by Elise Faber
“No,” I told him, “I’m okay. What did you need to know?”
“Let’s start at the beginning. Do you know about what time you pulled up to the gate?”
“Um, maybe a few minutes after ten?” I tried to think back, but I hadn’t really been paying attention to the time. I’d been too enthralled with the woman sitting in the car next to me. “I left the party early and saw Tammy, and since my car was blocked in and I’d had a couple of drinks, I asked her for a ride. My place is . . . thirty minutes or so from Artie and Pierce’s without traffic, but we did hit the usual slowdown on the freeway for a few miles.”
He nodded.
And then asked another question. And another.
And by the time I’d related even the most innocuous detail about the drive and that stop-and-go traffic and the winding road up to my house, finally reaching the part of the story where I’d been putting in my gate code, my cell rang.
I glanced down at the screen. “Sorry,” I said. “I think that must be the doctor.”
“Go ahead.”
I picked up, got confirmation it was, in fact, the doctor, and said, “I’ll come down and let you in.”
Bill snagged my forearm. “I can radio down. They’ll escort him up.”
I nodded, relayed that information, and hung up. Then I told Bill, “It’s actually her. Dr. Bailey Stevens. She says she has her ID.”
After calling that into his radio, he said, “So, you’d put the code in . . .”
“Part of it, yes. But I hadn’t finished when Tammy whipped around, pushing me between her and the car. At first, I didn’t see anything, but then I caught a flash of silver and saw the man coming toward us. I heard her tell him to stop, but he didn’t. Then she fired.” My heart began pounding again in my chest, and I took a breath, forced it to slow. “He got back up, and she fired again. Two times.”
“Then what happened?”
“He didn’t get back up, so she kicked the knife away, ordered me to call 9-1-1 and to get some towels—”
The knock at the door interrupted me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
Bill nodded.
I went to answer the door, or rather to follow Tammy down the hall as she pulled it open.
A petite brunette wearing a plaid button-down and blue jeans stood on the porch. She held a large bag with one hand, an ID in the other.
“Who are you?” Tammy asked, and I’d be lying if the protectiveness in her tone didn’t make my heart skip a beat.
“I’m Dr. Stev—”
I moved, some instinct bringing me to Tammy’s side in an instant.
It was a good thing, too.
Because she went gray, her legs buckled, and I snagged her arm before her head could crack into the frame, tugging her body against mine.
She tried to shrug me off. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am fi—”
A sentiment that was cut off by her passing out, going completely limp in my hold. I moved quickly, slipping one arm beneath her knees, shifting the other to her shoulders, and hoisting her up against my chest.
“She’s the injured one,” I told the doctor needlessly.
To her credit, Dr. Stevens didn’t blink, just said, “Let’s get her inside.”
I turned around but not before I saw another camera flash.
And I knew—just knew—that Maggie was going to kill me for not calling her.
Chapter Six
Tammy
I woke to a strange tugging at my arm, muffled voices in the background.
For a moment, I thought I was back home, back in Darlington, my adorable twin nieces having snuck into my house and attempting to wake me.
But, for one, the mattress I was lying on was much more comfortable than my own, and for another, the voices in the background were male.
“Easy,” came a female voice, and my eyes flashed open to see a woman holding a needle and a pair of scissors in either hand. “I’m Dr. Stevens,” she said. “You have quite a nasty gash, but I’m nearly done stitching it up. How are you feeling?”
Exhausted for one.
Weak for another.
But that was just the adrenaline coming down, or perhaps it was from the loss of blood. The cut had soaked through most of the gauze the paramedic had given me before I’d finally managed to get it to stop.
“I’m fine.”
A smile. “You good with me finishing up?”
I nodded, directed my eyes away from my arm, and tried to ignore the tugging when it resumed.
“You were asleep for the cleaning part,” she said lightly. “Lucky for you. But I do want to put you on some hefty antibiotics, just in case that blade was dirtier than it looked. As for blood loss, you lost quite a bit, but as long as you take it easy for the next couple of days, you should bounce back quickly.”
Well, there went my trip to the happiest place on Earth.
I made a face.
She laughed, patted my hand. “It’s not so bad, I promise.”
“I’m here on vacation,” I said, turning back in time to see her snip the thread—or whatever material it was that doctors used to stitch people up—and set the instruments aside.
“Knife wound as a souvenir. That sucks.”
I snorted.
She patted my hand again. “Though, what doesn’t suck is having that man go all protective and growly over you.” Her head inclined toward Talbot, and I followed her gaze, saw he was watching me while speaking to Officer McTavish again.
“What do you mean?” I asked, glancing back.
Her brows lifted. “You’d have thought the man had the queen in his arms when you passed out.” She tugged off her gloves. “And I don’t mean to make light of it, because clearly, you’re a person who deserves care, but I don’t think Talbot Green is going to forget what you did for him any time soon.”
Shock made it so no words came.
