Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders #6)(3)

After a few minutes of fruitless arguing, Colt did the damndest thing. He pushed to his feet, snagged a pair of pliers from the jumbled tool pile and headed up the back staircase to India’s apartment, almost at a dead run.

Cam and India raced after Colt and wrangled him to the closest horizontal surface—the bed in the spare bedroom—and Cam called his good buddy Doctor Monroe. India wondered just how good of “friends” Cam and the doctor were because the doc showed up within ten minutes.

After Doctor Monroe pulled the nail out, she administered a local anesthetic and a tetanus shot, which appeared to cause Colt more discomfort than the injury.

India forced herself to watch him get stitched up even though it was only three stitches. Blood and needles were part of the tattoo business and had never bothered her. So why did the sight of Colt’s blood cause her stomach to heave?

You weren’t close to barfing. You sucked down too many Red Bulls, that’s all.

If that was true, why was she cowering outside the room?

Guilt? Fear he’d light into her now that they were alone?

Screw that. Colt couldn’t make her feel any worse than she already did.

She snuck back in and perched on the folding chair next to the bed Doc Monroe had vacated.

Colt’s hair was damp and disheveled. The muscles in his jaw were bunched tight. His chest rose and fell quickly with every shallow breath. His entire body rivaled the bedside table for rigidity.

India wished she could soothe his pain. Would it relax him if she smoothed the frown lines from his feverish brow? If she ruffled her fingers through his glossy black hair would his eyes close in bliss? If she rubbed his broad shoulders would he groan with satisfaction? If she placed her lips on his would he welcome her kiss?

Kissing him? Where the hell had that idea come from? Colt was her buddy, her best pal, her sounding board, her client. Not to mention her A.A. sponsoree. She shot him a quick glance.

Sometimes that fact was a damn crying shame.

No doubt Colt McKay was a fine-looking man. Too good looking to be honest. He had the face of an angel—a fallen angel to be sure—a sinful smile rivaling the devils for temptation, the muscled body of a disciplined athlete, and more charms than a damn jewelry store. He was, simply put, perfect.

Perfectly off limits, not that he’d ever given any indication he’d be interested in her beyond friendship.

There’s the real reason to cry.

Colt’s fiery blue eyes focused on her.

She had no earthly idea what raced through his brain when he looked at her like that, but she liked it. She set her hand on his shoulder, jerking it when he flinched. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It just surprised me, that’s all. You never touch me like that.”



Do you want me to touch you like that? “I’m…” India blew out a frustrated breath. “Dammit, Colt. I’m sorry. So freakin’ sorry. I’m such a klutz. I didn’t mean to shoot you in the butt.”


He merely stared at her.


“What?”


“You could kiss it and make it better.”


“Funny. Does it hurt?”


“Like you wouldn’t believe.”


She winced. “I’m sorry.”


“If you’re not gonna pucker up, I’d be grateful for some Motrin.”


India leapt to her feet. “No problem.” She hustled to the nightstand for a glass of water and shook out two orange pills.


“Here.”