There it was—the hidden scar on display, the rain having washed Charlie’s lipstick away. Swallowing thickly, seeing her for what she was, Matthew couldn’t understand how she had ever managed to pass for a man.
Realizing he’d been openly staring, he took a step back.
Towels, that’s what she needed.
One was found and offered up. “You best be getting out of that dress or—”
He watched her hands mechanically go to the buttons at her breast. When the top of a lacy slip was exposed, Matthew realized he’d been staring again, and quickly turned to give her his back. Listening to every move she made, hearing each sodden garment land with a wet plop on the floor, he couldn’t help but imagine what was slowly revealed.
There was a feminine sigh—the same noise she made when she ate his cooking. All it took was that one contented noise and it was impossible to miss the growing tent in Matthew’s pajamas, th
e man unsure how he was going to escape before she noticed it.
“Could I borrow something to wear?” Charlie’s voice came small, exhausted.
He shouldn’t have glanced over his shoulder but he did. She stood wrapped in his towel and nothing else, staring up at him with huge, expectant sapphire eyes. His groin tightened.
Stupidly, Matthew pulled off his nightshirt, thrusting it towards her, knowing that if the girl didn’t get clothes on right quick, he was going to lose it.
Pale fingers took the threadbare fabric, Charlie pulling it over her head. By the time her vision cleared the neckline, Matthew had marched to the stairs. Despite the one man audience, Charlie crouched down, a length of cream thigh revealed when she toweled up the mess she’d left on the floor. Watermark gone, she hobbled towards the kitchen to wring out her dress in the sink.
“Why you limpin’?”
She gave a start, squinting toward the dark stairs that hid him and his ungodly erection. “I sprained my ankle trying to push my car out of a ditch.”
“You’re cold. Get back to the fire.”
Watching her struggle sobered his foolish lust. And once again he had control… so long as he didn’t appreciate at how tempting her body looked in his shirt… or think about it. Gritting his teeth, Matthew moved from the stairs and pulled a chair near the stove’s heat.
Charlie nodded gratefully, easing down but keeping her eyes anywhere but on him. Thank God, because she smelled too grand, his prick twitching back to life again. Surprising the hell out of her, he kneeled and took her damaged ankle in his hands. His inspection was thorough, lightly fingering the swelling and rolling the joint until she gave a hiss of pain.
The instant the sound left her lips, he glanced up and met her eyes, swearing, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“Of course you won’t,” she grumbled, that pretty flush on her face growing. “I never thought you would.”
He blinked, he stared, and for some reason he couldn’t pin, Charlie blushed all the harder.
Warm fingers wrapped the sprain in a long strip of cloth, taking care to minimize her hurts. All the while, she watched him work, Matthew under the impression her hooded eyes were counting the scars on his chest.
She spoke, and his ears went red as her cheeks. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re good at this. You seem to have a knack for taking care of your fool kin.”
Matthew said nothing, instead he rose, standing over her for a full count of ten. It wasn’t like he meant to be loomin’, but he couldn’t move, now with her eyes wide. Not with that vulnerable look on her face.
She needed tending, and a chair by the fire wouldn’t do.
Slipping his arms under her body, Matthew hefted her against his chest. Charlie threw her arms around his neck, jumping as if she thought he might drop her. “What are you doing?”
“Puttin’ you to bed.” He stared forward, determined to get her up the stairs.
On the pitch-black second floor, an unseen door whined. Three more steps forward, and Matthew knelt to place her on his still warm mattress. After pulling a quilt over her rigid form, he climbed behind her, then turned so they lay back to back.
“Ummm, you should…” Matthew cleared his throat, offering instruction as if teaching her how to fry an egg. “You better put your hurt foot up on my leg to keep it elevated while you sleep.”
Under the warmth of his quilt, the tense golden girl complied, resting her sore ankle on his calf. She even mumbled a sweet, “Thank you, Matthew.”
It was sheer torture for him. She was so soft, her back pressed to his, her legs naked and… Jesus Christ, he was rock hard again. In a last ditch effort to distract himself from the way she smelled, or how smooth the skin of her ankle had been, Matthew asked, “Al Capone really shoot you?”
Charlie took a drowsy breath, offering a half-awake, “Mmmhmmm. Wearing a fancy three-piece suit and the shiniest shoes I had ever seen.” Letting out a sleepy yawn, she added, “I was thirteen.”