Arresting Developments

by LENA DIAZ,

  Impressed, he smiled down at her and patted the top of her head. “You’re stronger than you look, little one.”

  “And you don’t smell anywhere near as good as you look. So let’s get this over with.”

  He let out a crack of laughter. “Now that’s one I’ve never heard before. My apologies. I think it’s eau de jet fuel mixed with eau de swamp water.”

  She didn’t respond. All in all, his little rescuer didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. Too bad. Making a woman smile, seeing joy light up her eyes, was one of his greatest pleasures. Especially when they were making love.

  The infernal heat seemed worse now. And the growing stiffness in his leg was making walking more and more of a chore. Even with Canoe Girl’s help, his steps were growing slower and slower. He stumbled and grabbed a tree for support.

  “You can do it,” she urged, pulling him back from the tree.

  “Actually, I’m not sure that I can. How much farther do we have to go?”

  “A hundred yards, give or take.”

  He squinted at the wavering shapes in front of him then gave her an admonishing look. “You’re teasing me. I don’t see any buildings. It must be farther than that to Mystic Glades.”

  “It’s a hundred yards to my canoe. Make it there and I can take you the rest of the way to town.”

  A wave of dizziness had him grabbing another tree. “I don’t...think I can...make it that far.”

  “Sure you can. What are you, six-two? You’re a big, strong guy. Just put one foot in front of the other. Close your eyes if it makes it easier.”

  He took a shaky step. “I don’t suppose you have a four-wheeler hidden behind a tree somewhere closer than the canoe?”

  “I’m fresh out of four-wheelers today.”

  “Bummer. I would have liked to ride a four-wheeler, especially with a pretty girl. Everything’s better with a pretty girl.” He winked and tried to grin, but the effort required more energy than he had left. “So...tired.” He fell to his knees and surrendered to the darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Amber groaned and sank to her knees beside the handsome stranger with the corny yet kind of endearing sense of humor. Eau de jet fuel? If she hadn’t been so worried about his fever she might have laughed at that. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.

  Now that he was unconscious, how was she supposed to help him? Even though her canoe was a short jog away, it might as well have been miles. There was no way she could drag him that far. And even though he certainly wasn’t packing any extra pounds, all those scrumptious-looking muscles had to amount to a lot of weight.

  She pressed her hand to his forehead again and grimaced. He was like a furnace. If she didn’t get his fever down soon he might have a seizure. And those red lines on his leg meant he had blood poisoning. That was probably what was causing the fever. That kind of infection could easily kill him no matter how big and strong he was.

  She pulled his phone out of her pocket. When he’d dropped it earlier, she’d picked it up, planning on erasing the pictures he’d taken of her before returning the phone to him. But right now she just wanted to see if she could call for help, even though odds were high there wasn’t any reception out here. When she’d made the swamp her home, she’d had a cell phone but had quickly learned that it was useless in about 99 percent of the Glades. She did know a few spots that got reliable reception, but they were much deeper into the swamp, too far away to be of use right now.

  She pressed the main button and it asked her for her password. Shoot. She should have asked him for the code while he was delirious with fever and still conscious. He might have told her without a second thought. The service bars showed No Service anyway, so there was really no point. Making a call had been a long shot.

  She shoved it into her pocket.

  So, what now? Getting him to the canoe would take hours, assuming she could roll him there, which was the only way she could think of moving him. But she didn’t think he had hours, not with that kind of fever. She had to bring it down. But how? Medicine, even if she could bring herself to try to doctor someone again, would take too long to make—and that was only if she could find the right plants. What she really needed was a bag of ice, something not exactly around every corner out here.

  Wait. She might not have ice, but she had access to the next best thing. A spring. There were a handful of them scattered throughout the Glades, feeding ice-cold fresh water into the marsh from deep underground aquifers. And there were a few close by, one of them much closer than her canoe. It was worth a try. But how to get him there?

  Her gaze dropped to his belt. Yes. That might work. She unbuckled it and worked it free, rolling him to pull it from underneath him. Then she strapped it around his chest below his arms and fastened it on the last hole. His chest was wide and muscular. It didn’t give her much play in the belt, but it gave her enough to be able to slip her hands beneath his back and grasp the belt. She was just short enough that this might work.

  Bracing her legs wide apart, she heaved backward. He slid easier than she’d expected on the soft mud and she almost fell on her rear end. Through a series of trial and error she finally found the best angle and managed to get him moving at a decent clip. She pulled him around the group of trees toward the spring, which was only thirty feet behind her, hidden in another group of trees. The muscles in her arms burned and her back was aching by the time she’d gotten him just ten feet from their original location.

  She had to stop and take deep breaths, letting her shaking muscles rest before she started up again. Any hope that she might be able to use this method to get him to the canoe died a quick death. It would be a miracle if she could just get him to the freshwater. Someone had died once because of her actions. She was determined not to let her inaction be the cause of this man’s death. Giving up wasn’t an option. She had to keep going.

