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How the fuck was he going to survive her? Desperate to focus on something besides the air crackling like static between them, he eased her leg back.
She winced. A fleeting sign of discomfort, but he saw it.
“That does it.” He pretty much lifted her off the bench and set her on her feet. “Get dressed.”
“What? Why?”
“I want a second opinion.”
Chapter Five
When Quinn returned to the patient lounge to find Luke sitting in the midst of the calming blue and white room, it occurred to her that nobody had accompanied her to a medical appointment in a very long time. She’d dealt with the sprained knee quietly, on her own, not wanting the press, or worse, the Dirty Games producers, to find out about the injury.
Hollywood was a cutthroat place. Most everyone worked an angle, but Quinn found an almost refreshing honesty to the naked ambition. She’d played the game long enough to know the score. Confidences had an uncanny tendency to find their way into the spotlight. She couldn’t afford for her dirtiest laundry—the ugly facts surrounding her knee injury, or her current situation—to be hung out for public view. Those details would hamper Callum’s attempts to get clean and get his career back on track, and could send hers off the rails as well, if the producers panicked about her fitness for the role. Eddie, she trusted, but even then, not with everything. The need for extreme discretion had narrowed her support network considerably. Like, to herself. She wasn’t used to having someone in her corner at times like this.
Luke wasn’t there out of friendship, or to offer support, but still, seeing his imposing frame parked in a chair waiting for her was strangely reassuring. Watching his miss-no-detail eyes scan her face for any sign of distress left an unaccountably warm feeling in her chest. She crossed the room and lowered herself into the seat beside him.
“How’d it go?” He looked completely relaxed with his arm slung across the back of the blue, upholstered chairs, and his right ankle propped on his left knee. He held out the cell phone she’d given him to hold while she’d spent thirty minutes in an MRI suite being crammed into a magnetic tube where metallic items were prohibited.
She took the phone and shrugged, trying to muster up a breezy response when, in truth, thirty minutes of lying there while the machine did its thing had sucked away her energy. A mellow fog she associated with lack of sleep blanketed her. “Fine. The technician said the results would be ready in about twenty minutes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did they give you a Xanax or something?”
“Oh for God’s sake. No. I don’t suffer from anxiety. I’m not a basket case, despite what you think.”
“Hey, a lot of people get claustrophobic in the tube, or they don’t like the noise. That hardly makes you a basket case.”
“Well, I was only waist deep in the machine, and I wore headphones to block out the banging. I’m not drugged. Just tired.” And hungry. And grumpy.
To cover the yawn trying to slip out, she craned her neck and looked around the otherwise empty room. Comfortable and upscale, just like the resort this cutting edge wellness center served. A guest could come to Paradise Bay for anything from an extreme makeover to a stem cell treatment, and recover in the comfort of the adjacent resort.
A flat screen along one wall was tuned to a daytime talk show. The magazines scattered on the dark wood tables between the chair groupings focused on fashion, celebrity gossip, or parenting. Not a Men’s Health in the bunch. She couldn’t imagine him finding any of it remotely interesting. “You must have been bored out of your mind.”
He tapped the screen of his own phone and slid it into his pocket. “I managed.” When he withdrew his hand his fist was closed, and she realized he’d retrieved the earrings she’d also given him to look after. She held out her hand for them, but he ignored it, and pulled the back off one of the diamond forget-me-not studs Callum had given her when she’d won the lead role on Pep Rally. Back then, he’d still had money to spend on a sweet, brotherly gesture of support. Those days were long gone. Now he needed her support, and she needed this role in order to continue to provide it.
But then all thoughts of Callum or anything else fled, because Luke leaned close. The sunburst of amber around his pupils captured her attention. Faceted, like a tiger’s eye, and every bit as mesmerizing. Tiny rivers of gold streamed through the winter lake pools of his irises, presenting a contradiction of hot and cold, wild and contained, just like the man himself. She held her breath while he eased the post through her earlobe, and then locked the back into place. While he inserted and secured the other earring, she had a sudden, unaccountably vivid image of him biting the earrings out. Using his teeth to divest her of all adornments. Tear away
every trapping of civility. Every tiny defense. She shuddered, and imagined him using the same attentive, oh-so-meticulous care to find and exploit her most repressed needs.
All the tightly strung warning systems inside her went lax. She swallowed, ordered herself to stop staring at him, and managed to drag her gaze away from his fascinating eyes. Instead, it dropped to his mouth. Not necessarily a better choice. His lips looked firm and capable. Enticingly mobile, especially as they formed a word.
They paused, expectantly, and she realized he’d asked her a question.
“Huh?”
She could almost imagine the taste of his lips. There wasn’t an ounce of softness to him, but if she crashed her mouth against his, those lips would give. And then they’d take. They’d part, and the very act would force hers open, too. Open and vulnerable, and…
“Hungry?” As he repeated the question, he reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out a square box. “I ordered lunch while you were gone.”
She had to pull her slack mouth closed to respond. “Thanks.” Mentally shaking herself, she accepted the beige box. Just holding it reminded her she was hungry. Starving, actually. Her hands shook a little as she popped the top of the cardboard clamshell to reveal… Oh nooooo. “What is this?”
“Grilled chicken and kale salad.” He handed her napkin-wrapped plastic utensils and a bottle of water before adding, “Bon appetite.” Then he popped the lid on his container.
The spicy aroma of something mouthwatering surrounded her. He dug in and lifted a forkful of rice drowned in a sauce chocked full of peppers, onions, and God only knew what other goodness. Her stomach growled.
“I want what you’re having.”
He took an unrepentant bite, and closed his eyes to savor the flavor. Finally, he swallowed and shook his head. “Nope. Sofrito is not on your approved diet for the next six weeks. Neither is rice, for that matter.” So saying, he enjoyed another bite.
