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"Try to focus, Rachel. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Fingers? He was talking about fingers? She groaned. "Go away."
He left her side only to return a moment later with her flashlight. Once again, he knelt down, then flicked on the light, peeled open her lids, and shone the beam in her eyes. She tried to turn away.
"Hold still."
"Leave me alone."
He turned off the light. "Your pupils contracted. You don't seem to have a head injury."
"What do you know? You're a vet." A naked vet. She groaned again as she tried to sit upright.
He pushed her back. "Give yourself a minute. I want you fully recovered before I call the police and have you arrested."
"Bite me."
He gazed down at her, then sighed. "You need a serious attitude adjustment."
"Stuff it, Bonner. You're not going to have me arrested, and both of us know it, so just give it up."
"What makes you think I won't?"
"Because you don't care enough to call the police."
"You think I don't care that you've broken into this house in the middle of the night?"
"A little maybe, but not much. You don't care much about anything. Why is that, by the way?"
She wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. The world began to steady around her. "Look, would you mind putting some clothes on?"
He glanced down at himself as if he'd forgotten he was naked. Slowly he rose to his feet. "This bothers you?"
She gulped. "Not at all." Her gaze locked on that most amazing of all his body parts. Was it her imagination, or was it getting larger? She began to feel fuzzy again. Maybe she had a head injury after all. Except the fuzziness didn't seem to be in her head. It was in her legs. Her stomach. Her breasts.
"Rachel?"
"Um?"
"You're staring."
Her head shot up, and she could feel herself blushing. That made her mad. But she got even madder when she saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and realized that something had finally struck Mr. Sourpuss's funny bone. Unfortunately, it was her.
She struggled into a sitting position. "Just get your clothes on, will you? You look revolting naked."
He splayed his hands on his hips. "You're the interloper! I was sound asleep when you broke into my bedroom. Now tell me what you're doing here."
She wobbled to her feet. "I've got to go."
"Sure you do."
"Really, Bonner. It's late, and I've had a swell time seeing you naked and all, but—"
"Move it." He steered her into his bedroom, and another crystal chandelier sprang to life as he hit the switch.
"Don't do that."
"Shut up." He pushed her down on the bed, which rested on a large dais befitting the king of the religious airwaves, then snatched up a pair of jeans from a straight-backed chair that had once been in her bedroom. She watched every motion as he thrust in first one leg and then the other. She didn't fail to note that he hadn't bothered with underwear. Dwayne had worn paisley silk boxers tailor-made in London. She barely repressed a sigh of regret as Bonner drew up the zipper. He might be a bastard, but he had one killer body.
