Driven To Distraction

by Judith Duncan

  He stood there until she pulled away, and Maggie focused all her attention on getting from Frank’s to the neighborhood pharmacy without crashing into anybody.

  Jack, the pharmacist, had gone for coffee. Would Maggie like to sit down and wait until he got back? the salesclerk asked.

  No, Maggie didn’t want to sit down and wait. Jack’s coffee breaks were like minivacations. Would it be all right if Kelly came by later to pick it up?

  Yes, that would be fine.

  Not really caring about anything anymore, Maggie drove home at half the speed limit, both hands on the wheel and her eyes never wavering from the road. She felt like she was a hundred and five.

  Downing some over-the-counter decongestant medication and a few aspirins, she stumbled into her room. She peeled off her clothes and immediately began to shiver. Cold. God, she was so cold. She put on a pair of socks and a huge knee-length, fleecey T-shirt and crawled into bed, huddling under the covers. She truly did want to die.

  By the time Kelly came home from school, Maggie had lost her voice completely and had been sweltering hot and freezing cold so many times that she’d lost count. She was back to freezing again when her daughter entered the room, carrying a mug of hot lemon and honey. Knowing she hadn’t taken in nearly enough liquids, Maggie dragged herself up against the pillows Kelly stacked behind her, huddling in her comforter as she took the mug in both hands.

  A worried look in her eyes, Kelly carefully combed her mother’s hair back with her fingers. “Mom, you’re really sick. I think I should call Dr. Donaldson.”

  Maggie shook her head and whispered painfully, “No. I just need the prescription.”

  Tucking the blankets more snugly around her shoulders, Kelly rose. “I’ll ride down and get it right now.” She set the portable phone on the bed beside Maggie. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Okay?”

  Feeling like an orphan, she nodded, sipping greedily at the hot lemon. Lord, it felt wonderful on her sore throat.

  She was still sitting there nursing the hot drink when her daughter returned. Her mind was so foggy that she had no sense of time. It seemed like Kelly had barely left before she was back, a white paper pharmacy bag in her hand.

  Maggie got up and went to the bathroom, took a double dose of the foul-tasting medicine and some more aspirin, then staggered back to her room. Kelly had straightened the bed, and there was a thermal pitcher of ice water and her grandmother’s antique dinner bell sitting on her bedside table. Feeling as weak as a kitten and as drunk as a lord, Maggie crawled back into bed, burying her face in the plumped-up pillow.

  Kelly pulled the covers over her. “I’m going to do my homework in the kitchen. If you need anything, you ring the bell, okay?”

  If Maggie hadn’t felt so totally rotten she probably would have been a tiny bit amused. It was exactly what she’d done when the kids were sick. She moved her head and concentrated on not coughing. If she did, it would kill her for sure.

  The sound of voices woke Maggie up. Dredging up what energy reserves she had left, she rolled onto her back, resting one arm across her eyes. The movement set off a burning pain in her chest. Why was the room so dark? The sun had been shining just a minute ago.

  “Mom?”

  Forcing herself to respond to her daughter’s worried whisper, she shifted her arm onto her forehead and opened her eyes. Her first thought was that she was hallucinating. That couldn’t be Tony Parnelli crouched down by her bed, his face solemn with concern, her daughter standing behind him. Sure she was seeing things, Maggie closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind; then she opened them again. She was not seeing things. It was definitely Tony Parnelli. His gaze serious, he reached up and smoothed the sweat-dampened hair back from her face, his touch confirming that she was definitely not seeing things. Maggie closed her eyes, her heart doing a clumsy barrel roll in her congested chest. She wasn’t going to die from bronchial pneumonia, after all. She was going to die from a cardiac arrest.

  He slipped one hand under her head, then began stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Your daughter’s pretty worried about you, Burrows,” he said, his voice gruff. “And I agree. I think we should take you to the hospital.”

  Thrown into sensory overload by his soft caress against her hot, sensitive skin, Maggie swallowed hard and wet her chapped lips. It took a major effort to ease some air into her lungs. “What time is it?” she whispered unevenly.

  “It’s going on ten. Kell says it’s time for your medicine.”

