Read Online Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior by Lindsay McKenna - Free Book Online

That was good. His face was immobile, his eyes thundercloud dark as he glanced down to see how she was doing.
    “You’re hurt….”
    Roan’s words feathered across Inca. She glanced down at her left arm. There was a bright red trail of blood down her left biceps dripping slowly off her elbow onto the deck.
    Without thinking, Roan stepped across her, knelt down and placed his hand near the wound. A large splinter of wood, almost two inches long and a quarter inch in diameter, was sticking out of her upper arm. Her flesh was smooth and damp as he ran his fingers upward to probe the extent and seriousness of her wound.
    “Do not touch me!” Inca jerked away from him. Hernostrils flared. “No man touches me without my permission.”
    Shocked by her violent response, Roan instantly released her. He sat back on his heels. The anger in her eyes was very real. “I’m a paramedic…. I’m trained—”
    “You do not presume anything with me, norteamericano, ” she spat. Scrambling to her knees, Inca made sure there was at least six feet between them. He was too close to her and she felt panic. Why? His touch had been gentle, almost tender. Why had she behaved so snottily toward him? She saw the worry in his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn in with anxiousness.
    Holding up his hands in a sign of peace, Roan rasped, “You’re right. I presumed. And I apologize.” He saw the mixture of outrage, defiance and something else in her narrowed eyes in that moment. When he’d first touched her, he’d seen her eyes go wide with astonishment. And then, seconds later, he saw something else—something so heart-wrenchingly sad that it had blown his heart wide open. And within a fraction of a second, the windows to her soul had closed and he saw righteous fury replace that mysterious emotion in her eyes.
    Shaken by his concern and care for her, Inca got to her feet, despite the fact that she felt some pain in the region of the wound. They were a mile away from the dock now, the little tug chugging valiantly along on the currents. For now, they were safe. Placing the rifle on top of the cockpit, she turned her attention to the captain.
    “Captain, I need a clean cloth and some good water.”
    The grizzled old man nodded from the cockpit. “In there, senhorinha. ” He pointed down the ladder that led below.
    “Do you want some help removing that splinter?” Roan was behind her, but a respectful distance away. As Inca turned she was forced to look up at him. He was sweating profusely now, the underarms and center of his polo shirt dampened. His eyes were not guarded, but alive with genuine concern—for her. Inca was so unused to anyone caring about her—her pain, her needs—that she felt confused by his offer.
    “No, I will take care of it in my own way.” She spun around and headed down the stairs.
    Great, Roan, you just screwed up with her. He stood there on the deck, the humid air riffling around him, cooling him as he placed his hands on his narrow hips. Looking back toward shore, he saw the men leaving. Who were they? Who had sent them? Was Marcellino behind this? No one knew Roan’s itinerary except the good colonel. Worried about Inca, Roan stood there and compressed his lips. He’d forgotten Native American protocol with her. In his experience and training, Indians did not like to be touched by strangers. It was considered invasive. A sign of disrespect. Only after a long time, when respect and trust were developed, would touching be permitted.
    Running his fingers through his short hair, Roan realized that he had to think in those terms with her. He was too used to being in the Anglo world, and in order to gain her trust, he must go back to the customs he’d grown up with in his own nation—the Native American way of doing things.
    Still, he couldn’t get the feel of her skin beneath his fingers out of his mind or heart. Inca was firm and tightly muscled. She was in superb athletic condition. There wasn’t an