by Nancy Bush
“Yes,” Rory answered irritably.
“No, I mean really care about him.”
“Michelle, please.”
“Look, if it’ll make you feel better I’ll stop by in about an hour.”
“No… God… Michelle. It’s fine.” Rory sighed in exasperation. “But thanks. You’re probably right. He’s going to be fine.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me?” She sounded almost anxious to come.
“I’m sure. Bye,” Rory replaced the receiver, a little calmer. Michelle was right. This was just the flu and Nick would feel better in a matter of hours. Rory was a little amazed at herself for overreacting. It wasn’t like her.
She cleaned the kitchen, covered the salads and entrées with plastic wrap and stuffed everything in her refrigerator except for a small bowl of fruit salad. This she ate while staring mindlessly at the TV in the living room. The luscious bits of mango and papaya were delicious, but she registered the information in a distant part of her mind.
After rinsing her bowl, she set it in the dishwasher, then wiped down the counters and the table. With a last peek at Nick, she went back downstairs to collect his laundry.
Her neighbor, Mr. Little, glared at her through a pair of trifocals he could never seem to adjust to the right distance. Now his head was tilted back and he looked down at her as if she were some noxious specimen. “That damn cat,” he muttered, “it’s usin’ my petunias as a toilet.”
“Who? Problem?” Rory frowned. “How’s he getting on your deck?”
“He jumps! Sails through the air like a damn bird! Next time I’m takin’ the broom to him.”
Since Problem had scarcely endeared himself to the neighbors even long before Rory came on the scene, Rory understood his sentiment. But if Mr. Little and some of the other residents had really resented Problem as much as they liked to say, they would have had him collected and taken away instead of practically forcing Rory to adopt him. The Siamese was probably safer with Mr. Little than on the street.
“If someone has the flu, what would you do for them?” Rory asked him, pulling Nick’s jeans, shirt, boxer shorts and socks out of the dryer.
“Lots of fluids. Rest. Check his temperature from time to time.” The “his” was slightly stressed as Mr. Little bent back and eyed the clothes in her arms through the bottom of his lenses.
“Thanks.”
Rory smothered a smile as she carried Nick’s clothes back upstairs. Mr. Little would have something to talk over with Miss Matthews when he was invited over tomorrow night, as he was every Saturday night, for dinner.
Stacking Nick’s clothes on the coffee table next to his cell phone, Rory couldn’t resist checking on him again. I’m as bad as an overprotective mother, she thought. I can’t leave him alone for five minutes without worrying.
The comforter was back on the floor and the sheet had slipped to expose Nick’s thigh and leg. He looked incredibly masculine and seemed to overtake her queen bed. Rory stared at him for a full minute, listening to her bedside clock tick quietly as she grappled with feelings she hadn’t known she possessed. Deep feelings with deeper roots. There was something so extremely sensual about him that Rory fantasized about slipping in beside him, covering herself with his warmth, feeling her heart beat against his.
Abruptly she left the room, her breathing fast and ragged. What the hell was the matter with her?
She took Mr. Little’s advice to heart, however, and scrounged through the top shelf of her linen closet, which she used as a medicine cabinet, for her long-lost thermometer. When she found it she took a deep breath and walked back inside her bedroom.
Nick was in exactly the same position. Unsure if walking past him was such a good idea, Rory tentatively placed one hand on his bare shoulder. “Nick?”
There was a slithery movement under the comforter and Problem suddenly leaped for Rory’s leg. She screamed, a short sharp squeak of fear, then clapped her hand to her mouth.
Nick’s head moved against the pillow, then he rolled onto his back. His eyes were still closed. “What the hell?” he muttered.
“Nick, I want to take your temperature.”
“Oh, God.”
“Please.”
He didn’t answer and she wondered if he was fully awake. “I’m going to stick the thermometer under your tongue,” she warned.
He protested and one hand waved her away, but Rory got the job done. She held the tip of the thermometer in place. It was the longest minute of her life.
