He moaned and closed his eyes, as if making a decision would be too painful a process for his brain.
“Should go back,” he muttered. “See the hotel doctor.”
“I don’t have much, but I think I have something for your pain, and you can rest over here on the couch while I make up your bed,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard his suggestion. She eased his leg off the arm of the chair. “Do you think your stomach could tolerate a little soup or something?”
With a pathetic sigh, he allowed her to assist him to his feet. Taking small, old-man steps and leaning on her heavily—liking the strength beneath the softness of her—he shuffled over to the couch.
“There you go,” she said, a bit winded with the exertion. “Lay your head down now and rest. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Suite,” he mumbled when he guessed her to be close to the doorway.
“I’m sorry?” She came back to him, bending low to catch his words.
“Master suite.” It had been an impulsive choice on his part, but the more he thought about it, the better he liked it. If he couldn’t drum up enough symptoms to make her think he was dying, he could always wear her down by running her cute little behind off.
“Oh, yes. The master suite. Certainly. I’ll only be a minute.”
His eyes rolled heavenward as he mentally counted her steps to the door. “Water?”
“I missed that,” she said, coming back and bending low. She smelled like lilacs. “Can I get you something?”
He took a deep breath, filling his head with a scent of springtime. “Could I bother you for some water?”
“I was just going after some.” She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You rest now. Think happy thoughts.”
Happy thoughts ... Lilacs. Bubbles. A long black braid sprouting flyaway curls. Pale, flushed naked skin. Fathomless dark eyes a man could get lost in. ... How come his doctor never prescribed happy thoughts?
Harriet rushed into the room moments later with a mild analgesic and a glass of water. She got to her knees and tended him with unselfish mercy.
“There,” she said, placing a cool, calming hand to his brow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. “I’ll have your bed made by the time those go to work and then you can go upstairs and, hopefully, sleep the rest of the pain away. I’ll have a nice supper ready when you wake up, and soon you’ll be right as rain again.”
His groaning grunt was a warning for her not to count on it.
“Can I get you anything before I go?”
A feeble shake of his head.
“I’ll hurry.”
He opened one eye to watch her go. “Cold,” he said, when she reached the door.
It was a good sixteen feet from the door to the couch. She crossed them patiently, bending at the waist to hear his newest complaint.
“I’m so cold,” he murmured.
“I’ll get you a blanket. Can I get you anything else while I’m at it?”
“No. No. Don’t want to be a bother. ...”
“It’s no bother, Mr. Duns—Payton,” she said softly. “I know that what I did is stressful to you. I’m the cause of your pain.”
No lie.
“Just ... the blanket,” he said, controlling his deep hardy voice to a sad little whine. “Please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
It’s written in stone, sweetheart, he thought, enjoying himself immensely. It was like payback for everything she’d done to him since the first time he’d heard her name.
He waited until she’d left the room this time and then raised his voice by a hair. “... ice ... pain.”
“Did you say something?” she asked, hurrying back into the room and over to the invalid.
“I ... I just thought that perhaps some ice ... a cool compress would lessen the pain.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. I should have thought of it.” She started to leave and turned back. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”
“Not at the moment, no,” he uttered wearily. But he’d work on it.
He had a good solid list of demands by the time she returned, but she nursed him so gently and sympathetically that he simply couldn’t bring himself to use any of them. In truth, her diligent pampering was something new to him. It made him a little uncomfortable. Not to the extent that he couldn’t tolerate it, but certainly to the point where he could appreciate it—had he really been in need.
She left him warm and cool respectively, and wondering how long it would be before she called for help.
Payton’s sick headache was unfortunate, but nothing some rest and food wouldn’t cure, she was sure. Actually, it was a stroke of luck, she decided, tucking the sheets in at the foot of her parents’ bed.
She had no idea how he’d found out about her having been in prison, but discussing her conviction and incarceration wasn’t something she relished. It was behind her, and she wanted to forget it.
But no one seemed to want to let her forget. Potential employers wouldn’t hire her. Old friends couldn’t look her in the eye. Acquaintances stopped calling. Close companions asked about it constantly, thinking it best for her to vent her emotions, when forgetting would have been more therapeutic. Every time she turned around it was there, haunting her. It was as if she had a scarlet letter stitched on everything she wore.
And now Mr. Dunsmore—Payton—knew about it. The fact that he had the information wasn’t as disturbing as the thought that the knowledge would work at cross-purposes with the magic. Who could fall in love with a convicted felon?
It was a stiff blow to her scheme, no doubt about it. He was bound to ask about it again eventually, and she was bound to tell him the truth, because it was her nature. The optimist in her was beaten and threadbare, but she wanted to believe that there was still some way for her to overcome the black mark in his eyes.
She whipped her braid back over her shoulder with a shake of her head. It wasn’t her intention to spend the rest of her life defending herself against a crime she hadn’t committed in the first place. If Payton Dunsmore were any other man on earth, she wouldn’t even attempt an explanation. But she wanted her island. And she needed his help to keep it. Therefore, she would have to win his approval.
