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'It's this shoulder.' He flexed it experimentally, then winced.
'I'll take you down to the surgery.' She glanced at her watch. 'Dr Hicks should still be there.'
'Hell, no,' he grumbled. 'I'm not letting that old quack near me. I've just strained it a bit.'
'Well, I don't know. I think—'
'And I think you ought to stop fussing,' he snarled. 'It's my shoulder oh, and this wrist.'
'Let me see.' She took hold of his right wrist and bent over it, turning it gently this way and that. 'I can't see any swelling.' With the tip of one finger she touched the skin. 'It feels quite cool.'
In fact, Jared's skin was much cooler than hers as the realisation of their nearness hit her, warming her chilled flesh.
'H—have you . . . ' she cleared her throat ' . . . have you got some ointment to rub in?'
'No. When I travel, I travel light.'
'Well, I've got some arnica ointment upstairs. Mum always swears by that. I'll fetch it for you—and then why don't you have a hot bath? That'll help to get rid of the ache, I'm sure, and the arnica will work faster.'
'Good idea. Bring it round, will you?'
As he turned away she caught hold of his arm. 'Thank you, Jared—you saved his life.'
Her voice shook slightly, t h e n , overflowing with gratitude, she impulsively flung her arms around him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. Almost before the kiss landed, though, she had realised her folly and drew back instantly. But Jared made no move, only stared down at her, his eyes devoid of expression.
'My pleasure,' he grunted, then swung round on his heel, leaving her somehow feeling a little deflated . . .
A few minutes later, when she knocked on his door, there was no reply.
'Jared,' she called in the empty kitchen. 'I've got the—'
'I'm upstairs. Bring it up to me.'
Upstairs! For a moment she w a s tempted to leave the ointment on the kitchen table and flee, but, after all, it was her—or, rather, Sam's—fault so she went on up to the landing.
'Bring it in, then.'
His irritable voice came from behind the bathroom door, and when she pushed it open a couple of inches she heard the s o f t bubbling of the whirlpool hath, and through the crack saw Jared, sprawling at his ease in the tumbling water, a glass of whisky on the cream marble rim beside him.
'For God's sake, come in and shut the door—the draught's going through me like a knife,' he muttered, though without deigning to turn his head in her direction. Petra, every instinct urging her to turn and run, took a deep breath, swallowed then went in, closing the door behind her. She advanced a little way into the room, then froze. The bath was low, half sunk into the floor and its tiled surround, and through the churning blue-green water she had an all too clear view of Jared. His six-foot frame was blurred by the seething wavelets, yet she could see more than enough, and her entire body suddenly went very clammy.
'Well?' he demanded. 'What are you staring at? You told me to have a hot bath, didn't you?'
'Yes but . . . ' she gulped down the tightness in her chest which was preventing her from breathing ' . . . that was after you put on the arnica.' 'Well, you rub it in for me now." Hitching himself up higher against the rim, he patted his left shoulder imperiously-'Here—and here,' he commanded, then took a long swig of whisky and closed his eyes. Clearly the next move was down to her stared at him, lips pursed, then careful set down the little basin she was carrying, took a folded towel off the heated rail, knelt down behind him and unscrewed the ointment.
She tentatively touched him he flinched. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?'
'Your hands are like ice,' he said ungraciously. 'Warm them in here.'
She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and dabbled her hands in the hot bath. That superb, satiny naked body was spread-eagled, totally at ease, inches from her fingertips. If she stretched out just a fraction . . . Without warning her own body began to tingle all over, exactly as though she had been rolling in a bed of stinging nettles. She looked up sharply, and saw Jared's eyes fixed on her.
Abruptly drawing her hands back out of the water, she said, 'I—I think they're warm enough now.'
'Could be.'
His expression did not change, but as she dabbed her hands dry she sensed his mind relax suddenly, almost—almost, she thought, with a twinge of unease—as if he'd come to a decision on something. But no, she told herself scornfully, catching sight of the almost empty glass, it was simply the effect of the whisky.
She moved behind him again and, squeezing out some ointment, began smoothing it on in long strokes which were at first gentle, hesitant even, but then, as she felt the tautness in his muscles, deeper and stronger.
