Wild Rain by Christine Feehan

thigh and the feeling was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
    “It’s a damn good thing you’re hurt,” he snapped, turning away from her, afraid she might go further. Afraid he might let her. And he’d never forgive himself if he stooped that low. He had never wanted a woman so much. It was the way she looked at him. The sound of her voice. The honesty. Intellectually he knew it was the fever talking, taking away her natural inhibition, but he couldn’t help reacting. Fever or no, she liked what she saw. Walking was torture, his body so hard he was afraid each step would shatter him, but he moved away.
    Rio filled a bowl with cool water and caught up a cloth. When he turned around she was staring at him again. He sighed.
    “You swear a lot, don’t you?”
    “You have a way of making me feel like I need to,” he said and dragged a chair to the side of the bed. “I have to get your fever down.”
    Rachael laughed softly. “You’d better put on clothes then. I don’t think anything else is going to help.”
    “Do you even know what you’re saying?”
    She frowned at the tone of his voice. “I don’t know. Should I lie to you?”
    “Do you always tell the truth?” It was a challenge.
    Her eyes met his. “When I can. I prefer the truth. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. You just seemed so at home without clothes. I didn’t think you could be real. I thought I made you up.” Her gaze drifted over his chest, dropped lower to inspect his flat stomach, the dark brush of hair and his thick shaft, moved over the strong columns of his thighs. “I’m not actually certain where I am or how I got here. Isn’t that strange?”
    She sounded lost. Vulnerable. His belly did that strange somersault he was beginning to associate with her. “Never mind.” Rio wiped her face with the cool damp cloth. “You’re safe with me and that’s all that matters. I don’t care if you want to stare at me. I suppose it’s flattering to have a woman like you admiring me.”
    “What kind of woman am I?”
    “A sick one.” He peeled back the cover, wishing he hadn’t fed the fire in the fireplace, not even for hot water needed to cleanse her wounds. For both their sakes he needed to cool the room down. “I’m going to open the door for a few minutes. The wind should help. Don’t move.”
    “I wasn’t planning on it. I feel odd, sort of heavy, like I can’t move.”
    Rio ignored her comment, opening the door to allow the wind to clear the room of the smell of blood and infection. Of flowers. Of the scent of a woman. The cool air rushed through the room, whipped at the blankets covering the windows, tugged at Rachael’s hair. In the soft glow of the lantern, he could see that her face was flushed, her body too hot.
    “Rachael,” Rio said her name softly, hoping to bring her partially back so she understood what was happening to her. “I’m going to open your shirt. I’m not making a pass at you, I’m just trying to cool your body down.”
    “You look so worried.”
    “I am worried. You’re very sick. I don’t have a lot of medicine with me. I have a small knowledge of herbs, but I’m not nearly as good as the local medicine man from the tribe.” He sat in the chair and leaned over her, his fingers brushing soft skin as he slipped the buttons from the holes to open her shirt. Her full breasts beckoned to him, the call much stronger than he had anticipated. Touching her felt familiar and right. Rio dipped the cloth in the water and bathed her skin, trying to be impersonal when nothing about touching her seemed impersonal.
    “My leg hurts.” Rachael tried to reach down to feel the wound, but Rio caught her hand.
    “That won’t help, try to think of something else.” He needed to think of something else. The cold water turned her nipples into hard, inviting peaks. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
    Her eyes widened. “Don’t I live here?” She looked around her, her gaze moving over the room