Read Online With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) by Valerie Chase - Free Book Online Page A

head.
    “No. I’m fine, it’s only a scratch.”
    “A scratch ? You haven’t even looked at it yet,” I argue. “You might need stitches.”
    “The ship’s clinic is going to be overwhelmed right now. It would take hours. We’ve got to get all this set up again.” He gestures to the fallen lights. “I hope nothing broke. We really need to be able to take pictures tonight.”
    I can only stare at him, my jaw slack. “You’re bleeding from two places, and you’re worried about some stupid passenger pictures?”
    “A big chunk of our revenue comes from Formal Night photos,” West says. I cross my arms, and he shrugs. “Fine, I’ll grab a first-aid kit.” He ducks into an office off the hallway, returning to plunk a white box at my feet. “I’ll put a Band-Aid on it, and we’ll get back to work.”
    A Band-Aid? The stain on West’s shirt is still spreading, and he wants to slap on a Band-Aid and call it good? He’s being ridiculous.
    “Quit trying to be macho,” I say, though I’m not sure what else to do. He’s my boss—I can’t make him go to the clinic.
    “I’m not being macho. We have to get these photos, or our sales numbers will suck.” He crouches to rummage in the box, then pauses with one hand steadying himself against the wall. A pained look crosses his face.  
    I drop to my knees and put a hand on his good shoulder.
    “West, are you okay?”
    His lips tighten. “Just a little seasick.”
    Seasick and injured and stubborn. No wonder he was in such a bad mood earlier. Suddenly, I’m reminded of all of the times when Sofia claimed she felt better than she really was, and I decide to take charge. Boss or not, West needs my help.
    “Come sit somewhere while I patch you up,” I say.
    “I’m fine.”
    “I think passengers might be a little weirded out by you bleeding everywhere as you’re taking their picture,” I say.  
    West frowns, as if he hadn’t considered that, then sighs.  
    “All right. But we need to be quick.”
    I grab the first-aid kit and steer West to a plush micro-suede chair in an alcove. He sits on the wide arm, his feet resting on the seat, so that I can reach his back and arm. “Hold on a sec,” I say, and dash to the bathroom for a stack of paper towels, some of which I dampen at the sink.
    When I return, I help West take off his company polo and undershirt. The gash on his back is a bloody mess, and it’s only my long experience with Sofia—reacting to unpleasant sights, like a stomach tube, only made her more anxious, so I learned to keep calm—that keeps me from sucking in a dismayed breath.
    I feel around the wound. “Take a deep breath,” I tell West, and he does, his back and shoulders rising. “Does that hurt?” I ask, wondering if it is possible to have punctured a lung or something.
    West shakes his head. “Nothing’s broken.”
    “You should get a doctor to look at it to make sure.”
    “Yasmin, we’re losing time,” West says, his voice clipped. Pushing my lips together, I grab the damp paper towels.
    The gouge in his back turns out to look worse than it is, and I gently clean it, disinfect it—West hisses softly, but doesn’t jerk away—and press paper towels to his skin until the bleeding stops. When it does, I tape gauze over the injury.  
    “There you go,” I say, running my fingers lightly around the wound to make sure everything’s dry. His skin is warm, and with only a square patch of white to mar his back, I finally notice how distracting his torso is. Muscled and tan, his broad shoulders taper nicely to a trim waist. I swallow hard, hit with the desire to see the rest of him too. The way Camelia did last night. I frown, then shake my head. No way am I jealous.
      “You finished?” West says irritably, and tries to get off the chair.
    “Wait, I have to do your arm.” Before he can protest, I move to block him, and he resettles with an impatient grumble. The wound on left bicep has stopped bleeding by now, but the