Listed: Volume II

by Adams, Noelle

  Naturally, Paul was already up, looking cool and attractive. He was working at the desk on his laptop and had probably been up for a while.

  The effort it took to get dressed and walk into the parlor had made Emily a little dizzy, but she gave him as cheerful a good-morning as she could manage.

  Paul looked up and smiled at her in a way she liked—a quiet smile but one that felt real. “How are you?”

  Consecutive waves of hot and cold prompted a sudden feeling of panic. She forced out, “Fine,” and walked over to the room service cart where she always got her coffee.

  The scent of coffee hit her nose and made her feel ill. Heat seemed to pulse out of the stainless steel carafe. Instead of coffee, she poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with shaking hands and went to sit on a chair by a window far away from Paul.

  She could feel his eyes on her as she tried to sip her juice.

  “Emily?” Paul prompted after a stretch of silence.

  She made a wordless mumble of response, wishing her body didn’t hurt so much so she could think more clearly.

  Then Paul—damn him—got out of his chair and walked over to where she sat. He scrutinized her in his usual way, looking for signs of her dying.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, her tone far sharper than was warranted. “I’m just tired after yesterday.”

  Paul didn’t reply with words. He reached out and put a hand on her forehead.

  Emily tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere she could go.

  “Damn it, Emily,” Paul said curtly, putting his hand on her forehead again. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She tried to glare at him with imposing indignation, but she felt so sick she was afraid she might cry.

  “Come here,” he murmured, his voice a little husky as he reached down to pull her to her feet. “You need to get back into bed.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed.” She tried to pull away from him, but she was too weak and unsteady on her feet. “We have to make our flight.”

  “You can’t go with a fever.” Paul sounded mild now, gentle, but his arm at her back was strong as he guided her into her bedroom.

  She felt like she was choking on the pain in her body, the oppressive heat, and the crushing disappointment. Her shoulders shook a few times—quite unwillingly—but she wasn’t going to let herself cry. As Paul helped her off with her cardigan and shoes, she mumbled, “Maybe it won’t last very long.”

  Paul unlatched her watch and slid it from her wrist. “Maybe it won’t,” he agreed, easing her down so she was lying in her unmade bed.

  She peered up at him fuzzily, trying to read the expression on his face. He didn’t look or sound tender or pitying. Just mild. At least he didn’t look annoyed at her for trying to act like she wasn’t sick.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said before walking out of her room.

  She was starting to shiver again, so she pulled the covers up until they were tucked under her chin. She felt absolutely miserable, but at least when she was lying down she didn’t feel quite so dizzy.

  Paul returned in less than a minute, and he had in his hand a thermometer that took her temperature by being held against her head for just a few seconds.

  “What is it?” Emily asked, her teeth chattering, when he pulled his arm back and read the display. She felt kind of like a child and didn’t like that feeling at all, but she couldn't seem to do anything about it.

  “102⁰,” Paul muttered, his eyes shifting from the thermometer to her face. “No wonder you feel so bad.”

  “Maybe it won’t last long,” she said again. “And we can still fly out later today.”

  Paul’s eyes softened as they rested on her. “I’m sorry, Emily. You can’t go anywhere today.”

  “But—” she began, before she cut herself off. There was no sense in arguing. Paul had made it clear that, about her health, he would dig in his heels. She just didn’t have the energy anyway. She curled up on her side. “I really wanted to cross it off my list.”

  “I know, but we’ll go in a couple of days when you’re feeling better.”

  Her eyes widened in sudden hope. “We can still go?”

  “Of course. I’ll just reschedule everything. Now get some rest. I’m going to call the doctor.”

  Emily released a long sigh and closed her eyes, relieved that everything wasn’t completely ruined. The darkness throbbed behind her closed eyelids. Her attempt to cheer herself up by visualizing all she would see in Egypt ended up as a bizarre, vibrating picture of her and Paul hopping over the Pyramids.

  It wasn’t long before the crazy image shifted into the blackness of sleep.

  * * *

  She was jarred awake by a gentle hand on her shoulder and a soft voice saying, “Emily? Can you wake up?”

  She groaned as the world closed in around her with hot, achy heaviness.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said, pushing her hair away from her face. “The doctor’s here.”

  She tried to make herself focus on his familiar face. His gray eyes were soft like before as he straightened up. Then she shifted her gaze to another man standing beside her bed. He was middle-aged and balding and smiling at her.

  “Hello,” she managed to croak. Her mouth was painfully dry, and she fumbled for her water until Paul moved the bottle into her hand.

  “Sorry you’re feeling poorly, Mrs. Marino,” the doctor said, reaching over to take her temperature with a thermometer similar to Paul’s. “I talked to Dr. Franklin, and he updated me on your case. This will only take a few minutes, and then I’ll let you rest again.”

  Emily nodded, deciding that would do for a response, since her throat was aching and she didn’t feel like talking.

  “102.9⁰,” the doctor said, reading the thermometer.

  “It’s gone up almost a whole degree since I called you,” Paul said. He was speaking softly and to the doctor.