  Fifteen minutes later she finally had him beside the spring, next to a shallow spot where she could sit and hold him without him slipping in too far and drowning. She emptied his pockets of his wallet and keys, leaving them up on the bank. After shucking his shoes and her boots, along with her knife, she took a bracing breath, then slid into the spring.

  She gasped and pressed her hands against her breasts, her teeth already chattering even though she was barely covered by the water as she sat down. Shivering violently, she grabbed the belt around Dex and tugged, hard.

  He slipped easily over the soft side and she had to grab his head to keep it above water as his body rolled over. She caught his face against her chest, mortified when his hands came up around her and he pressed his face harder into the valley between her breasts. His eyes, however, were still closed, which was the only reason she didn’t slap him.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” she reminded herself as she grabbed his shoulders and pushed up with her knees to flip him onto his back.

  His body settled against hers in the V of her legs and she wrapped her hands under his armpits and around his chest, holding him tightly so he didn’t slide beneath the water. She lay back against the edge of the bank, her teeth chattering so hard they clicked against each other. But it didn’t take long for the incredible heat of his body to begin transferring to her.

  He was still so alarmingly hot that she was actually sweating where his head rested against her breasts, in spite of the chill bumps on the rest of her skin. She cupped the cold water and dribbled it on his hair and his face, getting as much of him wet as possible. She continued putting cold water on his hair, his forehead, his neck, all while trying to monitor both of their temperatures. If she ended up with hypothermia, they’d both be in trouble.

  She clung to him, freely plastering her body against his to warm herself while keeping him covered in the cold water. All the while she continued to rub the water into hi
s scalp and on his skin.

  When her hands and feet started going numb and she started feeling drowsy, she knew she had to get out of the spring. But he was still warm. Not as burning hot as before, thank goodness, but far too warm to be out of danger. She edged out of the water, pulling on the belt to tug him with her. She sat cross-legged on the bank, her skin covered with goose bumps. She managed to pull him half out of the water, keeping her hands locked under the belt to keep him from sliding back in. His rear end and legs were still in the water. Hopefully, that would be enough to continue bringing his fever down while she warmed up for a few minutes in the sun.

  When the feeling had returned to her extremities and she was no longer shaking, she slid into the water with him, submerging all of him except his head and going through the same routine all over again.

  She repeated the process for what had to be over an hour before he finally began to show real signs of improvement. Instead of the ruddy, red complexion that showed he was in the grips of the fever, the color drained away and he became more pale. When his skin pebbled with goose bumps, he moaned and tried to twist away from her.

  She ruthlessly held on to him, determined to make sure his fever was gone before she’d let him out of the water. Unable to let him go for fear he’d drown, she pressed her cheek against the side of his face to see how hot he was. Still warmer than he should be, but so much better than before that it barely counted.

  He suddenly jerked away from her and rolled over, pressing her down into the water. She just managed to grab a lungful of air before she went under. He followed her down, his body on top of hers, his eyes—a startling green—were open and staring at her in confusion as he held his breath and held her down.

  His hands grabbed her waist and he pulled back, suddenly lifting her out of the water against his chest as he smoothly stepped up on the bank. She clung to his shoulders, amazed he was so strong after seeming so weak earlier. Water cascaded off both of them as he dropped to the ground with her still in his arms. Whether by design or accident—she wasn’t sure—he’d managed to position her so that she was straddling him. And from the widening of his eyes and the sudden movement of him beneath her, he wasn’t unaffected by the intimacy of their position.

  “Let me go.” She smacked at his hands and shoved his chest.

  He blinked, then a slow grin spread across his face. “Canoe Girl. I thought you were a dream.”

  “More like a nightmare,” she grumbled. “Let me go.”

  “I like you right where you are.”

  So did she. And that was the problem. The spring had done a good job of washing away the stench of the bog he’d bathed in earlier. And up close like this, just inches from his face, she couldn’t deny just how devastatingly handsome he was. Add to that how long it had been since she’d even seen a good-looking man, much less done anything else, and it was almost impossible to resist the urge to wiggle against his growing erection beneath her.

  Good grief. Maybe she was the one with the fever now. He was a stranger. An incredibly hot one, even when he wasn’t running a temperature, but still a stranger.

  He frowned. “Why are you all wet?”

  She choked at his unintended double entendre and coughed to cover her embarrassment.

  “We’re, ah, both wet. From the spring.” She waved her hand toward the water behind them. “You had a fever and I put you in the cold water to bring it down. Now, if you’ll please—”

  “If you insist.” He yanked her against his chest and brought his mouth down on hers.

  She was so startled she didn’t immediately pull back. And by the time she thought to do so, he was kissing her senseless and her brain shut down. She slid her hands up his bare chest and around his neck, pressing herself against him as she opened her mouth for his searching tongue. He groaned and fell back against the bank, pulling her with him, deepening the kiss.

