Free Killing Secrets by K.L Docter Page A

tone. Was he still upset about the confrontation with Greg or with her for setting him up like a brazen hussy? If the blue-bloods in her mother’s family were there to see what she’d done, they’d feel justified in their abandonment of her, at last certain only her father’s bad blood coursed through her veins. Even Great-aunt Amanda, God rest her gracious, forgiving soul, might have raised a silver eyebrow at her goddaughter’s blatant disregard for—
    “Amanda!” Familial disapproval meant nothing if Greg got his hands on her great-aunt’s namesake. “Where is she?”
    “She’s safe next door with Jane and Suze,” Patrick assured her. When she tried to sit, he placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. “Don’t move. You have a head injury.”
    Pushing his hand aside, she sat up. Dizziness washed over her, but she ignored it. “I have to see her.”
    He shook his head. “That’s not a good idea right now. If the sight of all these strangers doesn’t scare her, seeing her mother covered in blood will.”
    She was tempted to tell him what he could do with his orders until she looked down at his hand and saw the bloodstained washcloth he must have been using to clean her injury. The last thing she wanted was to traumatize her further, but…she shook her head, trying to think around the fuzziness in her brain. Her thoughts scattered. For several moments, Patrick’s form undulated in front of her eyes like a horror movie carnival mirror.
    Fighting to push the roiling image aside, she looked instead at the dried, reddish-brown smear on her fingertips. “I hit my head,” she said, the weak explanation as much for her benefit as Patrick’s.
    “Evidently. Skip,” he nodded toward the group of construction workers standing across the yard, “found blood on one of the stone garden figurines near where you fell.”
    She eyed the streaks of blood on Patrick’s work shirt, evidence that he was the one who’d carried her to the porch, her gaze settling on the four angry scratches she’d carved into his muscular neck. “I’m sorry that I, that you—”
    Nausea welled up and stopped her apology. “I-I think…I’m going…to be sick.” Could she make this situation any worse than to throw up all over the man’s work boots?
    Snapping an order at his men to find the ambulance, Patrick tossed aside the washcloth in his hand and dumped a large bowl of pink-tinged water into a nearby flower bed. Setting the empty bowl on the side table next to her, he took a seat on the couch, cradled her face in his large hands, and examined her pupils.
    “Breathe slowly through your nose,” he suggested quietly. “We’ll get a better idea how bad your injury is once the paramedics get here. My brother’s on his way, too.”
    His calloused thumbs stroked her temples, a light touch, she felt low in her belly. Only it wasn’t nausea skipping through her stomach now.
    Maybe it was the atrocious hammering at the base of her skull or Patrick’s disconcerting proximity that disoriented her. Her head fell forward until it rested on his broad chest. She concentrated on filling her lungs with the thin, mountain air, then letting it escape. Each time, she inhaled more of Patrick’s clean, masculine scent. So different from any other man of her acquaintance, it was a mixture of soap, sweat, fresh-cut pine shavings, and Patrick. No aftershave, no cologne…an honest scent.
    When was the last time you were this close to an honest man?
    Bewildered by the urge to nuzzle until she found naked skin, she jerked her nose out of his shirt and looked at him. “Your brother,” she murmured, “the doctor is coming?”
    “You’re thinking of Sam.” He shook his head and continued to rub her temples, oblivious to the strangely erotic impulses his touch evoked. “No. Jane called Jack.”
    Her pulse stuttered at the thought of the detective with the probing green gaze. “I don’t want—”
    What she wanted was lost in a cacophony