Between the last step into the foyer and the door of the library, she mustered a cheerful smile.
“Payton?” she called softly, thinking him asleep. He grunted. “Are you feeling any better?” A groan. “Your room is ready. Do you think you’d like to try and go upstairs? I think you’d be more comfortable there, but you can stay where you are if you’d like.”
“I think I can make it,” he whimpered, anxious to begin round two. “Would you ... Could I impose on you to help me a bit?”
“Of course,” she said graciously, hastening to his aid.
Lord, the man was big, and heavier than he appeared, she ruminated, staggering under his weight, saved from a good crushing when he righted himself and pulled her up closer to his body.
“I feel so weak,” he professed apologetically. “I can’t remember ever feeling worse.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, panting, taking another stair step. “I feel awful about this.”
“Not your fault,” he said, an accusing undertone in his voice. “How could you have known it would affect me like this?”
“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.” She was too encouraging, and he smirked, his head above hers as she stooped to her task.
It was wonderful. He’d been wanting to touch her again, and he’d created the perfect happenstance to indulge his whims. When he wanted to discover if her hair was as smooth and soft as it looked, he brushed his hand across it. He gave in to the urge to ascertain exactly how well she’d fit in his arms, if he wrapped one around her waist and the other around her shoulders. He returned several times to see if the reaction he got when he rubbed the palm of his hand against her breasts was reflex ... or something else. But the most fun was waiting f
or opportunities to drop his hands to the soft, round counters of her bottom and to dally there until she could manage to brush him away. A cunning ruse. He was a genius.
“I’ve heard that headaches like this can last for days with some people,” she was saying, gasping for air. “But my mother’s never lasted for more than a few hours. She used to say it was the air here, that the fresh air sort of cleared the pain out of her head.”
He humphed dubiously. Air wasn’t going to cure him, unless it came in pressurized tanks, on a boat.
“Okay, here we go, ah, Payton. Just sit. ...” He let her ease him down onto the edge of the bed.
“Maybe I should undress.”
“What?”
“Well, don’t you think I’d be more comfortable in the bed if I took off my shoes and pants?” He wanted to rub his hands together with glee, but extended one shoed foot instead. She looked from his face to his foot and back in confusion. “It hurts to bend over,” he said.
“Oh.” Adorably addled, she stooped to remove first one shoe then the other, stepping back when she was finished.
“My pants?” he said, amused to see her face and neck turning red. “If you could help me stand ...”
In an agitated movement she was at his side, supporting his arm. “No, I think if you stand here in front of me, with your hands on my waist here ...” He placed her hands on his ribs above his waist and his hands on her shoulders. “I think I can stand, but if the room starts to spin, I might fall.”
“I’m here,” she muttered, trying to sound reassuring. But reassuring for whom, him or herself?
With inordinate slowness and immense relish he got to his feet, standing so close to her that he could feel her warm breath through the fabric of his shirt. Her gaze was riveted to the second button.
His libido was wide awake and paying close attention to her reactions, like the trembling of her hands at his sides when his fingers brushed against her midsection, reaching for his belt buckle. He inched forward, wanting her to feel his every motion.
He stopped smiling, and he didn’t feel particularly playful when she raised her eyes to his. They were warm and wondrous, wild and worried, not a reflection of his own emotions. He felt the clutching in his belly, and his muscles contracted. Something primitive in him knew that if she made the slightest movement, he’d take her to the floor. Something just as primal hoped she would do something, and he couldn’t forego tempting her.
In the tight quarters between their bodies, he worked his belt buckle loose. Watching the slight parting of her lips, he heard her sharp intake of air. He quickened, instinctively responding to her arousal. The slow, soft rasp of his zipper had her swallowing convulsively—they were both as stiff and unmoving as cardboard cutouts.
The disappointment was acute when he pushed his pants past his hips and she stood, unwavering, while they slipped to the floor. Immediately, she stepped back, narrowed her field of vision to the front of his shirt, and eased him back to the bed—his shirttail barely covering him to midthigh.
“I ... I have something for you,” she said, walking so briskly through the door and down the hall to the nursery that if he’d tried to stop her, she would have sustained whiplash.
“Mr. DeLuca was very thorough,” she called back through the hidden corridor. “I didn’t ask how he got the information—I hope it wasn’t illegal—but he assured me that it was accurate ...” she was huffing and puffing her way back to his room “... so I hope all this fits you.”
She wrestled a large suitcase into the room and set it in the middle of the floor. She flipped her braid over her shoulder and smiled, pleased with herself.
“A suitcase?” he asked.
“Full of clothes,” she said. “In your sizes. The sizes Mr. DeLuca gave me.” When he remained speechless, she waddled the heavy bag to the side of the bed and braced herself before she hoisted it up onto the bed. “There. You should find everything you need. Toothpaste and toothbrush. Comb, brush, shaving stuff. Shirts and ... well, you look through it and get ready for bed while I go get you something to eat. Do you think your stomach will tolerate a bit of food now? You really should try to eat something.” Her arms flapped at her sides. “If ... if there’s anything I forgot to get or something else you want, well, there’s plenty of my father’s things still here, and there’s bound to be something you can make do with.”
