Baddest Bad Boys(71)

Retracing his steps to the kitchen, he retrieved the candle and another hand towel. When he returned, he found she had drawn into the corner of the couch.

She had a towel pressed to her foot, but her eyes were shut. She looked exhausted, miserable, and incredibly fragile.

Max felt like a jerk for being insensitive to her anguish. He tried to justify his anger, but couldn’t. She had been victimized tonight, not him.

The coffee table had a three-candle centerpiece which Max quickly lit. The additional wicks didn’t help that much but still he moved them closer. He knelt on the floor in front of her. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, El.” Very gently, he reached for her ankle. “Will you let me?”

Ignoring her resistance, he coaxed her foot up firmly but gently. He peeled back the towel. The wound still bled, though not as bad. With the poor light, it was difficult to assess how bad the cut was. He refolded a different towel into a makeshift bandage, applied compression, and then secured it around her ankle.

“Are you current on tetanus?”

She nodded, still not speaking. Damn it, he hated the silent treatment. Even if he deserved it.

“We’ll wait a moment to see if it stops bleeding,” Max went on. “Then I’ll figure out if it needs stitches.”

That got her talking. “I don’t think it’s that bad.” She shifted forward.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He reached for her hand, to prevent her from loosening the towel, and found that her fingers were like ice. “Christ, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”

He looked at her closely, noticing her struggle to hold herself upright. He touched her arm. Her skin felt chilled and she was shaking all over, probably from shock as well as cold. The wet clothes had to go.

He snatched the decorative blanket draped across the back of the couch. Then he sat beside her and pulled her onto his lap. Her lack of protest concerned him.

His shirt still hung on her shoulders, but it had gaped apart, the sheer fabric clinging to full breasts. He saw a hint of delicate-colored areolas. Lower, a shadow of tawny curls suggested she wore no panties, a fact Max had suspected when his hand brushed her bare butt when he’d first picked her up.

“Let’s get you dry. Warm.” He moderated his voice, cajoling her like he would a child as he stripped his wet shirt from her with quick, efficient moves.

He tossed it to the floor. The wet scrap of gown followed. That seemed to rouse her, but before she could move, Max swirled the blanket around her back. Then he pulled her forward against his chest, holding her in place with one hand while the other tugged the long, wet strands of her hair free of the blanket.

She made a strangled protest at the first press of bare skin to bare skin, but just as quickly she buried her face against his throat, seeking warmth. Her cheeks and nose felt frosty. She shivered violently now.

Max tucked the edges of the blanket in, making soothing noises as he ensured every inch not pressed against his chest was snugly covered. She shifted, huddling closer. Even after being drenched in the rain, he could still smell the soft floral scent of her shampoo. The feel of her pearled nipples digging into his chest made his body react.

Gritting his teeth, Max reminded himself that this wasn’t about sex. Yeah, right. When it came to Ellie, that’s always where his mind went. Even—God help him—when she’d been married to Stefan. Staying away had been Max’s only choice.

And being here now, at this house, triggered a lot of old memories, a lot of regrets. He had first met Ellie here seven years ago. They’d made love upstairs. She’d been a virgin, but not for long. His arms tightened possessively around her shoulders, remembering.

At twenty-five, he had thought he’d already seen everything the world could offer, whereas she’d been only nineteen—shy, proper, and bursting with life. She and her college girlfriends had taken over the house while Ellie’s grandparents traveled overseas. That summer had been idyllic.

Or had it just been the calm before the storm? Ellie had returned to college. They both made promises. But his father died a few weeks later, forcing Max to move to Italy and assume a role he’d felt ill prepared for. Twelve months later, Ellie’s grandparents were tragically killed in a train crash. That’s when Stefan had weaseled in and—

Shit. Who was Max trying to kid? No matter how many times he’d replayed the why and how, the bottom line was the same. Back then he’d been an idiot and let her go.

A particularly loud crash of thunder made her flinch. Max squeezed her tighter. Recriminations about tonight’s incident continued to eat at him. As much as he wanted to blame her for not being more cautious, he felt some culpability. If Bridgette hadn’t been at the penthouse, Ellie would have stayed. He would have found her note. And they would be discussing—or acting on—the terms of her “deal,” not the aftermath of an attack.

How long they sat there, Max didn’t know. The storm seemed to end with the same abruptness it had started with. The wind settled outside and suddenly all was quiet.

Ellie stirred, tried to sit up. He countered the movement, purposely tipping her back against him, not ready for the intimacy of the moment to pass.

“Start at the beginning and tell me what happened here tonight,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “Something woke me up. The power was out, so I got up. That’s when I realized someone was in the house, coming up the stairs. It frightened me so much, I simply bailed out the window.”