  “It may keep going up.” The doctor smiled pleasantly as he took Emily’s blood pressure, listened to her chest, and checked her throat. “Everything looks fine,” he told her. “You’re going to feel sick for a while, but it’s early yet and it shouldn’t last very long.”

  She nodded mutely again, her teeth starting to chatter as her body shifted suddenly from hot to cold. Her neck hurt, her thighs hurt, her fingers hurt, her eyes hurt. She heard herself making a helpless sound through her shivering.

  “Find her another blanket,” the doctor said. He’d turned his back to her now and was talking to Paul. “Don’t let her shiver like that—it increases the core body temperature and could raise her fever.”

  Since her part of the ordeal seemed to be over, Emily closed her eyes and huddled under the covers. Someone walked over and put another blanket over her—it smelled like Paul but it would hurt too much to open her eyes, so she didn’t actually see him drape it over her. The extra blanket helped. She stopped shivering almost immediately.

  A minute later, she heard voices again. They were farther away now. Outside her room. She could hear them, though.

  “Keep checking her temperature regularly,” the doctor said, “Every half hour. If it gets above 105⁰, give me a call and we’ll decide if we need to take her to the hospital. But, if she follows the same course as her aunt, then I don’t think the fever will spike that high this time.”

  “What can I do for her?” That voice was obviously Paul’s.

  “Stagger the dosages of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, so she can take something as often as possible. Try to keep her comfortable—with cool rags or maybe a tepid bath. Don’t let her shiver. Keep her hydrated. She can eat if she wants to, but don’t make her.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’re worried about your wife, Mr. Marino, but I don’t think this fever should last very long. The early ones her aunt had didn't. Give me a call if you have any questions today, and I’ll check in with you tomorrow regardless.”

  The voice disappeared then.
Emily was curled in a tight ball and thought she was still listening. She couldn’t quite figure out what happened to the disembodied voices.

  She was concentrating so hard on listening that she jumped when Paul’s voice sounded from just above her. “Emily?”

  She opened one eye and glared at him malevolently out of it.

  “I’m sorry. Can you sit up and take these pills? Then you can go to sleep, and no one will bother you.”

  Paul didn’t really give her a choice, since he pulled her up gently into a sitting position and put what looked like Advil pills in her hand. She swallowed them obediently with the water he handed her, although they hurt as they went down her throat.

  “I’m going to sleep now,” she told him, rather raspily but with what she thought was appropriate authority.

  “An excellent plan.” He walked over and pulled the room-darkening curtains closed, and it didn’t seem so terrible to keep her eyes open.

  But she didn’t need to keep her eyes open now, so she closed them.

  * * *

  The next time conscious awareness pushed its painful way into her mind, her body hurt even worse. She was so hot that, for a moment, it felt like she couldn’t breathe.

  She pushed the covers off frantically and took several ragged gasps.

  “Emily?”

  The voice grated on her nerves so she ignored it. She wasn’t even sure where it came from. She tossed on the bed, kicking at the covers and trying to find a cool spot on the sheet.

  She was sweating, and her clothes were oppressive and confining. The ponytail was poking into the back of her head, and her bra was wretchedly tight.

  Her eyes were tightly closed, but she jerked when something touched her head. She opened her eyes to discover what had touched her and gave a little sob because the dim room seemed to blind her.

  She saw Paul, still looking cool and handsome in his blue shirt, checking the thermometer.

  She sucked in more air and closed her eyes, wanting everything to just go away. Her ponytail poked her so horribly that she reached up and yanked the elastic out of her hair and threw the band blindly across the room.

  Then she felt something deliciously cold and wet on her forehead. It moved slowly to her cheeks and her neck. She sighed in relief as her face started to cool a little.

  When she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t quite so unbearable.

  “Do you think you can get up and change clothes?” Paul asked, still wiping her face with the cool, wet washcloth. “I think you’d feel better. I should have had you change earlier.”

  Emily wanted desperately to get out of her bra, and that was enough incentive to heave herself into a sitting position.

  The room whirled sickening at the change of position. For some reason, it made her realize something else.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she mumbled. She was horrified at the idea of walking all the way across the room.

  Paul nodded and put down the wet washcloth. “Okay. I’ll help you get there.”

  Emily hauled her legs over the side of the bed and sat for a minute, breathing deeply and getting her balance. Then she let Paul help her up with an arm around her waist, and she leaned on him as she hobbled across the room.

  His body was so warm that it made her feel even hotter, but at least he was strong and hard—good for leaning on. Her legs were working better by the time she got to the bathroom, and she told him, “I’ll be all right in here. Can you find me something cool to wear?” She gestured toward the packed luggage she’d intended to take to Egypt.

  Paul looked a little dubious about leaving her to her own devices, but she found enough energy to close the door in his face.

  She just wasn’t going to pee in front of Paul.

  After she’d gone to the bathroom, she leaned on the sink as another wave of heat flooded her body. She was sweating again, so she splashed cold water on her face. It felt good, but she got her loose hair wet, and it clung to her skin in an irritating way.

