One eye arched at his insane remark. "Sterile. In a garage. You must be joking." Tugging the cap off a bottle of rubbing alcohol she'd had stashed in the cabinet, she splashed it over the stainless steel workbench. As she sloshed the remnants of the bottle across her hands, she turned to motion him over to the stool in front of her and stopped dead.
There were two things distracting her at that moment. The half naked hot guy standing in the middle of her garage was fighting for top spot over the massively bruised and still trickling bloody wound. If she'd been anyone else, she may have been squeamish, but she was Lara Croft. She chewed bullets for breakfast and shot up tomb guarding mummy dogs before dinner. She could handle a bare chested guy with a bullet wound. Right?