  A sinfully long time later they broke apart, each of them gasping for breath.

  He framed her face in his hands. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  He laughed and they reached for each other again.

  Kissing him was insane. Crazy. Stupid. And wonderful. She’d never, ever been kissed like this before. Every tug of his lips on hers, every swirl of his tongue inside her mouth sent an answering pull straight to her belly.

  Stop. This isn’t just crazy, it’s wrong. He’s probably still delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  She whimpered, hating her conscience but knowing it was right. If the roles were reversed, she’d be appalled and feel that he’d taken advantage of her.

  Shoving against his chest, she broke the kiss and sat back. “We have to stop. This isn’t—”

  His eyes closed and he collapsed onto his back.

  “—right,” she finished, then frowned. “Dex?” She shook him. “Dex?” When he didn’t respond, she scrambled off his lap and checked his breathing. He was breathing deeply, evenly. His pulse was strong. But he was definitely unconscious.

  Alarmed, she pulled his right pant leg up again and drew a sharp breath. “Oh, no.” The red streaks were worse, much worse. And they extended well past his knee now.

  She shook him. “Dex, wake up. Come on. Dex.”

  He moaned, as if in pain, but his eyes stayed shut.

  Amber sat back, chewing her bottom lip. There was only one thing she knew that might help him, a potion she could make by mixing mud and two specific plants together into a poultice to draw out the poison. But what if she remembered wrong? What if she did more harm than good?

  He moaned again, his handsome face scrunching up in a grimace.

  If she didn’t help him, he’d die. Of that she was sure. The poultice was his only hope.

  Please help me remember how to mix it right.

  She shoved to her feet, grabbed her knife from the pile of belongings on the bank and took off running.

  Chapter Four

  Dex twisted against the sheets, fighting through the darkness.

  A delicate face leaned over him, her long, brown hair forming a curtain, her brow furrowed with concern.

  “Sleep, Dex. Don’t worry. I’ll watch over you. You’re getting better.”

  He reached for her. “Don’t go, Canoe Girl.” But she faded away like a ghost.

  He cursed and tried to roll over, but every movement was painful. His entire body ached, as if he was back in college and had been in a drunken fraternity fistfight—and had lost.

  A cool cloth stroked his arms, his forehead, driving back the awful heat that seemed to constantly surround him. Voices he didn’t recognize whispered close by. Footsteps echoed and a door slammed. A glass was held to his lips. He drank greedily and the cool water soothed his parched throat.

  Canoe Girl leaned over him again. No, she was sitting this time, raising her arms, then lowering them, over and over, her muscles bunching with strain. She raised her hands, pulling something up into the air. Water dripped from it onto his pants. An oar? Why was she holding an oar? She moved it to the other side and dipped down again.

  And then she was on her knees in front of him, her cool fingers brushing against his brow. That worried frown a constant twin to the look of concern in her eyes. Sad eyes. So, so sad.

  She slid her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Don’t tell them about me, Dex. Please. Don’t tell.”

  “I won’t. I swear.”

  He thrashed against the sheets, seeking relief from the heat. Hot. He was always so hot. He couldn’t remember not being hot.

  The darkness called to him again and he gratefully surrendered.

  * * *

  DEX OPENED HIS EYES, blinking at the light.

  “Well it’s about time you decided to rejoin the living. I was beginning to think the
doc was wrong.”

  He turned his head on the pillow to see a woman nearly as brawny as him, probably well over twice his age, with falsely bright red hair, sitting in a ladder-back chair beside the bed. He looked around the room but she was the only one there. “Where am I?”

  “Callahan’s Watering Hole, in the extra bedroom in my apartment upstairs. I’m Freddie Callahan.”

  “From Mystic Glades?”

  “Either I’m famous and didn’t know it or our buddy Jake told you about me.”

  He frowned. “How would you know that I know Jake?”

  “I saw your last name on your ID, in your wallet. Figured it was too much of a coincidence for you to be named Lassiter and not be from Lassiter and Young Private Investigations. Called Jake—which was a pain since I had to leave town to get reception—and sure enough, he vouched for you.”

  He started to scoot up in the bed but stopped when he realized he was naked beneath the sheet. He yanked it higher before sitting up. The room was small, with only the narrow bed, a dresser and a single window. A collection of shot glasses and empty whiskey bottles sat on a shelf along the far wall. And a pair of open doors beneath them revealed a closet and a small bathroom. He tried to remember how he’d gotten there, but his mind was a haze of confusing images and impressions.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t—”

  “Remember what happened?” Freddie patted his hand. “No worries. We pretty much pieced everything together with Jake’s help after I called him. You crashed your plane into the Glades. The airplane folks done packed up what was left of it onto some fancy barge and took it with them to Naples for some kind of investigation. You got an infection and have been unconscious for a while. I had Doc Holliday come out and check on you to make sure you were coming along okay. You’re gonna be just fine.”