Page 8 of Cinderella and the Outback Billionaire

His lips quirked upwards. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘I read it in a book. Possibly a book about wizards.’

‘I’d laugh but laughing sends me unconscious.’

‘Do you want some or not?’

‘Yes.’

She broke off a square and fed it to him by hand. She had to stay snarky if only to balance the tentative tenderness of her touch. ‘Your leg’s bleeding. I’m going to take your trousers off.’

‘Now you’re just having a lend.’

If only. ‘Yep, that’s me. Injured man at my mercy and all I want is a look at his equipment.’

He paused as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. ‘Is it really that bad?’ he asked, his lovely baritone little more than a rumble.

‘It looks bad from the outside,’ she admitted. ‘But I have bandages and stuff.’

‘Stuff.’

‘All the good stuff. Please may I take off your trousers?’

‘Stuff of my dreams.’

She laughed. Too high, all wrong, but his lips tilted up again.

‘Now that’s a nice sound.’

His words steadied her. She wouldn’t panic if he didn’t, and he seemed determined not to. If flirting got them through this without falling apart, surely she could embrace it? Chalk up this strangely intimate connection they were forging to extraordinary circumstances and keep doing whatever it was they were doing. She reached for the clasp on his jeans. Button-ups, all the way. Fancy pants, with plenty of weight to be going on with as she clenched denim in her fists and tugged them down his hips. ‘We should try this again when you’re feeling better.’

‘We should.’

But his voice sounded thin and by the time she had his jeans off completely he was gone again, saying hello to oblivion.

She had gin in her carryall, don’t judge, and she used it to clean up his leg before bandaging it tight. There had been no spouting artery fountain, just a deep seeping cut across thigh muscle, and she hoped her cleaning was thorough enough and that her fix would hold until proper medical care arrived.

She took care with his face. A bottle of water and her trusty towel removing the blood until she found the seeping gashes slicing up his forehead. She flooded the surgical gauze in the first-aid kit with alcohol and pressed it to the wound, and then picked up the long roll of stretchy bandage and slid her fingers beneath his head and bandaged it tight. There would be no prying this one loose. She’d smack him if he tried.

She tended to his other injuries next and tried to make sure he wasn’t bleeding heavily from any other body parts.

He roused a little towards the end. ‘How’s your serenity?’ he muttered.

‘I’m predicting you’ll live.’

‘That’s just hope.’

‘I’m willing to embrace it.’ She gave him more water. ‘And now we wait.’

‘Are you still naked?’

‘Nope. I’m wearing a dress.’

‘What colour is it?’

‘Green.’

‘What colour’s your hair?’

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