  Maggie tried to make her brain focus. Ten? It couldn’t be ten. Marshaling her courage and her energy, she opened her eyes. Too miserable to care that she probably looked like something Captain Hook had dragged in, she tried for a smile. “I’m not dying,” she whispered, her throat feeling as if it had been seared by a blowtorch. “I just feel like I am.”

  A tiny glint of amusement appeared in his eyes and the corners of his mouth lifted a little, but his expression was still filled with concern. “You’re soaking wet, Mag,” he chastised softly, smoothing his thumb across her cheek.

  Suddenly far closer to tears than she wanted to be, Maggie closed her eyes, that soft, gentle touch doing something incredibly painful to her heart. She wanted to crawl into his arms, bury her face against his neck and stay like that for the next week. She waited for the awful spasm of longing to pass; then she eased in another very careful breath. “I’ve had this before,” she said, her voice raw and gravelly. “The medicine just needs time to work.”

  There was a long pause; then he spoke, his tone still gruff. “Okay. We’ll do it your way for now, but if you’re no better in the morning, you’re going to the hospital, Burrows.”

  Her throat closing up from sheer emotion, Maggie gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Tony ran his thumb across her cheek one more time, then withdrew his hand. The sudden feeling of loss was so intense that Maggie wanted to roll onto her stomach and bury her face in the pillow, but she just didn’t have the energy. She heard Tony say something to Kelly as she fumbled for the quilt. Her sweats had abruptly given way to a chill, and she was freezing again. Maggie huddled under the quilt, vaguely aware that both Tony and Kelly had left. God, she was so cold.

  Someone entered the room, and she heard something being set down on the bedside table. The mattress shifted as someone sat down. “Come on, Tinkerbell,” Tony said softly, sliding his arm under her shoulders and lifting her up so her head was nestled against the curve of his shoulder. “Let’s get another shot of medicine and some more aspirin down you.”

  Feeling as if her eyelids weighed a ton, Maggie opened her eyes, squinting against the light from the lamp on the dresser. She took the medicine and the aspirins, the warmth of his body offering her more comfort than she thought possible. He held her for a minute, as if making sure she’d got everything down; then he eased her back onto the pillow. Maggie rolled to her side and closed her eyes, locking her fists against her chest so she wouldn’t start coughing. Tony pulled the covers up and tucked them snugly around her shoulders, then smoothed her hair away from her face letting his hand rest against the back of her head.

  “Thank you,” she whispered thickly.

  He tightened his hold, and Maggie could have, sworn he brushed a soft kiss along her temple. She pressed her hands harder against her chest. She was having hallucinations. Her fever must be higher than she thought.

  The clock on her bedside table said 1:00 a.m. when she awoke again. This time her lungs rebelled, determined to clear out the congestion, and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to stifle the involuntary need to cough. Scrambling into a sitting position, she grabbed a pillow and held it against her chest. Lord, this was not going to work.

  She was right; it didn’t. She was nicely into a wrenching coughing spasm when the light on the other side of the bed came on. She got such a shock that her lungs seized up altogether. Tony Parnelli was there, and he rose up on one elbow, dragged one hand down his face as if to rid himself of sleep, then
squinted at her. He looked tired cranky and totally groggy. “You’re worse, aren’t you,” he said, his tone accusing.

  So stunned was she to find him there, Maggie dazedly lay back down unable to answer. He leaned over her, a determined set to his jaw. Knowing what he was thinking and where he was planning on taking her, she shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice barely a squeak. “Coughing is good.” Well, it wasn’t good. It made her chest feel like it was on fire, but it did serve a purpose.

  Scowling at her, he muttered something and started to pull the covers over her, but his hand grazed her nightshirt. He swore, running his hand down her body. “Damn it, Maggie! You’re soaking wet.”

