Under The Cover Of Love

by Carolyn Faulkner

  He stretched out on the bed before she could finish the sentence, thankfully.

  Jenna thoroughly wet the washcloth she'd brought and – trying not to look at certain parts of his body, she drew it over almost every bit of him, dampening the cloth as she went along, and noticing that he quieted almost immediately, eliminating her concern about having to fight him off as she did so.

  Whether he was asleep or unconscious, she didn't know. She just knew that he wasn't reaching for her any longer, cupping her breasts with surprisingly gentle fingers, the sides of his thumbs coaxing nipples that were already halfway turgid from the second he touched them to harden even further while she held her breath.

  "Dear God, you're beautiful," he muttered more than moaned.

  Eventually, his hands fell away, and his eyes closed as his chest began to rise and fall rhythmically.

  Jenna sighed, feeling as if she wanted to collapse, but not before she'd tied him up again, trying to make the knots even tighter this time.

  But it was useless, she quickly found.

  He didn't always come and bear hug her from behind, but when she would check his temp or bathe him again or just check on him, she'd see that he was free range again, and eventually she just stopped the useless effort. Taking care of him was dragging on her badly, she wondered just how much longer she could do it – to say nothing of the fact that she was running out of bandages, and she only had a seven-day supply of antibiotic. She wondered if that would help someone who had gotten so deathly sick so fast.

  That first day ran quickly into a second, and then a third, and, although she was giving him a dose and a half of antibiotic at a time, he was still febrile and delirious, although she wanted to say less so than before. The telephone situation hadn't gotten any better, and she was beginning to think that she might have to take her car into the village to fake the need for more antibiotics at the clinic and get supplies.

  Or just give up and call the cops to come get him, which was something she was rapidly beginning to acknowledge she should have done from the beginning. She wasn't at all sure why she'd delayed, but it was something about him. Jenna knew it was stupid, but he didn't seem...criminal to her, despite how he had treated her. And, as run down as it was making her, she actually liked taking care of him. It was nice to have someone to look after.

  Perhaps she should go by the pound for a pup some time.

  And, besides, by now she'd probably be charged with aiding and abetting, so what the fuck?

  She got her bandaging supplies – but was careful not to buy all of them from the same place so as not to raise suspicions – just in case. She didn't know if someone was following or watching her, but she didn't want to assume they weren't and tip anyone off, either. She went and coughed and wheezed at the doctor, who gave her not only a script for antibiotics but a short course of steroids as well – sometimes severe asthma and the ability to wheeze badly when necessary came in handy.

  She hoped the steroids would give him the boost he needed to shake the fever, finally.

  She conducted her trip as quickly as she could manage, because she didn't want to leave him alone for very long. When she got all of her supplies – including some groceries for real meals instead of the ramen she'd been feeding the both of them for the past couple days – she shuffled into the kitchen, plunking her purse down on the counter she headed into her bedroom, her eyes automatically going to bed.

  Where he wasn't.

  She looked to the floor, thinking he might well have fallen out or fallen while trying to get up, but he wasn't there.

  This time, she heard him take his last step before he grabbed her around her middle, again. Having her back plastered up against him was getting to be routine, she thought. And he was naked again, only this time, he was dripping wet.

  All of a sudden, she found his knife at her throat again. She was going to have a permanent divot there by the time this was finished.

  "Why is there a man's razor and shaving cream in the shower if you live here alone?" he snarled.

  Jenna snorted. "Because I'm a fucking cheapskate, that's why. Do you know how much they overcharge women for pretty pink razors and flowery smelling shaving cream?"

  Suddenly, she realized she'd had just about enough from him. If he was going to fucking well kill her, she wished he'd go ahead and do it already, so she stopped fighting him and even leaned into the blade a bit. "Go on, motherfucker. Kill me, for Christsakes! I'm fucking sick of you constantly threatening me with it and never delivering. Go on! Do it! And, by the way, genius, if I live with someone, where's he been for the past three days?"

  "Three days?" he sounded amazed.

  "Yeah. While you were trying to tie me to my own Goddamned bed, you fainted, and you've been unconscious for the majority of it, running a high fever. I take it you're feeling a bit better, thanks, of course, to the person whose throat you're holding a knife to, but what the hell? If you're so all fired interested in killing me, then fucking well do it. But if you don't, I don't want you to ever threaten me like that again."

  She had no idea where the courage to say that to him – however foolhardy it probably was – had come from, but she had to say she didn't really regret it, even if it was the last thing she ever said.

  Jenna found herself released so abruptly she stumbled away from him, watching him hold the knife almost abashedly, and she could see what she thought was a bit of a blush on his cheeks – or it could be the remnants of the fever, she supposed.

  "You – you took care of me? You must've had to do...well, everything for me."

  She turned her back, ostensibly because of his nudity, but more to force some distance between them. She had gotten to know him quite a bit more intimately than he had her over the past few days, and his regaining consciousness brought her rudely back to reality.

  Instead of answering his question, she whirled and moved around him, into the kitchen to empty the bags, creating one just for him of crap she had bought him. "Antibiotics, steroids, bandages, more aspirin, your own razor and shaving cream and a set of sweats."