Not that it mattered as Dr. Stevens began relaying information for me, writing me out a prescription for antibiotics (after shooing the men out so she could give me a shot of them in my ass, joy of joys). Then she took down my email so she could email me instructions, waved off my offer of my health insurance and my credit card, saying it was already taken care of.
Then she packed up her bag, patted my hand for a third time, and left.
The men weren’t back yet, and I was alone, lying in a bed that wasn’t my own, in a giant room with flowy furnishings along with a humungous TV on one wall, and trying to reconcile the image of Talbot being protective and growly.
Over me. A woman he hardly knew.
It just didn’t fit in with the flirtatious, teasing man from the garden and car ride, nor with the stunned one in the aftermath of the attack.
He’d been so quiet, so withdrawn.
So . . . protective? Growly?
Um, what?
That just didn’t compute.
A soft knock had me looking up, tearing my gaze from the large painting of birch trees adorning one long wall over to the door.
“Hey,” Talbot said when I met his eyes. “How are you feeling?”
Besides the throbbing in my arm and the swishing sensation in my brain? I was just peachy. I also needed to find a way to get out of here and back to my hotel. I’d stay in bed, order room service, and veg out on bad television.
Kind of what I’d do if I were home alone.
Only paying two hundred and fifty bucks a night to do it.
Not the point.
“I’m great,” I said, pushing my elbows beneath me. “I should probably go.”
He shook his head.
I frowned.
“You can’t go anywhere for the next few hours, at least. They’re still processing the crime scene, and that’s not even considering the paparazzi camped out there. You’d be overrun in just a few seconds.” A sharp shake of his head. “I need to get you security.”
I plunked my feet onto the
floor. “I can take care of myself.”
Golden eyes on mine. “That, I know.” He crossed over to me, dropped a hand on my shoulder before I could stand, keeping my ass on the comfy mattress. “And me, too, apparently.” His expression was filled with remorse. “I’m so sorry you were here and got caught up in this.”
“I’m not.”
He blinked.
“If I weren’t here, something bad might have happened.” He made a noise of protest, and I amended my statement. “Something worse might have happened.”
“You were hurt protecting me.”
And there was a hint of a growl.
Interesting.
Also interesting was the way it sent a ribbon of desire through me, curling in my abdomen, dragging over my skin like heated silk.
I lifted my chin. “It’s my job to protect people.”
“You could have been killed.”
“So could you.”
Talbot stopped, considered that, then abruptly shook his head, nudging me to lie back on the mattress again. Normally, I would have never allowed it, but my head was still a bit fuzzy and my arm was starting to hurt in earnest.
“I’m going to grab you pain medicine and some food to put in your stomach. You’re going to keep that adorable, sexy, competent ass in my bed. Otherwise, I’ll rustle up some handcuffs and see how you like being on the receiving end of them.”
Then he was gone, sweeping from the room in a flurry of male fury.
“My bed?” I mouthed, my eyes taking in the space under a whole new lens. His bed. Talbot’s bed.
Talbot’s. Bed.
Sweet Christ.
In fact, that detail took me so long to process—I was blaming the aching arm and swirling head and not that curl of heat in my stomach, between my thighs—that I hardly processed the order, the threat of handcuffs.
Until I did.
“Motherfucker,” I hissed, shoving myself up again and seeing that my feet were bare, taking a moment to let my brain settle before I searched the room for my shoes.
There.
Lined up neatly by the door.
Squinting against my eddying vision, I took a few deep breaths. “Thinks he can give me orders,” I muttered. “As fucking if.”
But my eyes didn’t clear, and my arm was hurting more by the minute.
Clearly, even if my car wasn’t part of a crime scene, I couldn’t safely drive.
“What did I say?”
It was a snapped-out question, one that was paired with Talbot stalking across the room, setting a mug of what smelled like tea on the nightstand, along with toast covered in cinnamon and sugar.
Both of which smelled delicious.
Not that it mattered.
I needed to get out of here. Because the longer I spent in this man’s presence, the more I was at risk of remembering who he was . . . and who I was. I needed to call a Lyft. STAT.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, doing some snapping of my own when he went to no doubt nudge me back onto the mattress again.
He lifted his hands, though those golden eyes were heated to molten metal. “You look like you’re going to pass out,” he growled. Yes. Growled, and I was momentarily stunned by how lovely that rasping sound felt as it flitted through the airwaves, brushed lightly over my skin.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to get back to my hotel and sleep it off.”
He laughed, loud and long, and it was a fucking beautiful sound.
“What?” I asked when he’d quieted.
“You are absolutely fucking insane if you think that I’m letting you leave when you’re like this. You can’t drive—”
“I didn’t say I was going to,” I muttered.
“Hell, if I called a car for you, you’d pass out in the back seat before you even had the chance to make it to your hotel.” His voice gentled, those eyes turning more into sunshine than metal. “You need to eat a little something so you can take the pain meds, and then you need to rest.”
“I’m not taking drugs from a stranger.”
A brow lifting, a perfect arched rainbow above the shining sun of his eyes. “I could hardly be considered a stranger,” he muttered. “I’ve known Maggie for years.”
