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But she ignored him, dropping to her knees with a laugh of embarrassment. “I’m never this clumsy…” Her words cut off sharply as a shard sliced into her palm. The sting came quick, followed by a slow welling of blood.

She stared at it for a beat, stunned, and before she could react, she was lifted, swept up into strong arms as if she weighed no more than a feather.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, clutching his neck with her uninjured hand. “I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine,” he growled, striding quickly down the hall. “You cut yourself.”

“It’s barely anything,” she insisted. “I’ll rinse it off, it’ll be fine.”

But he didn’t slow. His jaw was locked, his eyes hooded, as though the sight of her blood had flipped a switch inside him.

He pushed through the doors into the silent kitchen. With the staff gone for the night, the room felt oddly cavernous.

“Where’s Rosa?” she whispered, breathless as he set her carefully on the countertop. Her pulse raced. Not from the cut, but from the man who looked at her as though any harm to her was an unforgivable offense.

Chapter 8

Paulo set her down on the counter with far more care than he expected. Reluctantly. Because Madelaine felt so damn good in his arms, and that irritated him. He had to remind himself, yet again, that she was temporary. A few more days. A week at most. Then she’d be gone, off to find a job translating or tutoring or whatever else came with pitiful paychecks.

The idea made his jaw tighten. She’d be undervalued, underpaid, probably tucked away in some drafty office with fluorescent lights while idiots barked orders at her. The thought disgusted him. She should stay here, where she could be cared for properly. Pampered.

As soon as that word crossed his mind, Paulo froze, scowling down at her bleeding hand. Pampered? He’d lost his mind. She was not here to be pampered. She was the daughter of the bastard who had destroyed his family. His mortal enemy.

He shoved the thought aside and turned on the faucet. Cold water. That was what he needed to focus on. Not her soft skin, not the way she had felt in his arms, like puzzle pieces clicking together. Cold water.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Her hand trembled slightly under the stream. Pain, he told himself. Nothing else. He studied the cut, his thumb brushing the edge of her palm. “It doesn’t look like there’s glass left, so I’ll get bandages.”

He grabbed a dish towel from the drawer and pressed it firmly against the wound. “Hold this. Keep pressure on the cut. Don’t move.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted again, even trying to shift like she wanted to hop off the counter.

“Stay put,” he ordered, the command coming out sharper than intended. His hand landed on her knee to pin her in place. Warm. Too warm. He felt her tense under his touch and when he looked at her face, her blue eyes blazed with something he couldn’t name.

Cute. Sexy. Infuriating.

Damn it all, he wanted to kiss her!

All too aware that kissing her was a terrible idea, Paulo turned quickly away, going to the pantry. The first aid kit was right there, but he stood staring at it for an extra beat, trying to get his breathing under control. Madelaine was potent. Every look, every word, stirred things in him he didn’t want stirred. Her hair caught the light, her eyes sparkled with an odd mixture of trust and suspicion, and he hated how badly he wanted to earn that trust.

He was not going to kiss her. He was not going to touch her again. She was Ronan Keane’s daughter. The enemy.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the kit and returned to her. She was still perched on the counter, waiting for him. Her round ass wiggled slightly before she stilled at his approach, and he nearly groaned at the sight.

“The bleeding has stopped,” she announced, reaching for the kit. “I just need a band-aid.”

He pulled the kit out of her reach, his scowl deepening. “You won’t be able to apply this one-handed,” he told her flatly. He jerked his chin toward her. “Let me see.”

Defiance flared in her blue eyes, sharp and bright. For a second, he thought she’d refuse out of sheer stubbornness. But then she pulled back the towel. The bleeding had slowed to a faint trickle. Not deep. Not dangerous.

And that irritated him.

He should have been relieved. Instead, something in him bristled at the idea that this little interlude, this excuse to touch her, to be close, was almost over. He reminded himself it was duty. She was his responsibility, his prisoner, and that meant keeping her safe. But the lie sat heavy in his chest.

“Hold still,” he snapped when she twitched as though to pull away.

“Stop telling me what to do!” she shot back, chin high, grumbling like an indignant cat.