Sinful Seduction by Ann Christopher Read Free Book Online Page B

Beyond exhaustion. She wouldn’t be hitting the road back to Boston today, that was for sure. Possibly not for several days.
    Testing out her leg seemed like a good idea, so she decided to start small, with a toe wriggle. Ouch. Sore—very sore—but not unbearable. So that was progress. What about her side? She shifted against the pillows, twisting at the waist.
    Again…ouch. But manageable.
    Her bandaged temple was now down to a dull thud, nothing that an extra-strength dose of acetaminophen couldn’t handle. And her body temperature felt fine. Neither too hot, nor too cold, so she prayed that Sandro’s liberal use of rubbing alcohol last night (the memory made her wince) had done the trick and protected her against infection.
    She was, in short, on the road to recovery.
    The rhythmic swish of a broom sweeping up broken glass came from the corner, and she raised her head (another ouch ) to see Sandro dumping the last of the fragments from the smashed photo of Tony, along with the tumbler that had done the smashing, into a trash can. But he kept the picture, shaking off glass dust and placing it, with loving care, on the mantel.
    He stared up at it for a minute, lost in his thoughts, and then, apparently feeling the weight of her stare, turned.
    If she’d had a rough night, his was not much better, judging from the smudged hollows under his eyes. His face was lined with exhaustion, his jaw prickly with the new day’s beard.
    He looked absolutely terrible.
    That didn’t stop his mouth from curling at the edges when he saw that she was awake. The sight of that almost-smile made her skin tingle with awareness, despite her many maladies, and she was glad he didn’t unleash the full smile because, in her weakened state, it would probably kill her.
    “She lives,” he said.
    “She lives.”
    “Did you get any rest?”
    “More than you did.”
    “I wasn’t attacked by a tree.”
    “True.”
    Her gaze flickered back to the picture of Tony. He seemed to be watching her, possibly accusing her with that hard soldier’s stare of his, and it made her uncomfortable enough to look away.
    Sandro, naturally, noticed. “You miss him.”
    It wasn’t a question, which was good because she didn’t have an answer. “You’re angry with him. Probably because he died. Am I right?”
    Sandro stilled. It seemed to be a habit of his—being still. She was starting to think of these pregnant pauses as a mechanism he used to wrestle his emotions back under control and get them on lockdown.
    To her surprise, he opened the door a tiny crack, letting her see inside for once.
    “You’re assuming I only have one reason to be angry at my brother.”
    She hesitated and then decided to press her luck. He wouldn’t hit an invalid, surely. “Are you going to tell me?”
    “No.”
    Deflated, she watched as he came to the table and handed her the glass of water he’d been force-feeding her all night. “Drink. And then go back to sleep. The sun’s not even up yet.”
    She complied, but only because she was too groggy to do anything else. When she’d laid back against the pillows, he adjusted the blankets over her, taking care to cover her arms while making sure her mouth and nose weren’t blocked.
    Sandro Davies was, she thought, an intriguing study in contrasts.
    Very cold, but occasionally hot. Gruff, but tender. A twin, but like no other man she’d ever met.
    She fought the exhaustion as best she could, wanting to watch the implacable features on his downturned face and see if he betrayed any feeling, even by accident. Because she knew the feelings were in there. He was like a two-liter bottle of soda, well shaken. Under control for now, but just wait until that lid came off.
    “You’re staring,” he observed, his attention still focused on the blankets.
    “I can’t help it.”
    “What do you see?”
    “Not Tony.”
    That got him. His gaze narrowed and zeroed in on her face with sudden urgency, searching for things she hoped