Jordan St Claire: Dark and Dangerous Read Free Page A

luck to receive injuries that have left you less than your previously robust and healthy self. Either live with it, or fight it, but don’t hide yourself away here, feeling sorry for yourself.’ She was breathing hard in her agitation.
    Jordan looked down at her with sudden comprehension. ‘If Lucan didn’t send you here to go to bed with me, then who the hell
are
you? Yet another doctor? Or perhaps my arrogant big brother now thinks I’m in need of a shrink?’ His top lip turned back contemptuously.
    Stephanie McKinley quirked dark brows. ‘I had the impression from reading your medical notes that your skull escaped injury when you fell?’
    ‘It did,’ he bit out tightly.
    She raised auburn brows. ‘Do
you
think you’re in need of a psychiatrist?’
    He scowled darkly. ‘I’m not playing this game with you, Miss McKinley.’
    ‘I assure you I don’t consider this a game, Mr Simpson—’
    ‘You know who I am?’ Jordan interjected.
    ‘Well, of
course
I know who you are.’ Irritation creased the smooth creaminess of her brow. ‘You’re a household name. Obviously you’re feeling less than your usual … suave and charming self,’ she concluded tactfully, ‘but you’re still
you.’
    Was he? Sometimes Jordan wondered. Until six months ago he had enjoyed his life. Living in California. Doing the work he loved to do. ‘Suave and charming’ enough to be able to go to bed with any woman who took his interest. Since the accident all that had changed.
He
had changed.
    ‘In that case, Miss McKinley, what I need is for someone to find a screenplay that calls for a male lead who limps! Know of any?’ Jordan growled his frustration as he moved away from her, favouring his right side as usual, as the damaged muscle and bones in his hip and leg protested at the movement. Hell, he hurt no matter if he moved or not!
    ‘Not offhand, no,’ the redhead said tartly. ‘And you wouldn’t need one if you concentrated your energies on getting back the full use of that leg instead of wallowing in self-pity.’
    ‘Damn it to hell!’ Jordan gave a groan of disgust, his eyes lifting to the heavens in supplication. ‘You’re another sadistic physiotherapist, aren’t you? Come to pound and massage until I can’t stand the pain any longer.’ It was a statement, not a question; Jordan hadhad one physiotherapist or another working on his leg and hip for weeks, months, since the surgeon had finished putting his shattered bones back together. None of them had succeeded in doing more than sending him to hell and back.
    ‘The fact that the leg still hurts could be a positive thing, not a negative one,’ Stephanie McKinley retorted.
    ‘I’ll be sure to think of that at two o’clock in the morning, when I can’t sleep because the pain is driving me insane!’
    When Lucan St Claire had warned Stephanie that his brother was ‘a
lot
aggressive’, he had forgotten to add that he was also stubborn and unreasonable! ‘In this case pain could be a good thing—it could mean the muscles are regenerating,’ she explained patiently.
    ‘Or it could mean that they’re dying!’
    ‘Well, yes.’ No point in trying to deceive him concerning that possibility. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more once I’ve worked with it—’
    ‘The only part of my body I would be remotely interested in having any woman work with is a couple of inches higher than my thigh!’ he shot back wickedly.
    There was no way, complete professional or not, Stephanie could have prevented the heated flush that now coloured her cheeks. Or the way her gaze moved instinctively down to the area in question. That particular part of his anatomy certainly seemed to be working normally, if the hard and lengthy bulge she could see pressing against his jeans was anything to go by!
    Jordan St Claire—no, Jordan
Simpson
—was obviously physically aroused. By her.
    No, not by her in particular, Stephanie rebuked herself impatiently. She very much doubted that