  Before she knew what was happening, he had her sitting up. Muttering something about her not having the sense God gave a twit, he whipped her sweat-dampened T-shirt off over her head. Shock left her gaping, and she just sat there, her arms pressed against her breasts, unable to form a single sentence in her head. Then she grabbed the sheet, hot embarrassment shooting through her, sending her fever skyrocketing. Oh, lord. Maybe death really was a good option right now. Except Tony didn’t seem to notice that she was sitting there stark naked. Looking as if he was still wonky with sleep, he grasped the fabric at the back of his own T-shirt and dragged it over his head. “Here,” he said, still out of sorts from being awakened. “Put this on.” Then, as if she was a small, recalcitrant child, he pulled it over her head.

  Feeling absolutely dazed, Maggie sat there staring at him like some halfwit as he dressed her. She was shivering again, partly from the cool air against her damp skin, partly from shock. Yanking the comforter loose, he hauled her over to his dry side of the bed and flopped back down, locking her against his side. Then he dragged the quilt over her and stuffed it around her shoulders, pulling her head onto his shoulder. “Now go to sleep,” he said, his tone irritable. “You get your next shot of medicine at two.”

  It had all happened so fast that Maggie wasn’t sure it had happened at all. It couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t be lying in bed with Tony Parnelli, feeling as if she’d just gone into orbit. It had to be just another hallucination. But the wonderful warmth of his body enveloped her and she turned her face against his neck and closed her eyes, inhaling the male scent of him. Maybe she had died, after all. This certainly felt like heaven.

  Chapter 5

  During the night, Maggie had the most amazing feverinduced dreams. Warm, comforting dreams. Sensual dreams. Dreams of being held by Tony Parnelli. Dreams of someone rubbing her shoulder.

  Well, maybe not rubbing. More like shaking. Annoyed that this outside intrusion was spoiling her drifting sense of wellbeing, she tried to swat the annoyance away.

  “Don’t give me any grief, woman. It’s time for your medicine.”

  Wait a minute. That voice did not come out of any dream. Her eyes flying open, Maggie found herself staring across an expanse of naked chest. And it certainly wasn’t her own.

  Jerking her head up, she clipped something above her head very hard. The voice swore, and a hand shoved her head back down. There was another muttered curse, then the voice said wryly, “You’re not half as much fun to sleep with as I imagined, Burrows. You run hot, then cold, then you just about dislocate my jaw.”

  Maggie jerked her head back, her mind suddenly horribly clear, and she stared up at Tony Parnelli. He looked like a rumpled, tired desperado with that dark stubble and a bad-boy glint in his eyes. Oh, God. It hadn’t been a dream, after all. Experiencing a rush of sheer mortification, she closed her eyes.

  She remembered him being in her room last night. But how in hell had he gotten into her bed? Fuzzy memories slowly took shape, and she vaguely recalled him giving her her medicine. Another memory surfaced, this one embarrassingly clear, of him stripping off her damp nightshirt. She winced, knowing she had to get herself out of this mess.

  Easing in a careful breath, she tried to brazen out the situation. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”

  He gave a gravelly laugh and tightened his arm around her shoulder in an approving squeeze. “You’re a real piece of work, Burrows. You just don’t give up, do you?”

  Not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, Maggie knew she had to face this situation head-on. Her heart suddenly pounding much too fast, she swallowed, immediately noticing that her throat was not quite so raw. Now if her heart would only smarten up…Taking another careful breath so as not to set off anything in her congested chest, she spoke, her voice still a little hoarse. “Don’t you think maybe you’re taking this good-neighbor thing a little too seriously?”

  She felt him smile against her temple. “I don’t know about that. I was just lying here thinking maybe I wasn’t taking it seriously enough.”

  Not sure what he was driving at, and knowing she wasn’t up to a battle of wits, she copped out. “Hmm,” was all she said.

  She felt him smile again as he rubbed her shoulder, then he carefully eased his arm out from under her. “Come on, Mag,” he said, sitting up beside her. “The prescription says every four hours.”

  Feeling like her head was full of sawdust and twice as heavy, Maggie struggled to a sitting position. She drew up her knees under the covers, then hunched over and closed her eyes, stifling the need to cough. If she could just keep from coughing for the next few hours, until that searing pain in her lungs eased, maybe her chest wouldn’t be torn to shreds. She heard Tony leave the bedroom, and she rested her head on her knees. Feeling suddenly weak and shaky, she tried to convince herself it was because she was sick.

