Page 35 of Midnight Enemy

“Huh,” Orson says.

“It’s why I don’t have an answer for you. They asked me to leave, and they’re still trying to sort it all out, as far as I know.”

He massages his head again.

I frown. “Do you have a headache?”

“I always have a headache.”

I sigh. “Come here,” I say softly, lowering myself onto the wooden floor. It’s rain spattered but not too wet in the middle. “I want you to lie down.”

His eyebrows rise. “Why?”

“So I can do some voodoo on you.”

His expression turns wry, but he sits on the floor. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Turn around and lie down, and put your head in my lap.”

His eyes meet mine.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I scold. “I want to help the organ in your skull, not the one in your pants.”

He gives a short laugh. Then he turns around, lowers onto his elbows, and lies back, resting his head on my crossed legs.

I look at him upside down. “Close your eyes,” I tell him, unable to bear the intensity of his blue eyes as he looks up at me.

He does so obediently, and I let out a long breath. My hands are cool, and I rub them together for a moment to try to warm them a bit. Then I place them above his face, not quite touching, covering his eyes.

He exhales, his breath whispering across my palms.

“Try to relax,” I tell him softly. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Listen to the rain and the waterfall. Listen to Kahukura singing to you. Let her waters heal you. Now, concentrate on your breathing. Put your hand on your belly, and breathe from there—not from your chest. You’re going to visualize a flower blooming. As its petals unfurl, you inhale to the count of six. When it’s fully bloomed, you imagine the flower closing at nighttime and exhale for a count of six. Ready?” I count to show him the pace. “Inhale, two, three, four, five, six, exhale, two, three, four, five, six.”

I stop counting out loud and close my eyes. The water tumbles over the rocks into the pool, the sound like the crescendo of an orchestra. The wind has eased a little, and the rain now falls straight down, pattering on the roof of the gazebo, and on the ferns and stones around us. The light breeze ruffles the leaves of the palms and the trees.

After about a minute, I open my eyes and move my hands, resting them over his temples.

Now I can see his face. I usually do this with women, and I’m fascinated by his different bone structure. Women tend to have softer, more rounded contours, their brow ridges less pronounced, their jawlines narrower, and their chins more pointed. Orson has a prominent, angular facial bone structure, with a stronger brow ridge, a broader chin, and a more pronounced jawline. He has a long, straight nose, and a well-shaped mouth. His lashes are dark, quite beautiful actually, long and as curved as a woman’s. I’d tease him about them, but I do want him to feel better, and don’t want to disturb him.

The few times we’ve met, he’s been clean shaven, but today his skin bears a light touch of bristle. Before I can stop myself, I brush my thumbs across his cheeks. They rasp slightly, which fascinates me.

Orson inhales deeply, then lets out the breath in a long sigh. This happens often when people who are touch starved receive healing—they’re so unused to the touch of another person that even a light brush of someone else’s fingers can make them feel emotional. Is he touch starved? It wouldn’t surprise me. I can’t imagine that Spencer Cavendish is the touchy-feely type of father. Orson’s mother died. He said he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a while. And even if he’s the sort of guy who greets friends with a bearhug, men are unlikely to touch each other often.

His headache might have been started by his accident and his concussion, but I believe a person’s power to heal themselves is affected by their mental, emotional, and physical health. He has a high-powered job, so he will suffer from stress and anxiety, even if he thinks he handles it well. All men struggle with the weight of duty and responsibility, and the need to appear in control. These things are like anchors weighing him down and will affect his body’s natural repair tools: his immune system, his heart rate, and his blood pressure.

I’m a big believer in the power of touch, and so I decide to give him a face massage. I start by brushing my thumbs across his forehead, starting in the center and sweeping them to the temples. I do the same with his eyebrows, and very lightly stroke over his eyes and the eye sockets. Resting my first two fingers on each temple, I massage them gently, admiring the unusual white flashes of hair there, and being careful not to press too hard on the graze that is still visible there. Then I move my fingers down each side of his face and cup his jaw.

Sliding my hands down, I stroke his neck and throat above the top of the tee. My fingers brush over his Adam’s apple—possibly the thing that’s most different from a woman’s face. He swallows and I feel it rise and then lower again. I smile and see his lips curve up too.

I dip my thumbs into the hollow at the base of his throat and brush away the drop of rain that has moistened the skin there. I can smell his cologne rising from his damp clothes, the same as before—vanilla, tobacco, and brandy. What did he call it? The Tragedy Of Lord George. ‘The perfect scent for a gentleman with something dark hidden away.’ I wonder what dark things he’s hiding, what his secrets are. What he shares with women in bed after the sun goes down.

Even though he protested he’s a serial monogamist, I have no doubt he’s had many partners. He will be skilled in bed, and know hisway around a woman’s body. Know how to touch her and please her, how to tease her to a climax.

I brush my thumbs up over his mouth, tracing the shape of his Cupid’s bow, imagining what it would feel like to press my lips to his. I realize with surprise that I like him, even though we’re supposed to be enemies, and even though my father would be angry to know I’m even talking to him, let alone touching him like this.

To my surprise, he puckers his lips and kisses my thumb. My heart bangs on my ribs. And before I can think better of it, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

His eyes are still closed so he obviously didn’t expect that, and he inhales sharply. I move back a fraction, shocked at myself, wondering if he’s going to scold me. His bright blue eyes open and stare up into mine. Then he lifts a hand, rests it on the back of my neck, and pulls me down to him again.

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