She smiled at his dazed expression and turned to leave.
In stunned silence he sprang the locks on the suitcase. The uppermost garments caught and held his attention.
“What are these?” The persnickety tone in his voice stopped her cold.
“What?”
He extracted two pairs of flannel pajamas. One of a bold Bert and Ernie design, the other set in a repeating pattern of Mickey and Minnie in startling, and somehow sacrilegious, sexual positions.
“Pajamas,” she said, guileless. “I wasn’t sure if you were the last man on earth who still wore them to bed or not, and it does get very cold here at night. I tried to cover all the possibilities.”
He was getting an education from the mouse diagrams and didn’t look up. She misunderstood his silence.
“I ... I was angry with you when I bought those,” she said.
A roar of laughter quivered at the back of his throat. For a pain in the patootie, she wasn’t so bad, he thought, liking her spirit. Would any ordinary kidnapper go to such lengths to insure such amenities for his victims? Ha! He hadn’t enjoyed anyone quite so well in a long, long time.
“I understand,” he said, tossing her token of revenge back into the suitcase before he performed a spectacular tragedy of discomfort in the rubbing of his brow. “Fortunately, I sleep nude.”
“Oh. Well.” He couldn’t tell if she approved of his sleeping habits or not, only that they made her nervous. “I’ll get you some food.”
“I’m not really hungry,” he said, trying to look tormented. “What I’d really like is a—well, never mind. I’ve inflicted enough on you already.”
“No you haven’t,” she said, her gaze darting to his lap and swiftly away. “I mean, well, you haven’t been an imposition. Please. What is it you’d like? If I have it, it’s yours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Of course. Please. If there’s anything that’ll make you more comfortable ...” Her hands waved encouragingly.
“A massage,” he said, his sigh a perfect level of wistful. “I’d give my left arm for a really good rub.”
Five
A REALLY GOOD RUB?
Harriet rejected one body oil and lotion after another, in search of one that met Payton’s exact specifications. Not too oily, not too fragrant. If she didn’t have unscented, something light and not too feminine would suffice. And nothing with lanolin, it had to be aloe, because lanolin irritated his skin.
Provoked beyond her endurance, she growled. Were all men such infants when they were sick? she wondered. She was no criminal, but she wasn’t a saint either! She wasn’t sure how many more of Mr. Dunsmore’s mewling requests she could handle. Who would have thought that someone so powerfully male could be such a crybaby?
A wayward pang of conscience stopped her, reversing her thoughts.
Mr. Dunsmore wasn’t so bad, she conceded, giving him the benefit of the doubt. He hadn’t asked to be stranded on the island with her, and it wasn’t his fault he was ill. He was bossy and demanding and full of himself, but he was still a human being—of sorts.
And what if his ailment wasn’t simply a tension headache? What if it was some hideous brain disorder that needed emergency medical treatment hours ago? What if he died?
What had she been thinking? It would be prison for kidnapping him; death row if she was responsible for his death. She clasped a bottle of lotion in both hands, pressed the cool container to her forehead and closed her eyes. What had her life come to? She wasn’t a good criminal. It was scary and confusing; it made her stomach hurt. What had happened to her? What had she don
e to herself?
Lord, what had she done to Payton Dunsmore?
It was time to give up, she decided firmly. Her scheme had been harebrained from the beginning. She shouldn’t have tried it. It was time to put a red lantern in the middle third floor window. Time to be rescued. It was time to give it up and get Mr. Dunsmore the care he needed, time to give up the island, time to give up her dreams and hopes for the future, time to give up period.
“Mr. Dunsmore,” she called halfway down the hidden hall to the master suite. “I have some good news for you. You can relax now. I—”
“—found some lotion,” he said, finishing the sentence for her. “Great. It took you so long, I was beginning to lose hope.”
He came slowly to a sitting position and flung his legs over the side of the bed. In Harriet’s book, long, sinewy, naked male legs, sprinkled with coarse black body hair, below tan boxer shorts and a white dress shirt, were an extremely intimate sight. It threw her a little off course.
“I ... I ... I ...”
He gave her a humble smile, pretending not to notice that she’d gone suddenly dysfunctional.
“I’m afraid I’m still a little dizzy,” he said, his eyes pleading. “I’ll need your help to get my shirt off.”
“Off?”
He nodded. “It’s best that way. Deeper penetration ... of the muscles. And the lotion works better without the shirt.”
Goodness, he was handsome. But being in the same room with him made her as jumpy as a cat with its tail on fire. She set the lotion down on the table beside the bed.
“Is there a best way to do this?” she asked, reluctant to touch him until she absolutely had to.
“Well, I think I can hold myself upright, if you could unbutton my shirt and take it off for me.”
Ah, jeez. Was it her? Or was undressing a man you barely knew accepted etiquette these days? It didn’t seem to bother him. Could she be any less casual about it?
The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) Page 6