If You Can't Stand the Heat... (Harlequin Kiss) Read Online Free PDF Page A

bottom of his shirt, pale and sweating.
    Hurrying into the room, she dumped the towels on the bed, handed him the beer and frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
    Jack took a long, long drink from the bottle and rested the cold glass against his cheek. ‘Sure. Why?’
    ‘I noticed that you winced when you picked up your backpack. You took your time walking up the stairs, and now you’re as white as a sheet and your hands are shaking!’
    Jack rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m a bit dinged up,’ he eventually admitted.
    ‘Uh-huh? How dinged up?’
    ‘Just a bit. I’ll survive.’ Jack put the almost empty beer bottle on the floor and gripped the edge of his shirt again.
    Ellie watched him struggle to pull it up and shook her head at his white-rimmed mouth.
    ‘Can I help?’ she asked eventually.
    ‘I’ll get there,’ Jack muttered.
    He couldn’t, and with a slight shake of her head she stepped closer to the bed, grabbed the edges of his T-shirt and helped him pull it over his head. A beautiful body was there—somewhere underneath the blue-black plate-sized bruises that looked like angry thunderclouds. He had a wicked vertical scar bisecting his chest that suggested a major operation at one time, and Ellie bit her lip when she walked around his knees to look at his back. She couldn’t stifle her horrified gasp. The damage on his back was even worse, and on his tanned skin she could see clear imprints of a heel here and the toe of a boot there.
    ‘What does the other guy look like?’ she asked, trying to be casual.
    ‘Guys. Not as bad as me, unfortunately.’ Jack balled his T-shirt in his hand and tossed it towards his rucksack. ‘The Somalians decided to give me something to remember them by.’
    Jack sat on the edge of the bed, bent over and, using one hand and taking short breaths, undid the laces of his scuffed trainers. When they were loose enough, he toed them off.
    Jack sent her a crooked grin that didn’t fool her for a second. ‘As you can see, all in working order.’
    ‘Anything broken?’
    Jack shook his head. ‘I think they bruised a rib or two. I’ll live. I’ve had worse.’
    Ellie shook her head. ‘Worse than this?’
    ‘A bullet does more damage,’ Jack said, standing up and slowly walking to the en-suite bathroom.
    Ellie gasped. ‘You’ve been shot ?’
    ‘Twice. Hurts like a bitch.’
    Hearing water running in the basin, Ellie abruptly sat down. She was instantly catapulted back in time to when she’d spent a holiday with Mitchell and his mother—her grandmother Ginger—in London when she was fourteen. He’d run to Bosnia to do a ‘quick report’ and come back in an ambulance plane, shot in the thigh. He’d lost a lot of blood and spent a couple of days in the ICU.
    It wasn’t her favourite holiday memory.
    Jack didn’t seem to be particularly fazed about his injuries; like Mitchell he probably fed on danger and adrenalin...it made no sense to her.
    ‘You do realise that you could’ve died?’ Ellie said, wondering why she even bothered.
    Jack walked back into the room, dried his face on a towel he’d picked up from the bed and shrugged. ‘Nah. They were lousy shots.’
    Ellie sighed. She couldn’t understand why getting hurt, shot or putting yourself in danger wasn’t a bigger deterrent. She knew that Jack, like her father, preferred to work solo, shunning the protection of the army or the police, wanting to get the mood on the streets, the story from the locals. Such independence ratcheted up the danger quotient to the nth degree.
    There was a reason why war reporting was rated as one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Were they dedicated to the job or just plain stupid? Right now, seeing those bruises, she couldn’t help but choose stupid .
    ‘So, before I go...do you want something to eat?’
    Jack shook his head. ‘The pilot stood me a couple of burgers at the airport. Thanks, though.’
    ‘Okay, well, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything...’