look. “I didn’t peg you as the nurturing kind.”

  “Only when it suits me.”

  And the feel and scent of her hair turning to warm silk as it dried was incredible. He was fascinated by the hundred shades of auburn, deep brown, and black caught in the glow of the lamp.

  It was so mesmerizing he didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until he switched off the dryer. He should get dressed, go downstairs, and catch up on some of the administrative crap, but he was tired, and relaxed from the warmth and the rhythmic motion of his hands, and he could stand to rest for a while.

  Besides, what if Carma got sick again?

  He switched off the lamp, shucked his jeans, and eased into the bed. Careful not to wake her, he edged as close as he dared, then closed his eyes. He should be worrying about what he was going to do with her, and with Quint, and about a million other things that regularly kept him up at night, but his brain was oddly uninterested in anything but the soft whisper of Carma’s breath.

  He unconsciously matched the ebb and flow, and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Carma dreamed that Gil was irritated she was still in his apartment, but even though he was standing beside the bed, scowling down at her, his voice was distant and muffled. “Nice try, but you’ve probably heard that this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Sorry, she tried to mumble, but her mouth was tacky and her tongue thick. I’ll go. Just give me a few minutes…

  She struggled through layer after layer of the sludge that filled her head, and surfaced as he said, “Well, too bad for you that I read all the fine print. We’re not signing any contract that has…”

  The rest was an indistinct rumble, as if he’d turned away, but when she peeled her eyes open, she was alone. She hitched up on one elbow. He wasn’t by the bed. Not in any part of the living room she could see. But suddenly his words were clear again. “Great. I’ll keep an eye out for your email.”

  Then a phone rang, and he cursed, and she located the source of the sound—a floor vent along the wall. She sank back into her pillows, relieved. Whoever he was annoyed at, it wasn’t her. Besides, he was the one who’d put her here.

  And he had dried her hair.

  She ran her fingers through the slippery strands, bemused. He’d been so patient with her. So gentle. Not words she would have associated with Gil Sanchez.

  Maybe that was the dream.

  Then she rolled over and found a cheap cell phone on the nightstand with a sticky note that ordered her to Call if you need anything in bold, black letters. When she picked it up, there was a number already keyed in. If it had been her phone, she would’ve texted him some GIF about the dead rising.

  Crap. Her phone. Her purse. All those texts.

  She flopped back onto her pillow, taking stock. Well, they had finally seen each other naked, and the view had been even better than she’d imagined—and she had imagined plenty. She could handle a post-sex morning after, but she’d never had to face a man who’d watched her puke. Nursed her. Fed her. Bathed her and watched over her while she slept. The smoking-hot, sardonic Gil she’d met in Montana could melt a nun’s chastity belt, but the adorably gruff man who’d fed her Jell-O…

  Just the fact that she’d inserted Gil and adorable into the same thought was enough to send red flags flying in every direction.

  Either way, she had to face him sometime, so she might as well make it now.

  When she pushed aside the blankets and stood, she was relieved to find that her legs had lost the rubbery feeling and her head didn’t spin as long as she took it slow. She swapped her sleep shirt for a deep-green waffle knit shirt and jeans, thankful to find her hands were steady enough to apply eyeliner and mascara.

  Ah. Better. Less zombie, more sallow-faced apocalypse survivor.

  Out in the kitchen she found a loaf of bread on the counter, along with a bunch of bananas. She cautiously nibbled a slice of toast and a banana, but her stomach showed no sign of revolt, and her strength grew with each bite.

  The apartment had two doors—one in the kitchen that led to a set of metal stairs on the side of the building, and the other in the living room that opened into the shop. She took the second and paused on the landing above a well-equipped gym. So this was where Gil kept that body so exquisitely toned.

  The scent of fresh coffee led her down the stairs and into the reception area. The door marked Dispatcher was closed. Someone had taped a sign on it that said Danger! Explosion Hazard.

  From the sound of it, whoever Gil was talking to now had struck a match.

  The phone on the reception desk rang. And rang. And rang. Carma started when Gil yelled, “I swear I am going to beat that thing to death!”

  Since there was
no one else around to save its life, Carma picked up the receiver. “Um, Sanchez Trucking. Can I help you?”

  “Who’s this?” the caller demanded. “You don’t sound like that weird chick who usually answers the phone.”

  “I’m new here.” Which was the God’s honest truth.

  “Well, good. Maybe you’ll actually pass along a message. This is Billy Ray Tolliver. I been trying to make a lunch date with Delon, and I don’t seem to have his cell phone number.”

  Asshole. Her impression was instant and unshakable. If this was a client, he was a constant annoyance. Carma spotted a large dry-erase calendar on the wall that had the dates of Delon’s rodeos marked. He was leaving the next day for California.

  “I’ll let him know you called, but he’s out of the office until a week from next Monday,” she lied without a twinge.

  “Then give me his number so we don’t miss each other when he gets home,” Billy Ray demanded.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, ladling on the sugar. “I don’t have permission to share that information. No, not even with friends.”

  She made vague, sympathetic noises until he realized he couldn’t bully her into submission and hung up in a huff. Carma set the receiver down with a satisfied clunk.

  Wow. The walls in this place must be made of Popsicle sticks and construction paper. Without Billy Ray’s blathering she could hear every word as Gil verbally dismantled someone who was holding his truck hostage, unable to unload because they’d had a holdup in production and were short on warehouse space. If his driver was late to pick up her next load, he declared, they could expect any penalties to be tacked onto their invoice. Sanchez Trucking wasn’t footing the bill for their problems.

  “Fine,” he said, in response to what must have been a threat. “Try to find another company that will deliver on time, every time, so you don’t have to shut down for lack of stock.” A pause, then a low growl of a laugh. “Sorry. My dad has gone fishing, so there is no one more reasonable for you to talk to. But if you’ve got any suggestions for how you can make this right, I’m listening.”