“I don’t know,” he says raggedly. “When I woke up after the explosion, it felt like a scratch. I haven’t really…seen it until now.”
I grab the first-aid kit and rifle through it. Gauze, tape, antibacterial ointment. “I’m going to clean it up.”
He shakes his head, draws his shoulder back as if he’s a child afraid of the sting. “It can wait until after we’re picked up.”
“No. It can’t,” I say flatly. Then I add, quietly, “Let me do this, Ethan. I want to feel like I’m doing something useful. I want to help you.”
I want to make him feel better, and I want to make up for being so selfish…
“I…” His voice trails off, and his throat moves as he swallows.
Again I’m struck by his hesitance. Maybe he has an aversion to people touching his wounds. “Don’t worry,” I murmur, “I’ll be gentle.”
I push him back so he’s resting with his head propped up on the side of the raft, and I study the wound for a minute. I’m not that good with medical stuff, but given my basic first aid, it’s pretty obvious what needs to be done here. There’s enough gauze to wrap all the way around his chest, and that seems like the way to go, because the wound gapes enough that it’s probably going to need stitches once we’re in Hawaii.
Once we’re in Hawaii. That seems like such a foreign concept. What’s going to happen, exactly, “once we’re in Hawaii”? Certainly not the trip to the hotel, the warm freshwater shower, the fancy dinner out I was imagining.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell Ethan.
He grimaces. “No, it’s all right. Really. I don’t need—”
“Ethan.” My voice is sharp and stern.
“Fuck, Tara,” he says softly, and again his eyes are shining. I don’t understand why.
“It’s okay,” I say in the most soothing tone possible. “I promise.”
He jerks his gaze away from me. Slowly, he peels off his shirt, and my blood begins to rush through my veins. I’ve never actually seen Ethan shirtless. The shirt moves up those gorgeous, rippling abs with the light trail of hair leading down from his belly button and disappearing into the waistband of his pants. I watch as the bottoms of his pecs appear. When he said he went to the gym, he really wasn’t kidding. His chest might as well be chiseled from stone.
My attention is momentarily distracted as he moves his hands to pull the shirt over his head. I’m overwhelmed by all the masculine beauty, but the gash is ugly, and it needs my attention, so I turn to it, studying it from where it’s thin and barely open at the bottom to the wide, gaping wound at the top, near his collarbone.
And then, I see something else. Squinting, I lean forward to peer at it more closely, and Ethan groans softly.
There’s a circular scar right next to the worst part of the wound, just under his collarbone. It’s covered in blood, but it looks like…it looks like…
A gunshot wound.
And it’s in exactly the same place where my Good Samaritan from the convenience store took his bullet.
Exactly
.
Slowly, as if I’m pulling my head through honey, I drag my gaze to Ethan’s face. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut.
“Where did you get that?” My voice sounds tight. Strangled. Because a part of me knows—it
knows
where he got that scar.
He’s quiet for a long time, and the only sound I can hear besides the waves sloshing under the raft is the sound of my harsh breathing filling the dank space. He seems to be waging an internal battle, and I know exactly what it is:
Should I lie, or should I tell the truth?
“Tell me the truth,” I grind out. “Where did you get that scar?”
“In a convenience store,” he says quietly. “In West LA. I was shot by a guy trying to rob the place.”
I think back on that night. On the dark-haired man in the suit who fought Anthony—the robber. The man who lunged in front of me, who took a bullet for me.
“You…were there…? That night?”
“Yes.”
That was Ethan? How could that have been Ethan? I don’t understand this. I stare at him, trying to connect this information with what I thought I knew about him.
Why didn’t he tell me he was my Good Samaritan? Why would he let me believe he’d never seen me before we met in the marina three weeks ago?
“But how? Why?” I breathe.
“Because I was watching you.”
I scramble backward until my back slams into the soft rubber across from him. “You were…what?”
“Watching you,” he repeats quietly.
“Why?” I grate out. “Why were you…watching me?”
He appears to wage that internal battle all over again. He reaches up with one hand and thrusts it through his hair until he’s grabbing on to the back of his skull. He shakes his head, draws his legs toward his chest, and bangs his forehead on his knees several times. “Not now, Tara, okay? Not now.”
“Oh, hell yes, you are going to tell me now.” My voice trembles. My whole body is quaking. “Right now, Ethan. You’re going to explain this to me. Why the
fuck
were you watching me that night?”
He groans long and low. Then he opens his eyes, and the blueness of them pierces straight through me.
“Because Emily asked me to.”
To be continued...
***This Ends Volume 2 of
Swept Away
.***
Swept Away
is a 4-part serial novel. Part Three will be available on November 17, but will be available for preorder on October 20. For more information about
Swept Away
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About the Author
USA Today bestselling author J./Jennifer Haymore is the author of sexy historical and contemporary romance. Her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including five RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice awards and the prestigious RITAÆ award for best historical romance.
You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouched in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.
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jenniferhaymore.com
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Also by J. Haymore
Coming Soon:
Swept Away, Volume 3 (November)
Swept Away, Volume 4 (December)
Now Available:
Sugar Cay
Highland Knights
The House of Trent
The House of Trent Novellas
The Donovan Sisters
Confessions of an Improper Bride
Once Upon a Wicked Night (a short story)
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess
The James Series
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