Free Flying Home by Mary Anne Wilson Page B

straightened in her direction. She kept up the tension, allowing him to slowly work his arm free at his own pace.
    He had to twist a bit to get out his other arm, but the pill must have begun kicking in. The pain seemed a bit muffled and he managed to get free of the sodden garment without too much more discomfort. Afterward, Merry reached behind him, tugged the garment off of the seat, and held it up in her hand. “Where should it go?”
    He considered that as he relished the touch of light heat on his bare arms. His first reaction was to throw the jacket outside, but that wasn’t a wise one. “Hang it on the back of your seat and it might have a chance of drying out.”
    Once that task was done, Merry sat back, looking at him in the dimness. She flicked her gaze over him, and he didn’t miss her grimace when she saw his shirt was covered with blood around the collar. He’d carefully felt for the lever and very slowly raised it to a partial sitting position. At any other time, he wouldn’t think twice about crossing his arms, grabbing the bottom hem of the shirt and pulling it up and over his head to get it off. But that move would be impossible with his ribs.
    As if she’d read his mind, Merry went to the first-aid kit, rummaged through it, then turned to him with the world’s smallest scissors in her hand. “You do have clothes back in storage, don’t you?” When he nodded, she said, “Let’s get that shirt off. It’s ruined anyway.”
    “You sure do cut right to the chase,” he said. “Pun intended.”
    Her expression softened, but no smile came. “Military training, do anything fast and right, without too much loss,” she muttered as she reached for the hem of his shirt with the scissors.
    “You were in the army?” he asked as she started to cut, the back of her hand holding the material away from his body, but in the process brushing along his abdomen.
    “Not me. My stepdad. He’s in the air force, over in Germany until May. Then they’re going to be sent to Portugal for some mysterious reason.” While she spoke, she neatly cut the shirt from the bottom to within inches of his throat. Pausing, she hooked one finger in the neck and pulled it back a safe distance before making the final cut. “Don’t worry...I’m good with scissors,” she assured him as she sat back and let the split shirt fall open on his naked chest. “I hardly ever draw blood.”
    “Good to know,” he quipped. “And I’m not worried.”
    “Sure, you’re not,” she said, and a smile started to emerge.
    But before he could see the full expression, her face darkened with concern as she leaned toward him. Involuntarily, he gasped when she touched his bare skin at his shoulder. “Wow, you’re going to have some wicked bruises,” she mused as she slowly outlined something on the area with the tip of her finger. “No wonder your ribs hurt.”
    He wasn’t breathing now, and didn’t until she drew back. She met his gaze, before quickly looking away. He could only guess at what she’d seen in his face. “Just bruises,” he reiterated.
    She came closer to cut the sleeves up to the collar on both sides, and then easily tugged at the ruined shirt to free it from behind his back. Without asking, she dropped it on the floor between his feet. “Oh, shoot, I should have asked if we can get to the luggage before destroying your shirt.”
    “We can,” he said. “At least, I think you can.” Then he went on to explain about the double backseat, how each side reclined and the luggage area could be partially accessed from there. “There’s a duffel,” he said. “Navy blue, with the company logo on it.”
    “Okay, no problem,” she replied and didn’t hesitate getting over the console into the back the way she had to get the first-aid kit. She finally figured out how to get the seat forward to expose the luggage area, and in less than a few minutes, she had his duffel on the other backseat. “What do you want out of