When she finally checked his temperature, her mouth went dry. The device read one hundred and four. His fever was sky high. What in the world was she going to do? “Nick, your temperature’s a hundred and four,” Rory said, hoping he could hear her.
Slowly he lifted one lid. “So?”
“Do you think you should go to a hospital or something?”
His answer was rude and succinct. Rory was convinced he wasn’t going to expire just yet.
A noise woke her from a sound sleep, and Rory jumped, disoriented, her arm groping for the bedside lamp. Her fingers smashed into something hard and round that rolled to the floor and crashed. Where in the world was she?
Memory washed over her in a cold wave. Stumbling to her feet, she managed to find the switch to the kitchen light. A yellow path of illumination crept into the living room to reveal a vase that had smashed to smithereens against the edge of the coffee table. She was lucky she hadn’t cut her bare feet.
Low moans were issuing from down the hallway, causing her hair to stand on end. Scared, she ran like lightning to her bedroom door.
Moonlight striped the bed. Nick lay on his back, murmuring incoherently. Rory touched his forehead. His skin was hot and blazing. The fever was still raging.
He suddenly clasped her hand and asked blankly, “Rory?”
“I’m right here. Let me get a cold washcloth. You’re burning up.”
“I was dreaming,” he murmured, turning over.
She returned to the linen closet, grabbed a washcloth, dunked it under cold water, wrung it out, then brought it to Nick. He was on his side and she gently laid a hand on his shoulder as she sank onto the edge of the bed. “Here,” she said, turning him onto his back. She pressed the damp cloth to his forehead.
“Am I at your place?” he asked suddenly, sounding wide-awake.
“Uh-huh. Don’t you remember?”
In the ghostly light she could see that Nick’s eyes were open. But she sensed that he wasn’t as awake and clear-headed as he sounded. Moments later his eyelids flickered closed.
Carefully Rory withdrew her hand, then gasped when his arm suddenly snaked around her waist, drawing her to him with surprising strength. “Don’t leave,” he commanded quietly.
Rory felt the heat of his skin. She counted her heartbeats, listening to Nick’s breathing, intensely aware of his hot skin through the thin sheath of her cotton nightgown. She suddenly felt self-conscious and wished she’d put on a robe first.
Grimacing, she waited excruciatingly long minutes. Her bedside clock made the only sound. Until she heard a contented purr. Tucked against Nick’s side lay a small brown circle of fur. Problem had rejoined him in bed.
Slowly Nick’s grip loosened to where she could extricate herself. He protested sleepily, but Rory picked up a limp Problem and headed back to the living room. “You’re out for the rest of the night,” she told the cat, opening her front door.
Problem stretched, paused at the threshold, then trotted out to the windy night. Rory returned to the couch where she lay tense and wary, her ears tuned to her bedroom.
It was nearly daylight before she fell asleep again. Exhausted, she was in the middle of a dream when she suddenly jerked wide-awake, blinking in the gray light of morning.
There was no sound from the bedroom. Not a sound at all. She strained her ears. No, there was a scraping noise of some kind. Could Problem have gotten back in?
Throwing off her covers, she stumbled down the hallway�
�—straight into a warm, hard human body. She yelped.
“Rory?” Nick’s voice was full of confusion.
“Nick, what are you doing out of bed? You scared the life out of me!”
“Why’re you here?” he mumbled.
She realized, then, that he was standing in front of her stark naked. Rory was momentarily speechless. There was something so overpowering about Nick. Averting her eyes, she said unsteadily, “You’re at my place, remember?”
“The dinner.”
Gently she turned him back in the direction of her bedroom. “We’ll settle up about that later,” she said.
She waited until he was back under the covers and had flopped onto his stomach. When she heard his teeth chattering, she dragged the comforter over him once more. “You’re going to owe me for this. Just remember that.”
“Rory?” he asked as she turned to leave.
