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of a dark reddish wood that matched the heavy dresser and armoire. The curtains and quilt were navy and tan, sporting an Aztec print that contrasted the sedate nature of the furnishings. |
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D.J.'s gaze stopped at the bed. McCall slept atop the quilt, his hair still damp from the shower and curling every which way, out of control. D.J. tiptoed through the door and paused at the foot of the bed. His breathing seemed normal, his color not so pale. She couldn't see any new bumps or bruisesjust the one on his forehead from the night before. Coming around the bed, she perched on the edge of the mattress next to him. |
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He smelled of Ivory soap and warm water. He'd donned sweatpants but no shirt, and the muscular strength of his upper body lay revealed to her eyes. He had a great chest, tanned and dusted with curling black hair. D.J. found herself staring at the path the hair made, disappearing into the drawstring waistband of his sweats. The tied bow perched atop his navel, begging her to take the string between her fingers and release the twist. |
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Her gaze drifted up the length of him, noting his height and breadth. That combination might seem intimidating, but his gentleness of manner made McCall's size and the suppressed power of his toned body all the more beguiling. She had never met a man like Christian McCall. |
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She reached forward, gently running her fingers through his hair, feeling for a lump. The injury he'd received the night before stood out against his forehead, smaller than it had been that morning but still there. Luckily for McCall, his helmet had pro- |
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