Dreamveil

“Let me see,” he said as he put the kit on the sideboard.



“They’re not too bad. My gloves took the worst of it.” She showed him her grazed, reddened palms before looking down. “My knees are a mess, though.”



Dansant pulled an empty crate over by the table. “Sit here.”



She didn’t move. “Thanks, but I think I can do this by myself.”



Dansant removed some gauze pads and a small bottle of peroxide from the kit. “You are still shaken, ma mûre.”



She limped over to the crate and perched on it. “So are you usually this kind to strangers?” Before he could answer, she added, “I’m not going to sue, if that’s what you’re worried about.”



That she thought of herself as a stranger to him was perplexing. From the moment he’d seen her face, he’d known her. Not who she was, or why she had come to him now, but everything that mattered between a man and a woman. All he had to do was be patient, and wait for her to give herself over to him. Then he would show her that they were meant to be together.



Doesn’t she feel it?



“I do not worry about this.” He knelt before her to inspect the damage to her knees. “There is debris in the wounds. From the ground.” He would need scissors to cut away her trouser legs. “I must remove it.”



As soon as he put his hand on her leg, Rowan stiffened. “I don’t think so.”



He glanced up. “You do not like to be touched.”



“Oh, sometimes I like it fine.” She stared at his mouth before lifting her eyes to his, and he saw a glimmer of heat and longing. “It’s the stranger part I have trouble with.”



“So do I.” More than he could ever tell her. “Perhaps just for tonight, we should think we are friends.”



“Friends.” She seemed amused by this, but leaned back on her elbows. “All right, Dansant. Do whatever you want.”



Chapter 2



Rowan wasn’t sure how she went from thinking her life was over while laying down her bike in a dark alley to sitting on a crate in a restaurant kitchen and watching the top of Jean- Marc Dansant’s head. She had an excellent vantage point, however, as he knelt in front of her, one hand wrapped around her calf while he examined the ugly wounds on her knees.



Why couldn’t we do this when I’m not torn up and bleeding?



His black hair, long enough to merit a ponytail, had begun to escape the band at the back of his neck, and strands of it fell around his face in poetic disarray. She spent a long time looking at his hair, concentrating on it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Only when her eyes began to burn did she remember to blink, and then she fell right back into staring.



After some time had passed, Rowan shook off her uncharacteristic fascination with his mop. As she did, she felt a peculiar disorientation, as if time had stopped while she’d forgotten where she was, and what she was doing.



What’s wrong with me?



Evidently she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought during the crash, and it had turned her into a semizombie. She knew what she should have been thinking of: what to do next, how to get out of this, this restaurant, this accident, this city—this whole mess. Someone had hit her from behind. She’d come close to smearing herself like a bug all over the grille of a Volvo. She’d survived, only to strand herself in the last place on earth she wanted to be stranded.



Idiot that she was, she’d also let Dansant—a bona fide stranger—pay for the damage she’d caused, and then had followed him inside his restaurant. Now she was letting him touch her, take care of her, like they were best friends. Sitting there and doing nothing, like it was nothing. Like she couldn’t think for herself anymore.



But she was thinking now, just one thing, over and over.



God, he’s so damn pretty.



It seemed Dansant had come into the world with all the luxury upgrades: golden, flawless skin, strong jaw, stunning mouth, perfect nose, sculpted cheekbones, heavenly blue eyes, smooth arched brows. Rowan had never thought much of handsome men—too in love with their own reflections, most of them—but Dansant seemed almost too beautiful to be human, much less a regular guy. She kept trying to find a flaw somewhere; something that would make him seem less celestial.



She didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t succeeding. Maybe it was those angel eyes of his, she thought as she breathed in.



His eyes were as morning-sky blue as his hair was midnight black, which was the only peculiarity. Men with Dansant’s dark coloring usually came with all-matching accessories. From where she sat she could smell flowers, spices, and heat, but couldn’t decide if it was coming from his hair, his body, or the restaurant’s kitchen. Or all three. The floral fragrance seemed hauntingly familiar, too, although the exact name of it eluded her.



If that’s what he’s using as aftershave, he’s been shopping in the wrong cologne department. That could also be why it didn’t offend Rowan’s nose like other guy cologne, although it seemed to be everywhere: on him, in the air, all around her—even on her clothes.