“What?” But he didn’t immediately answer, she asked quickly, “Are you okay?”
“You kiddin?” he grumbled.
Rory grinned. “What were you doing in the hall?”
“I wanted some water.”
“I’ll get you a glass. Just a minute.”
Rory flipped on the hallway light and returned to the kitchen to pour him a glass of water. She brought it back to the bedroom only to find Nick asleep again. Placing the glass on the nightstand, she turned off the light, so tired she could hardly see straight.
It was nearly afternoon before she woke again and then it was only because Problem was meowing loudly at the door. Too much worry and too little sleep had done her in. Peeking on her patient, she saw he was resting comfortably, so she took a quick shower and changed into her clothes.
Michelle called around one and asked how Nick was doing.
“Better,” Rory assured her. “Although he’s still just lying in bed.”
“Too bad he didn’t get to taste your dinner.”
“I’ve got a ton of food. Why don’t you come over and take some home for you and James and the kids?”
“Maybe I will. James is taking the twins to the park later this afternoon so I could drop by then. I don’t imagine you want two screaming three-year-olds in your apartment with Nick there.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I have to admit, I’m curious to see Nick again,” Michelle revealed a little wistfully.
“He’s not exactly in top form.”
“That’s okay. See you later.”
Rory hung up, thinking how surprising it was that she and Michelle were seeing so much of each other. Nice, too. She hoped it continued for a while.
Michelle arrived at four almost to the minute. Rory was a little reluctant to take her down the hall for a peek at Nick. It seemed like a terrible invasion of privacy, and though Michelle’s interest was perfectly harmless, it bothered Rory a little.
Michelle stood at the door and looked at Nick who was flat on his stomach, his arms stretched out straight across the bed, one wrist dangling over the edge. Rory had replaced the comforter so it covered him to the waist, but it had slipped a bit and the dusky curve of his spine was visible.
“Wow,” said Michelle as Rory closed the door. Her blue eyes glinted with mischief. “And it’s in your bed.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rory said good-naturedly, pushing her back toward the kitchen. She had a grocery bag filled with containers of food. “Here, enjoy.”
“You, too,” Michelle said with extra meaning. Rory gave her a mock glare.
The rest of the day passed slowly and quietly. Rory had brought home some paperwork from the office, but she couldn’t keep her mind on it. She watched TV, stood on her small balcony and waited while night fell, tried to read a novel and finally went back to her paperwork. Her mother phoned around eight. The conversation was a little strained, as they all were. Though Rory had sided with her mother during the divorce, their closeness had vanished somewhat when she’d remarried. Rory’s stepfather was a widower with three teenage children. They kept her mother too busy to worry too much about her grown-up daughters.
By the time Rory was tired enough to head to bed it was nearly midnight, and she realized she was starved. She thought about asking Nick if he wanted something to eat, then decided if he was hungry, he’d say so.
She looked in on him once more, just before she changed into her nightgown and retired to the couch. There was a touching vulnerability about him in sleep that she’d never noticed before. The sweep of his lashes was seductive against such hard masculine cheeks, and his mouth was just plain sexy.
Good old Nick, she thought with a smile, climbing beneath the couch blanket and pushing Problem to the far end.
It was pitch black when Rory opened her eyes. Her limbs were cramped and her pillow had slipped from beneath her head. Sitting up, she stretched her arms over her head.
What time was it? Padding into the kitchen, she checked the oven clock—three a.m.
Good grief, if she didn’t get back on schedule she’d be hard-pressed to get to work on time Monday morning.
Rory was wrapping the blanket around her again when she heard a low moaning. This wasn’t the restless cry of the night before. This was pain.
She flung off her covers and hurried down the hall to the bedroom. Nick lay on his stomach, shivering again. “Nick?” she asked softly, concerned, swiftly crossing the carpet.
His answer was a groan. “Rory? God…”
“Are you worse?” she asked, hovering by the side of the bed. “You can’t be worse.”
