Wild Fever

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She heard the squeak of the porch door as it was thrown open. Large hands, tender and soothing, smoothed back the hair from her face. “Olivia? Olivia, can you hear me?”

She forced open her eyes long enough to see a familiar face. He had hair so dark a brown it was almost black. It brushed the tops of his shoulders with a soft wave that begged to be touched.

His face was hard and rugged. A dose of handsome that gave him a dangerous air with a scar that ran across his right cheek, and brilliant blue eyes ringed with navy that snagged her.

Vincent was protecting her just as she had always wanted.

Perhaps she had hit her head too hard. Vincent would never be there.

“Olivia,” he whispered.

Was it her imagination, or had there been a bit of longing in his voice?

A tearing sound pulled her from the darkness. She opened her eyes again as he gently lifted her arm. The pain pulled her out of unconsciousness enough to realize she was hurt, and that it really was Vincent with her.

Olivia looked at her arm, but all she could see was red. Was that blood? Her blood?

She was mesmerized by how Vincent diligently wrapped her arm and tied the black bandage that looked suspiciously like his tee shirt.

Olivia blinked as the fog of her head cleared even more. His hand was on her forehead pushing back her hair again. A frown marred his forehead.

She had the insane urge to smooth it away and run her hands over his sun-bronzed skin. This was the Chiasson she had silently coveted, the Chiasson that had never looked at her.

“Your eyes are clearing,” he said.

She tried to swallow, to wet her dry mouth so she could ask what had happened.

“Answers later. First, we need to get you to safety.”

Olivia wasn’t sure if she could stand, but she shouldn’t have worried, because Vincent gathered her against him. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. The rest of her fear melted away.

It had taken long enough, but she was finally in Vincent Chiasson’s arms.