Page 61 of A Royal Mistake

“Sorry.”

He studied her, his dark eyes tracking her every move. “No need to apologize. It’s not your fault I let that prat get under my skin.”

Maybe. Maybe not. He wouldn’t have been in that position if it weren’t for her, but she knew Henry well enough to know that arguing would be a waste of breath. The man was as stubborn as he was driven.

“Maybe I should call the palace physician.” She worried her bottom lip as she tore open another gauze pad. “I think you might need stitches.”

“It’s barely a nick.” He scoffed, capturing her wrist and forcing her to meet his eye. There was steel in his voice when he spoke again. “Nothing to worry about, love. Head wounds always bleed a lot.”

He relaxed his grip, and she pulled free, reaching for a tube of antibiotic ointment.

“What if you have a concussion?”

This time, he actually laughed. “Trust me, I don’t have a concussion.” When he spoke again, his voice was low and gravelly. “If I seem disoriented, it’s not because I took an elbow to the face.”

“Oh, really?” She leaned down to apply the ointment to his forehead. “If getting cuffed on the head isn’t the cause, what is?”

When he didn’t immediately reply, she glanced down. His gaze was locked on her chest—on breasts that were barely concealed by the tiny yellow bikini—as she stood wedged between his muscular thighs. In their current position, her breasts were literally at eye level, giving him an unobstructed view of her very best asset.

Sweet Jesus. Why did she keep putting herself in these awkward positions with Henry?

Flames ignited at the center of her chest, licking their way up the side of her neck. How the hell had she forgotten she was wearing the tiny swimsuit? She was practically naked.

As was Henry.

Do. Not. Look.

Her gaze flicked to the black spandex that hugged his thighs and—oh. Was that? Yes. Henry was…hard. The thick ridge of his erection strained against the snug swim trunks and she half-wondered if it might poke out through the top of his shorts. She’d never even seen a penis before, let alone an erect one.

Cheeks burning, she tried to avert her gaze. She didn’t want to look—okay, that wasn’t strictly true—but it wasright there. And she was curious. What would it be like to touch Henry? To feel his weight in her hand?

“If it weren’t for that tiny fucking bikini,” he said, snapping her out of her penis induced reverie, “perhaps sanity would have prevailed.”

She straightened. “Are you implying the gash on your forehead is the result of my swimsuit?”

A mischievous grin spread over his face, revealing his dimples. “Apparently I’m incapable of rational thought when you’re strutting around looking so damn sexy.”

He thought she was sexy? She glanced down at her swimsuit, mentally high-fiving herself for the bold choice. She’d hoped it might catch Henry’s eye, but—

Focus, Pippa!

Right. First aid, then… everything else.

She grabbed a butterfly bandage and tore open the wrapper. Henry stilled at her touch and she stretched the bandage across the gash, doing her best to close it up tight. She’d taken a first aid course to prepare for her time abroad with VDRI, but she’d never actually had to use those skills until now.

Either he had a high tolerance for pain or she was a natural, because he didn’t so much as flinch when she sealed up the wound. Then again, he said he’d had worse injuries. After what she’d seen in the pool today, she didn’t doubt it. If the guys got this aggressive over bragging rights, she could only imagine what went down when there were real stakes like a championship in play.

She stepped back to survey her work, secretly pleased she’d been able to handle it without calling for help.

“I think you’re good.” She offered him an apologetic smile. “But it might leave a scar. To match the one on your hip.”

Which will only add to his rugged good looks.

Henry shrugged, as if a scar were the least of his concerns. Maybe it was. Because the way he was staring at her? Like she was a gift he wanted to tear open? It sent shivers down her spine.

“How did you get it? The one on your hip, I mean.” God, why was she still talking when she could be kissing him? What was wrong with her?

“When I was eight,” he said, eyes shuttered in a way she’d never seen before, “I was in a car accident. The paparazzi were chasing a story, driving like reckless Arschlochs, and I was collateral damage. Our car crumpled like a tin can and a piece of metal sliced through my femoral artery. I nearly bled out, but I got lucky.” He flashed her a wry smile. “Now I’ve got a wicked scar to show for it.”