“Stay with me. Please.” His voice was muffled by the pillow.
Rory hesitated, alarmed. Stay with him? Here? Her gaze skated around the room. There was no chair in her bedroom, only the bed. But she didn’t want to leave him if his condition was deteriorating. She supposed she could sleep on the floor if she had to.
“Um… just let me get my blanket and pillow,” she said.
He flung himself onto his back. “Just sleep with me.”
She had difficulty believing her ears, and she stared through the darkness into his face. His eyes were closed. Did he know what he was saying?
“Really, Nick, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable in bed with you,” she said, laughing a little.
She jumped when his fingers wrapped around her knee, drawing her forward. She had to brace herself with her hands on his chest to keep from tumbling onto him. Unfortunately the pressure caused him to cough, and as she tried to struggle upward she lost her balance completely, sprawling across his chest.
“Sorry,” she apologized swiftly, bracing herself on her arms.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered.
His arms were locked around her. Rory was wide awake now. “Nick, I can’t sleep with you.”
“Rory, I’m too sick to discover whether you’re still a virgin, believe me. Just sleep with me.”
Rory narrowed her eyes. This was quite a speech from someone who was supposed to be running a hundred and four degree temperature. “I could never fall asleep,” she protested, conscious of the hard masculine angles of his body beneath hers.
“Try it.” He slowly released his arms and slid her to the side of the bed next to him, sighing as if the effort had been too much for him.
Rory lay atop the covers, as stiff as a board. Nick turned on his side. He was so supremely unconcerned it was laughable. And what did that comment about her virginity mean? She was thoroughly annoyed with him.
“This isn’t okay,” she muttered aloud, angry at herself for being manipulated. His even breathing only infuriated her further.
So why don’t you just get up and go back to the couch?
Rory closed her eyes to the answer simmering in her subconscious. It made sense that she wouldn’t want to sleep on her cramped sofa, didn’t it? She didn’t want to leave him alone anyway. He was sick and he needed her help.
And he was warm and alive and undeniably attractive.
Swearing under her breath, she rolled the comf
orter around her, refusing the temptation of curling around Nick’s sinewy skin. She laughed softly at herself and her own dismal attempts to make this situation seem reasonable.
“Good night, Nick,” she said.
His answer was a deep snore that she thought might be faked.
It was the heat that awakened her the last time. The heat that had dampened her skin with a sheen of sweat. And the unreasonable feeling that her legs were tied down by weights. She couldn’t move. Her legs felt heavy, too, and she struggled to open her eyes, blinking several times to chase away the cobwebs of sleep.
A very masculine arm was wrapped around her chest just beneath her breasts, and a hair-roughened leg was thrown possessively across hers. Nick lay snuggled against her back, his face buried in her hair, his naked body surrounding hers like a second skin.
Her first thought was quite calm: how had they gotten under the covers together? Her second was less rational: did she have anything on?
A peek downward reminded her that she had on her nightgown. A minor relief. Rory lay perfectly still, too bemused to move. This situation was loaded with humor, and she could just imagine the mileage Nick would get out of this one. She inwardly groaned at the thought of him saying to any future man she might introduce him to, “Did I tell you about the time Rory and I slept together …?”
As her senses cleared she realized something else. Nick’s skin was damp. Not from sweat, from water. He’d gotten up and taken a shower, for crying out loud! And that was why her skin was moist, too.
So that’s how we ended up under the comforter together. Rory frowned. But then that meant he’d purposely climbed back into bed with her, without a stitch on.
Her jaw tightened. The drip, drip, drip of the shower mocked her. What in the world did he think he was doing?
She shifted one leg, filled with injustice at the casual way he presumed on their relationship, then gasped as his grip around her suddenly tightened.
“Where are you going?” he asked in a far from sleepy voice.
His low tones, so close to her ear, sent a tingle down her spine. Goosebumps rose on her flesh. “I’ve got things to do.”