She couldn’t remember ever seeing this restaurant, even when she’d lived in New York, but for the first time since crossing the river, she felt as if she’d come home. In fact, she couldn’t remember feeling as comfortable and protected as she did in this moment.



“Ow.” Fresh pain shot through her throbbing thigh, abruptly sending the alarming amount of happy bullshit she was thinking straight out of her head. “Fuck, that hurt.”



He glanced up, something she was sure he hadn’t done once since she’d given him permission to have his way with her skinned knees.



Was that disapproval she saw? Probably; she had a mouth like a truck driver’s. “Sorry about the language.”



“Vous êtes tout excusé. That one, it was deep.” He showed her a nasty- looking, bloody splinter before pitching it into the trash can beside them and going back to work.



Jacqueminot. That was what she was smelling. It had seemed so familiar because the woman who had saved her life had grown it in her garden. It might explain why she felt so at ease with Dansant; the scent brought back memories of the only place she had ever considered her home.



“Do you live near here?” he asked as he dampened a square of gauze with some water from a brown bottle.



“No, I don’t”—she took in a sharp breath as he began cleaning the blood from her knee—“live in the city,” she said as she exhaled. A burning, fizzing sensation spread over her abrasion, which began to bubble with pink foam. “I guess that’s not water,” she said, gritting her teeth to hold back another Fuck-prefaced protest.



“Peroxide, to kill germs.” He showed her the label on the bottle. “The ground in the alley is filthy.”



“Right.” And if he kept talking, soon she might not feel any pain.



Not only was Angel Eyes the most physically beautiful man she’d ever met; he also had without a doubt the best voice she’d ever heard: rich, deep, dark and sweet—a double shot of espresso with a honey chaser. Hearing it made her bones melt. Part of it had to be the way he spoke English, with that low, liquid French accent spilling over every word; it felt like being kissed on the ears. She could close her eyes and listen to him read his grocery list, and probably get off by the time he reached the dry goods. . . .



Something here was seriously wrong. Twenty minutes ago she’d almost smeared herself all over a Volvo and had come within a phone call of mixing it up with the cops. Was she scared? Was she rethinking her declaration of independence? Was she even figuring out where she was going to sleep tonight?



No. She was thinking about banging the gorgeous Good Samaritan.



Jesus Christ. She had to get the hell out of here.



“Hey, uh, you don’t have to do this. I’m sure I’ll be okay.” When that didn’t get a response, she tried, “It’s pretty late. Isn’t there someone waiting for you at home?”



“My partner sleeps until dawn.” He turned away to look for something in the kit. “Why are you here so late, Rowan? Do you visit someone?”



“Yes,” she lied without hesitation, and pushed herself down from the crate. “Thanks for helping me out. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll send you the money as soon as—”



“Ça ne va pas, non?” He caught her hips between his palms. “You cannot go.”



That grab went over the line for her, and she clamped her hands over his, intending to shove him away. Shifting her weight caused another jolt of pain to radiate from her knee, forcing her to instead hold on to him.



“Be still,” he murmured.



It was the damnedest thing. Those two words chased off the pain and brought back that sense of safety and well-being, just as she’d felt before when he was cleaning her up. It confused her; she was hurt and that always made her angry. But trying to push him off suddenly didn’t make sense, either; it wasn’t as if he was trying to grab her ass or anything. Why was she acting like such a bitch? “It’s okay; I’m fine.”



“Your motorcycle,” he reminded her as he stood up, sliding his fingers through hers as casually as if they were on a date. “It needs some repair, oui?”



“It needs a lot of repair.” She thought about the contents of her wallet; making the trip from Savannah had left it pretty thin. What cash she had wouldn’t replace the tires, much less fix the damage to the chassis or whatever the crash might have done to the engine. She used to have a street map of the city in her head, but she’d replaced it with mental diagrams of Atlanta and Savannah and Albany. “Is there a bus stop near here that I can walk to that will take me to the Port Authority?”



“There is,” he said. “But you cannot push the bike there or put it on the bus.”



This would be the second set of wheels she’d abandoned in as many months, and she wouldn’t have anything but her feet or public transportation to help her get around Boston. Still, she had no other option.