  At the mention of the razor his blush deepened, and a hand came up to scrub over his scruff as she stuck the hand holding the bag out towards him, already having turned back to putting away the rest of the stuff she'd gotten, as if whether or not he took it was of no consequence to her.

  "I – I can't believe you did that for me…" he began, sounding reluctantly grateful.

  Without acknowledging anything he'd said, she snapped, "Would you please put something on? The clothes you were wearing are on top of the nightstand or you're welcome to wear the sweats. They're too big for me."

  He was only too happy to have something to do that might make her feel better. He reached for the sweats, figuring that his own clothes were probably still dirty, but then he noticed that she had laundered and folded them quite neatly where she said they were. It took him a minute to get himself dressed but he managed – he wasn't about to ask her for any further assistance in that area – still feeling much weaker than he wanted to and quite stiff, such that the movement of his arm on the side of his injuries was quite restricted.

  He was going to have to remedy that, preferably before he went back out there.

  If she'd let him, which he doubted.

  When he found her again, careful not to sneak up on her, she had already put away the groceries and she was starting to cook something. She barely looked at him, and he couldn't blame her in the least, considering how he'd treated her.

  "It might interest you to know that the day after you...arrived here, two men came looking for you."

  He was instantly alert. "Tell me everything you remember about them."

  She pointed to the card she'd left on the counter. "One of them gave me that. They were both tall, drove a very expensive car that is going to stick out like a sore thumb in this part of the world, and the same goes for their suits. They pretended – without showing any kind of I.D. – that they were a p
art of the manhunt that Penny alluded to, but I knew they weren't."

  His estimation of her – bravery and overall – was already quite high, and just got higher. "You didn't tell them about me?"

  Jenna scoffed. "I have a feeling that if I had, neither one of us would be alive any longer."

  And she was right about that, too. The woman had good instincts, too.

  He looked at her stiff back as she was cooking, how she was holding herself so tight and rigid. He knew that look – she was pissed or hurt or both, and he didn't know exactly why he cared about either, but he did.

  So, with a sigh, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he did something he'd never done before. He walked over to her and reached to turn off the burner, then, when she huffed at him and tried to move away, he caught her hand. Not her wrist, her hand, squeezing it carefully as he shook it.

  "Jenna McInnis, I'm glad to meet you, although I doubt you can say the same thing to me. My name is John Merck. Most people call me Merck."

  She didn't return the handshake, but then he hadn't really expected her to.

  "If you're as penurious as you say you are, you might want to know that, in certain circles, knowing my name and my current whereabouts could earn you a boatload of money. Retiring money. Getting decent phone service even out here in the boonies kind of money," he joked. "So, if you've a mind for revenge, you have all the ammunition you need against me. You can drive into town and call the cops, or call the number on that card. I won't stop you. In either case, despite your careful tending, I probably won't last more than a day or two, probably more like hours." What he had told her was the truth, but he wasn't going to offer much more than that – for her own safety, as well as his.

  "The cops are going to kill you?" she snorted in disbelief.

  An eyebrow disappeared into that beautiful hair of his. "You're one of those naïve citizens who think every cop's a hero? Maybe up here in the boondocks they are. But not in the real world."

  "No."

  "Good. I didn't think so, because you know from personal experience that we're not," he said baldly, alluding to her experience with him.

  Chapter 4

  Thunderstruck by what he had revealed, Jenna had to say it aloud, "You – you're a cop?"

  He met her eyes, neither confirming nor denying what she'd said and what he'd implied. "When this is over, if I'm still alive, I'll give you my badge number and the name of my superior, as well as his phone number so that you can lodge as many complaints against me as you'd like. I would do it right now, but the situation is too delicate, and I can't risk it imploding any further. Innocent civilians – people you know around here – might well get hurt."

  Her eyebrow went up in turn. "People I know have gotten hurt already."

  Merck had the grace to look ashamed, knowing she was referring to herself. "I know it doesn't mean anything to you, but I am sorry to have hurt and frightened you."

  She gave him a disbelieving look, for which he could hardly blame her, after which she returned to her preparations for dinner, and he grabbed the phone, checking it again, and headed back to bed.

  He slept most of the afternoon, his body still recovering from the major insult it had received. The combination of the meds she had given him and the rest he was able to get seemed to be helping, although every time he moved, she could see that he was suppressing a groan that very nearly came out of her own mouth several times.

  The oven timer went off, and she headed to the kitchen to serve up dinner, surprised that he had followed her.

  "I was going to bring it to you," she said, her tone carefully neutral.

  He was already reaching for a bowl – slowly, laboriously. "You've waited on me enough already, don't you think?"

  "Well, you're still recovering – this is your first day conscious in a while. You shouldn't push your luck. You seem to spike high fevers very easily. Perhaps you should allow yourself another day to rest and recuperate before you decide to leap tall buildings in a single bound?"

  Jenna thought she saw him slump just a bit at her words and continued, a bit more softly, "Go on, and get back into bed. I'll bring this in to you."

  He gave her a ridiculously grateful look, obeying her without a word.

