The Trouble With Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page B

sick?”
    “No.”
    “Hurt?”
    When she didn’t answer, he attempted to curtail his irritation. “What seems to be the problem here, Ms. Anderson?”
    He knew what his problem was. This room was small. Make that tiny, postage stamp tiny. They were within two feet of each other without even trying.
    “Dorie,” she whispered. “You can call me Dorie.”
    She smelled like lemon. Lemon iced tea to be exact. Not a scent he’d have considered a turn-on by any means, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her, or breathing her in. The woman barely came to his shoulder. She was drenched. And there were those eyes, those drown-in-me, heal-me, I’m-so-sweet-I’ll-kill-you-slowly eyes . . .
    Not his type, not even close.
    “My problem,” she finally said, “is that I tripped on the dock.” Her cheeks went pink. “I nearly lost my luggage, and then I spilled iced tea—”
    “You don’t need a doctor for any of that.”
    At the base of her throat her pulse beat like a humming-bird’s wings. He found his gaze trapped there.
    “I hurt my ankle.”
    Okay, now they were getting somewhere. He gestured to the bed. “So have a seat.”
    Dragging her teeth over her lower lip, she glanced at the bed. “Um.” She slid her hands behind her, over her bottom, and winced. “I prefer to stand.”
    “I can’t look at your ankle while you’re standing.”
    “I—” The boat lurched. She gasped, and her arms flailed out, and so did the huge bag over her shoulder, which smartly connected with his jaw.
    The thing must have rocks in it, because he actually saw stars.
    He also saw her falling, damn it, and grabbed her as those huge pools of melted chocolate landed on him.
    “What was that?” she asked.
    “We’ve just left the dock.”
    Pressed against him, hair wild, eyes locked on his, her dress soaking into him, she took in the unmistakable sensation of the boat moving over the water. “Oh. Right. I didn’t think. It’s...”
    Scary. Sickening. Unsettling. He waited for her to say any of those words, or a dozen others, but after another beat, she let out a surprised smile. “Lovely.”
    She had a smile on her, he’d give her that. The kind of smile he didn’t see every day—real. He tried to back away, but she had a grip of steel on him.
    “I hit you.” She touched his jaw. “Or my purse did.” She let the bag slip to the floor, where it landed with a loud thunk .
    Definitely rocks. Unfortunately he couldn’t think about that because her warm, soft curves were pressed against him, and he became so hyperaware of that, nothing else penetrated. For all the people he came in daily contact with, for all the people he touched during the course of his work, he was rarely touched in return.
    “I’m sorry,” she said softly, hands still on him. “I have a terrible habit of doing that.”
    “Hitting people?”
    “No.” She laughed nervously as he untangled himself from her. “Being clumsy.”
    “Speaking of that...” When he pulled his wet shirt, it came away from his chest with a sucking sound. “What is it, tea?”
    “Yes. Iced.” Reaching out, she brushed a hand over his chest, but he stepped back, free of her touch.
    “Sorry,” she murmured, her gaze flying to his. “That’s going to stain. I’ll pay for it, of course—”
    “Forget it.” Needing a change of subject, he patted the bed. “Sit already.”
    “Oh. Um—”
    She shut up when he lifted her to the bed himself, where she winced big time. “I thought it was your ankle.”
    She blushed. “It is my ankle.”
    “And...?”
    “And nothing.”
    Nothing, his ass. Or, more accurately, her ass.
    But she suddenly became fascinated by something on the floor. Fine. She didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t care less. Shifting to the end of the bed, he put his hand on her lower leg, over her wet dress, determined to get this over with.
    But at his touch, she sucked in a breath. A low, husky sort of sound really, but similar to the