‘Dr Faulkner?’

His mouth moved, which was encouraging, but no sound emerged. Which was not.

Fully prepared, despite her own close call-and a growing awareness of pain in various bits of her body-to leap heroically into Florence Nightingale mode, Ellie lifted her head to take a better look.

‘Where does it hurt?’

His response was little more than a grunt.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.’

‘I said,’ he repeated, eyes still closed, teeth tightly gritted, ‘that you don’t want to know.’

She frowned.

‘Just move your damned knee…’

‘What?’ Ellie leaned back, provoking a very audible gasp of pain. Belatedly realising exactly where her knee was lodged, she swiftly lifted herself clear, provoking another grunt as she levered herself up off his chest with her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But it was that or the…’ She managed to stop her runaway mouth before it reminded him about the knee.

Obviously at this point any fictional heroine worth her salt would have picked up her injured hero’s hand and held it clasped against her bosom as she stroked back the lick of dark honey-coloured hair that had tumbled over his high brow. Or maybe administered the kiss of life…

Confronted by reality, Ellie didn’t need telling that none of the above would be either appropriate or welcome, and so she confined herself to a brisk, ‘Is there anything I can do?’

The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them, but Dr Faulkner manfully resisted the opportunity to invite her to kiss it better. Or maybe it was just that he needed all his breath to ease himself into a sitting position. He certainly took his time about it, as if fearing that any injudicious move might prove fatal.