  If that wasn't a testament to how badly he must have felt, then nothing was. She didn't know him very well, but he didn't strike her as the kind of guy who let much of anyone take care of him or who reveled in being sick.

  Just the opposite. He was exactly the type she'd described to him – one that was more likely to push himself too hard and have a relapse.

  She brought him a tray with a big bowl of something that looked cheesy and chickeny.

  "What is that, it looks great?" he asked, sitting up eagerly as she put the bed tray over him. "Thank you very much for cooking, and for taking care of me when you must've felt like leaving me outside for the vultures or turning me in to...someone or other."

  Jenna didn't know what to say, so she gave him a cooking lesson, which was neutral territory. "I don't remember what its formal name is. It's kind of a Mexicany dish, with chicken, onions, garlic, peppers, and salsa, along with some other spices, baked together. Then I spoon it over some rice, swirl in some sour cream and add the fixins I like, which are cheese and black olives. I brought you other possibilities so you could have it the way you might like it."

  She had gathered things her ex liked to eat on this meal – jalapenos and hot sauce amongst them – and added them to her own so he could choose.

  When she would have moved away from him, to eat in the chair across the room, he touched her leg lightly, saying, "Please stay and have dinner with me? I'll understand, of course, if you don't want to."

  Why did he have to be so charming when he wasn't acting psychotic and threatening her life?

  Although she knew she should have sauntered her ass over to her chair, well away from him, she didn't, although she wasn't sure exactly what that meant, really, if anything.

  They ate in a surprisingly companionable silence for long moments while he moaned and groaned over dinner.

  "This is amazing. You should open a restaurant," he enthused.

  Jenna had to laugh at that. "I don't think so. Too many people."

  "Is that why you live out here by yourself? You prefer not to deal with jackasses like me?"

  "Well," she said, tucking her leg beneath her and chewing thoughtfully. "I didn't start out alone."

  "No?" he asked, around a mouthful of his own food.

  "I bought this place with my ex. We were both kind of antisocial, and we were going to be antisocial together."

  His smile – combined with the intensity of those damned blue eyes – was mesmerizing, and she worried she'd get lost in it every time he turned it on her. The man was a natural charmer.

  "Didn't quite work out that way, though, huh?" he asked softly, leaning back a bit against the pillows that were propping him up.

  "No, it didn't." Jenna stared at her dinner for a moment, awash in bad memories, eyes filled with unwanted tears.

  She felt him pat her leg again. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to make you remember things you'd rather forget."

  Clearing her throat, she took another small bite of her portion. "It's okay. He's out of my life now."

  He'd never felt his heart squeeze quite so painfully before in his life, and over a woman he barely knew, except to terrorize the bejesus out of her as he fought for his own life. A thought struck him and he frowned. "Did he hurt you? Your ex?"

  She didn't answer him, but he saw her ghost of a smile as she got up, saying, "I don't really want to talk about him. Can I get you some more?"

  As much as he wanted – for no real reason that he could come up with, except a sudden surge of unwarranted protectiveness he felt towards her – to delve further into her life with her ex, he let her divert him. "Yes, please, I'd love however much more you'd be inclined to give me."

  She served him another healthy portion – easily t
wice what she hadn't finished for herself – but then the man hadn't had anything solid to eat in who knew how long. Although she wasn't sure whether she really believed his story, she desperately wanted to ask him about why he was here – he was so painfully obviously not a native, and she figured he must have come up from New York or Boston to help, all hush hush.

  Undercover. He must've been undercover.

  When he'd finished and thanked her profusely, she brought the dishes into the kitchen where she'd deal with them in the morning, coming back into the bedroom to stand there for a moment, having lost her train of thought and forgotten entirely what she was going to do.

  "You're exhausted. You should come and sit down with me." He patted the bed next to him. "Do you have any DVDs or anything we could watch?"

  She did, but she didn't deign to sit where he wanted her to, although, he did convince her to move her chair closer, especially when she appeared with dessert, and she had to wonder if he was that enthusiastic while making love – which she wished she hadn't thought about.

  Her chair ended up perpendicular to the bed, with her feet up near his legs, a relatively safe distance away, she thought.

  When they'd finished the first couple of episodes of Alphas, and he indicated that he didn't care whether they saw any more of it, she began to rifle through her extensive collection of DVDs.

  And he began to talk.

  "I can't believe I've lost three days. I don't remember much about it – except feeling incredibly hot, as if I wanted to climb out of my own skin, then feeling wonderfully cool for a while, until the heat came back again. Was that you?" he asked quietly.

  Jenna didn't look up. "You were burning up with fever, and I didn't know if or when the antibiotics were going to work, so I gave you a bed bath with rubbing alcohol. I remembered my gramma saying that my Dad used to get high fevers any time he got sick when he was a kid, and that's what she did for him to bring it down."

  "Thank you. I really mean it. You treated me much better than I deserved, based on my treatment of you. I wouldn't have blamed you in the least if you'd just let me die." Then he patted the bed beside him again. "Won't you join me on the – on your bed? I feel terrible – I'm the only one in it, and it's not even mine!"