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you have a change of clothes on board?”
    â€œYes. And other supplies that I’ll access once we’re done with this.”
    â€œOkay, then.” She swept scissors off the tray and proceeded to cut off his top.
    He hissed as the coolness of the blade slid against his hot skin, groaned as she reached the parts that had stuck tohis wound, then growled as her gloved hands glided over his flesh, separating the adhesions and palpating the edges of his wound.
    There should only be pain. But to ears that were hyperaware of his merest inflection, the pleasure was unmistakable, too.
    Tremors invaded her hands, traveling all the way from her core. And this from gloved and accidental contact while exploring his wound. What would touching him with no barriers do to her if she were exploring his power and beauty for pleasure instead?
    Work, idiot. Stop fantasizing about this hunk of impossible virility and just patch him up. You’re probably in ten different types of shock and hallucinating most of this anyway. Moron.
    Continuing her raucous inner abuse, she worked in silence.
    Suddenly a realization dawned on her. All the time she’d been filling hypodermic needles with local anesthetic, analgesic/anti-inflammatory and broad-spectrum antibiotic, he’d been handing her vials, receiving filled syringes and placing them in the correct sequence on the tray like the best of her long-term assistants. He continued to help her with total efficiency and obvious knowledge of what went where and would be used when as she prepared forceps, scalpels, sutures, cautery, bandages, wipes and antiseptics.
    He hadn’t been bragging when he’d said he’d take care of his wound. This was a man versed in more than hostage-retrieval ops. He was no stranger to field emergency procedures.
    Just who and what was he?
    She opened her mouth to ask and one of those fingers she’d bet could bend steel feathered down her cheek again. The gentleness of his touch almost pulverized herprecarious control. Tears churned at the back of her eyes. She swallowed them along with any questions.
    He asked them of her. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said you’d treated bullet wounds before. Just who are you, my heaven’s dew?”
    Her hands stilled from checking her supplies before she started the procedure.
    No one had ever realized the meaning of her name.
    â€œYour parents are to be applauded for choosing such a name to befit your wonder and delicacy.”
    She shot him an affronted look. “I’m not delicate!”
    His smile filled with teasing indulgence. “Oh, but you are, incredibly so.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him. “How’s your jaw?”
    Something hot and delighted rumbled deep in his chest, revved in her bones like a bass line made of urges instead of sound. “My jaw will always remember its meeting with your fist. But sheathe your claws. Delicacy doesn’t equate with fragility when describing you, but with refinement mixed with delectability wrapped around a core of resourcefulness. That’s what you are. An exterior of pure gold, a filling of sheer delight and a center of polished steel.”
    Her lips twitched. “You sure you didn’t hit your head? Or are you always so ready and free with spontaneous poetry?”
    â€œI’m the very opposite. Women call me a miser with words. I never say what I don’t mean. What I don’t feel. It’s no wonder I was chosen for law enforcement and not diplomacy.”
    â€œSo among the hordes of women who’ve stampeded through your life, I’m the only one who, in the aftermath of a rescue mission out of a Mission Impossible movie, has moved you so much you’ve found your inner poet.”
    â€œYou’ve summed it up perfectly.”
    He suddenly turned around and lay back, placing his head and shoulders on her lap.
    He grinned up at her as she froze, stared down at him. “This is