  Tony reentered the room a few moments later, and she felt him sit down on the bed beside her; then she heard him open the bottle of medication. He poured the medicine into a teaspoon and offered it to her. Gathering what little energy she had, she lifted her head and swallowed it, shivering at the taste. Then she closed her eyes and weakly rested her head on her knees, being very careful not to breathe too deeply. She did not want to cough. It was going to hurt like hell if she did.

  He rearranged the pillows behind her, then brushed back her hair. “Why don’t you lay back,” he said quietly, “and let me give you a sponge bath? It’ll make you feel better.”

  The thought of him bathing her gave her a shot of adrenaline that had her sitting straight up, wide awake and staring at him. A sponge bath? From Tony Parnelli? Not a chance. Her heart tried to climb out of her red-hot chest. She had to get out of this somehow. “I want a shower, Tony. That would do me more good than anything.”

  He got a stubborn look in his eyes and shook his head. “No way.”

  “Please,” she begged. “The steam will be good for my chest.”

  The laugh lines around his eyes creased, one corner of his mouth kicked up and a wicked glint appeared in his eyes. “I don’t think we know each other well enough to discuss your chest, Maggie,” he said, the glint intensifying.

  She had the nearly uncontrollable urge to laugh, but she knew that would kill her for sure.

  He grinned at her, then folded his arms. He studied her for a moment, then spoke, a sly look in his eyes. “Okay, Burrows. I’ll agree to the shower, but you have to agree to a home remedy of my grandmother’s.”

  She stared at him, weighing her options. She didn’t like the sounds of Grandma’s home remedy, but what she was trying to avoid here was a sponge bath. If it was one or the other, the home remedy won hands down. Feeling a little uneasy, she stared back him. Finally, her tone somewhat wary, she answered, “All right.”

  He grinned at her, and she was suddenly very dubious about what she’d let herself in for. But anything—anything was better than his giving her a sponge bath.

  He got her housecoat for her, allowed her three seconds to get something clean to put on, then helped her to the bathroom down the hall. Maggie’s legs were so weak that they felt like two shafts of cotton candy, but she gritted her teeth, determined to get behind a locked door, come hell or high water. Except the locked door didn’t fly. A warning look in his eyes, Tony told her th
at if she locked it he was going to kick it down. Having more sense than to tempt fate, Maggie left it unlocked.

  The hot steam was not a good idea. Her lungs decided it was definitely time to cough, and Maggie thought she was going to die for sure. By the time she got out and put on an old, wornthin sweatsuit, she was so exhausted that she had to sit on the toilet to dry her hair, and even then her arms were so weak it took her fifteen minutes to do what she normally did in five. Using the wall as support, she crept back to her bedroom, stopping in the doorway to stare at her bed. It had been stripped down and remade, with the pile of used sheets and pillowcases wadded up in a corner. Moved to the verge of tears by his consideration, she crawled into bed on her stomach, burying her face in a pillow. Lord, she hadn’t had anyone make a bed for her since she was really little.

  Feeling ridiculously emotional, she concentrated on the scent of the clean bedding. She always hung her sheets and towels outside in the summer to dry because she loved the smell of sunshine and fresh air on her linen. For some reason it made her feel better.

  “You were supposed to call me when you were done.”

  Wiping her face against the bedding, Maggie collected her strength and hoisted herself up against the stack of pillows. She managed a wan smile. “I’d hoped you’d taken Grandma’s remedy and gone home.”

  He was carrying a cookie sheet with several items on it—a cereal bowl, a mug and a covered cooking pot, all emitting steam, and a glass of water with ice cubes in it. It struck Maggie that he was doing a darned good job of finding his way around her house—the fresh bedding, the cookie tray, ice cubes, the dishes. A nosy little trait he’d picked up as a detective, no doubt.

  Giving her a reproving look, he set the tray on the foot of the bed. “Be nice, Burrows. I don’t do this for just anyone.” He picked up the bowl and stuck a spoon in it. “I made you a poached egg on toast, which,” he said, giving her a stern look, “you are going to eat. And I made you some tea.”