Morgan's Wife by Lindsay McKenna Page A

dampness of the cold November morning, enhanced her natural beauty.
    Pepper made an effort to smile while avoiding his gaze. His eyes were like magnets, drawing hers, she decided as she opened the second kit. "We shared a close call. Stupid reactions always happen afterward," she stammered.
    Jim nodded. "Yeah—stupid things…" Like grabbing her and wanting to kiss her until they breathed the same air. Stupid things like that. "I'm just glad we're alive," he told her unevenly. "Maybe that's why I grabbed you…. I don't know…."
    Pepper felt the heat in her face intensify at his muttered apology. She refused to look up at him as she dug into her kit. "That's all it was," she agreed breathlessly, "a close shave with death. Nothing more…" Wasn't it? Pepper was unsure. Her even, stable world seemed to be fragmenting before her very eyes. Hadn't she made decisions in the past to commit herself to her job, to her friends and her family— not to a personal relationship? Yes, absolutely. And in the six years since that decision, she'd made it stick. Ever since John's death. Until now. Pepper felt wary and shaken in a way she hadn't experienced before.
    Jim frowned. Though his unexplained actions toward her were far from all right, she was kindly trying to provide a way out for him—despite her own discomfort. Now was not the time to examine his actions.
    He watched as she drew out a small green tube and squeezed the clear, thick contents onto her fingers. "What's that?" he asked, making an effort to get their conversation onto something safe and impersonal.
    "Arnica. It's a homeopathic remedy that I use for any kind of muscle sprains or strains." Pepper took in a ragged breath, relieved to be talking about anything other than their embrace. She gently slathered the ointment across his swollen skin and amended her earlier concerns: Jim was in tremendous shape—for an office type. "You must jog or something," she murmured, concentrating on covering the entire sprained area, "because if you didn't work out, you'd have broken something in that fall."
    Jim glanced up at the thick trees on the hill above them. "Yeah…it was a hell of a fall, wasn't it?"
    Her laughter was strained as she set the ointment tube aside and expertly wrapped his foot and ankle in an Ace bandage. "A hell of a fall," she agreed.
    "How are you?" Jim realized he'd been remiss in asking after her condition. Had she sustained any injuries?
    Panicked over his sudden interest, Pepper stammered, "A lot of bruises, but otherwise I'm okay." She looked up and brushed her hair aside. The concern on Jim's face tugged at her, and she felt her breath jam in her throat. Her heart pounded briefly, underscoring the look of care radiating from him. Again heat prickled her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, her fingers trembling as she continued to wrap his ankle.
    "You're blushing," he muttered, unwilling to acknowledge his blame in her response.
    "I haven't done that in years," Pepper said, frowning. Six years, to be exact.
    "It's becoming," he admitted gruffly. Shocked at the intimacy that seemed to continue to insinuate itself at the least opportunity, Jim snapped his mouth shut.
    "It's an embarrassing disease."
    He cast desperately around for some impersonal comment, but words he didn't intend to say tumbled out of his mouth. "You're a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve." When Pepper raised her chin and looked at him, he realized she was so self-sufficient that few people probably ever considered she might need a little care or a tender touch herself. He could give her that, he realized suddenly. To cover up his error, he said, "Recons take care of their own . You're no less important than I am." He noticed a number of bloody scratches on the backs of her hands. Without thinking, he reached down and captured her right hand. Gently, he laid his palm over it. "You're hurt, too."
    Stunned by his gesture, Pepper jerked away. "Oh…it's nothing. Scratches are