That was true.
But I didn’t know this man.
“Should I call Dr. Stevens back? Will you trust the medication if it’s from a doctor?” He pulled out his cell. “Or Maggie?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t ruin Maggie’s night. She was having such a good time, and I don’t want her to worry or to leave. She deserves this.” And I didn’t want to ruin it, especially when she and Aaron’s road to their happy ending had been so long and arduous.
“Okay,” he said. “So, I’ll get Dr. Stevens to come back.”
Shit.
And make the poor woman turn around this late at night?
“No,” I said. “Don’t do that, either.”
He knelt by the bed. “Then what do you want to do?”
My heart prickled. My eyes narrowed.
“Because obviously,” he pointed out, “if you won’t let me call Mags or Dr. Stevens, we’re at a stalemate.”
I resisted the urge to cross my arms.
“I’m not going to force the pain pills down your throat.”
As if he even could.
And yes, that was delusion talking, considering this man could easily overpower me in my current state.
“I can FaceTime Dr. Stevens to confirm the pills are from her.”
I wrinkled my nose.
“I can promise they are, in fact, just pain pills and not some sort of illicit drug.”
“And that is exactly what an illicit drug dealer would say,” I muttered.
“So, FaceTime with the good doctor then?”
“No,” I muttered, grabbing the pill bottle from the nightstand and squinting to read the label with my still-hazy vision. Oxycontin, ten milligrams every four hours, and the issuer was Dr. Stevens. “What?” I asked, still muttering. “Does she give this stuff out like candy?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “This was the first time I’ve used her, but considering that there are only enough pills in there for three days, I doubt it.”
I kept squinting, saw that indeed the number eighteen was written under quantity. Then sighed and knew I’d lost this battle. My arm felt like it had gone six rounds with a flamethrower, and fatigue was creeping in to join my stuffing-filled head. I needed food, pills, and sleep.
In that order, even if my body was telling me that I needed it in the opposite.
“What’d you poison the toast with?” I grumbled, setting the pill bottle down and picking up one of the pieces.
“Only a little arsenic,” he said, playing along.
I chuckled, even though I didn’t want to. “Tasty,” I said dryly.
“I did my best. My personal chef has the night off.”
The toast stopped two inches from my mouth, my eyebrow went up.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I like to cook.” A shrug. “I do have someone stock my fridge for me so it’s full when I’m home. But no chef.”
Hmm.
His fingers circled my wrist, pushed it closer to my mouth. “Eat, sweetheart.”
Flutters in my stomach, need sliding up my arm making my breasts go all tingly, my nipples harden against my bra, and I opened my lips, wanting to say something, to tell him not to call me sweetheart. But his hand was still moving mine, and the next thing I knew, the toast was in my mouth and I was taking a bite.
“Mmm,” I moaned.
God, it had been so long since I’d had this simple snack, and I’d forgotten how incredible it was.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded, plowed my way through that slice, still sitting on the edge of the bed, Talbot still on his knees in front of me.
He picked up the mug of tea, passed it over. “Also, not poisoned,” he said before I could even come up with a protest to not accept it. Not t
hat I could, the floral and spice scent was like nirvana, tempting my fingers to wrap around the warm ceramic. “Got it?” he asked, before taking his hand away.
“Yes,” I breathed, lifting it to my lips and drinking deeply.
After I’d sipped for a bit, he took it back, swapped it with the plate for the second piece of toast. Which I devoured, too.
“My mom used to make this for me,” I whispered.
Then immediately wished I could take back the words. I hadn’t thought about my mom in a long time. Not since—
“Mine, too,” he said softly. “When she was sober, that is.” Said so offhandedly that I immediately understood this was part of the whole shitty childhood that the whole world seemed to know—all except for me. Talbot’s shoulders lifted and fell in a small shrug. “I don’t know why, but it always tastes better when someone else makes it for you.”
That was true.
“Do your parents still live in Darlington?” he asked, before I could formulate anything other than a nod.
I shook my head. “They died quite a few years ago now.”
“I’m sorry.” His hand rested lightly on my knee, careful to not touch the abrasions, I realized, but not so high as to make me uncomfortable. The man had skills, that was for damned sure.
“Like I said”—I reached for the bottle of pills—“it’s been years now.”
“Doesn’t mean that stuff just goes away.”
“Trust me,” I said. “Sometimes it’s better that we pretend it just does.”
He went still. Very, very still. Then he reached for the mug, handing it to me when I took a pill out of the bottle and stuck it in my mouth.
I drank, swallowed it down. “Just saying, I’ll kill you if these are illicit drugs.”
“Noted,” he said, lips twitching as he set it on the nightstand again and stood up, moving to another door and disappearing through it, only to emerge a few moments later with a T-shirt and sweats in his hands. Then he knelt in front of me again, his hands on my knees once more, only this time his words made my lungs seize, my pulse flutter.
“Do you need help changing?”
Chapter Seven
Talbot
If she’d had her gun, I might have been her next target.