  Since the ponytail in the back of her head had driven her crazy, she fumbled in her makeup bag for two elastic bands and pulled her hair into two low, loose ponytails, which would hopefully keep it off her neck but not poke her so painfully in the head.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized she looked like an eight-year-old, but she felt too bad to even care.

  There was a tap on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was croaking again, and the effort she’d exerted caught up with her. She closed the toilet and sat on it, afraid she might fall over.

  Paul came in with her change of clothes—a white tank-top and pale blue cotton sleep shorts. “Do you need help?”

  She shook her head and groped for the clothes, wanting to give him some sort of thanks but not having the energy.

  He only shut the bathroom door partway on his way out, but she barely noticed. She dragged off her top and pants and was finally able to take off her damned bra. After she dropped the clothes on the floor in a heap, she pulled on the much cooler tank and shorts.

  She rallied herself enough to stand and then limped out to the bedroom.

  Paul was waiting, and he put his arm around her again to support her on her way back to the bed.

  He was hot—way too hot—and his arm at her waist was way too tight. She didn’t like it. She wanted it off her. But some vague awareness that he was trying to help made her bite her lip instead of snap at him to get away from her.

  “Try to drink some water,” Paul said gently, handing her a fresh, cool bottle after she’d sat down on the edge of the bed.

  She obediently took several cold swigs, although she choked on the last one and the coughing hurt her entire body.

  “And you can take some Tylenol now,” he said, handing her the pills. “It should help.”

  She didn’t want to swallow anything else, and she couldn’t seem to focus enough to coordinate her hand. One of the pills fell onto the floor, and she almost yelled at Paul since it felt like his fault for giving them to her.

  He leaned down to pick the pill up so at least she didn’t have to do that.

  She was flushed and perspiring from new waves of heat by the time she’d swallowed the pills and was able to lie down.

  Paul tried to cover her up, but she yanked the covers out of his hand and kicked them down to the bottom of the bed.

  She thought she’d made him mad—which was, for some reason, a satisfying thought—when he walked away from the bed. But he returned in just a moment and put a wonderfully cool washcloth on her forehead.

  Emily released a raspy sigh as he wiped at her hot face. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking if she was perfectly still maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much.

  It wasn’t long before the coolness became too cool. She mumbled out a wordless complaint as she felt the cold cloth on her neck, and her skin broke out in goose bumps. The wet cloth went away, and she groped blindly for the covers, but they were too far down the bed for her to reach. She writhed restlessly, her bare skin exposed to the cool of the room.

  Then Paul pulled up the blankets and she was warm again. She tried to thank him—not because she felt grateful but because she was fuzzily aware that it was something civilized people were supposed to do—but all she heard was a hoarse mumble come out of her mouth.

  Then he wasn’t standing next to the bed anymore, and it was a relief. She hoped he’d gone away.

  She peeked out from under her lashes and saw that he hadn’t left the room after all. He was sitting on a chair, not far from the bed, with a book opened on his lap.

  But he wasn’t reading the book. He was just watching her.

  He was full of heat. He was making it hot in the room. Even his eyes were making her hotter. She grumbled under her breath and turned over on her other side, with her back to him so she wouldn’t get the full-force of his heat.

  This was her room. He shouldn’t be sitting here. The chair must be
uncomfortable, and he didn’t have anything to do but stare at her. He should go into another room where he could work or watch television.

  She didn’t want him here. He was making her hot.

  * * *

  Emily was smothering. She was smothering. She couldn’t breathe through the heat bearing down on her.

  She couldn’t breathe. She needed help. She needed help.

  “Help!” she gasped through parched lips. Her body arched up with the panic of awareness. It was dark. She was alone. And she was dying.

  “Paul, help!”

  “I’m here,” she heard. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Then something was cool on her forehead. On her cheeks. On her neck. And she could almost breathe.

  She heard drips of water, loud and grating, but then it was cool and wet again on her skin. She opened her mouth but it was dust dry, and she didn’t have breath enough to speak.

  Then something cool and wet was in her mouth, dribbling down her chin. She swallowed instinctively and felt the water as it made its way down her aching throat.

  She wanted more so she groped for it, but someone else’s hand was on the bottle, someone else’s hand was on the back of her head, tilting it up so she could drink.

  When she’d had as much as she could, she pushed the water away. Then the hand lowered her head back down, and she tossed her head frantically on the pillow because it was just too hot.

  Then she felt that coolness on her skin again. And fingers were pushing loose strands of hair off her face, making it cooler at her hairline too.

  And she could breathe.

  The world was a whirl of heat and pain, but at least she could breathe again.

  * * *

  She was on fire.

  She was surrounded by fire. Her house was on fire, and she was inside it.

  She wasn’t supposed to be inside it.

  The fire was hot, scorching her, killing her.

  Panic overwhelmed her—she wasn’t supposed to be in the house when it burned down—and she jerked up into a sitting position, trying to explain that the house burning down was just a warning. Vincent Marino had purposefully waited until there was no one home.