High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, correctly interpreting his expression, sitting back on her heels.

  “Hospital?” she asked the bellhop. This time he looked worried, but he addressed Maddux. “Sir—the strike.”

  Maddux frowned, renewing the throbbing in his brain. Between the chills, muscle aches, and headache, it was hard to keep up with the conversation. He’d heard about some kind of strike or another going on the last few days.

  “I don’t need a hospital,” he protested.

  “There’s a strike?” she asked.

  The bellhop finally acknowledged her. “Unions, yes?

  Were health care workers here union employees?

  “Do you have a Formula One doctor?” she asked, turning to him.

  He contemplated getting to his feet, but his head was spinning so much, he was afraid he’d pass out again.

  “We do, but I heard he’s at a trauma conference.”

  “Did you have a flu shot?”

  If he could just get to his room, he could sleep it off.

  “Listen,” he cleared his throat and tried again. “Listen, I just need to get to my room and rest. Do you think you could help?” He was fascinated by the narrow-eyed concentration creasing her face. He’d seen her at the party, on the arm of Carl Belamar. His latest merger, it seemed, and a whole helluva lot younger. There were plenty of rich old dudes into the sugar daddy scene around racing but it still turned his stomach. He willed away the image of wrinkled hands on her gleaming white skin.

  “Did you have a flu shot?” she repeated, impatiently.

  “Yeah, about a year ago.”

  “Did you have food—from a street vendor or something?”

  He shook his head and raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “No. Five star all the way, babe,” he replied.

  God, he felt like crap.

  “Headache?”

  He grimaced. That he could admit to. “Bad.”

  “That’s the dehydration.”

  His brows raised. “You a psychic?” he asked, sarcastically.

  “No. A physician.”

  He tilted his head back and stared. Natural light blonde hair cascaded from a side part in lose waves around her shoulders, emphasizing her wide, soft brown eyes. Her teeth tugged her lower lip as she studied him. The dress that had been conservative from across the room was now hiked up, exposing toned legs and pulled tightly in all the right places. She didn’t have much of a rack, but his body responded.

  What was a young, hot doctor doing with that fossil Belamar?

  She rose to her feet and pointed at the bellhop.

  “You. Give me a hand.” She beckoned the boy to her and together they heaved him to his feet.

  The woman pressed his floor.

  “I’m Maddux Bates.”

  “Brynn Douglas,” she said as the doors opened on his floor. He wrestled the key card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  “Room 405.”

  He slung an arm around the bellhop’s shoulder, since his legs were still not cooperating. Upright, he was getting that lightheaded feeling again, the same one that preceded his collapse.

  “Damn,” he said as she opened his door.

  “Hurry,” she said to the bellhop, and both of them half carried him to the bed.

  The woman, Brynn, settled him on his side and the lightheadedness passed. “Stay put, both of you,” she said. “I’ll be five minutes. I’m going to get my things.”

  Chapter 4

  Brynn pulled hand sanitizer from her clutch and scrubbed her hands. She put the tube back and pulled out the key card Belamar had given her. Should she call down to have someone pull Belamar from the party so she could explain? No. He might want to come up. Until she knew what she was dealing with, she’d better keep far from him.

  She pulled some paper and a pen from the desk in their suite and scribbled him a note before she grabbed her carry-on, loaded it with a change of clothes, a few medications, a couple bags of an electrolyte IV solution, and equipment to take Maddux’s vitals.

  Five minutes later she was in the elevator, heading back to the fourth floor.

  The bellhop let her in.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He tried to get up but ended back in the bed. Okay if I go back to the lobby now?”

  “Yes, but wash your hands first, okay?”

  He grunted his assent, and she continued the two steps to clear the entryway, dragging her carry-on. Maddux was lying on top of the covers now; he’d managed to get off his suit jacket and loosen his tie. He was the picture of sexy, disheveled male—if you could get past the wan skin tone. He shot her a cocky grin that further accelerated her heart rate.

  “Heya, doc. What’d you bring me?”

  Brynn opened her bag and tossed her instruments—stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer, IV kit, wide bore catheter, tape and a blue and white rectangular chuck—onto the bed. Then she grabbed a small red plastic box labeled Sharps and Biohazard with a series of intersecting circles on it.

  “Uh.” He eyed the equipment uneasily. “You know what? I feel a lot better, loads better.” His laugh sounded forced. “I don’t—what the hell is that, anyway?”

  The way his eyes were darting around, she was glad he was horizontal. Tough guy or not, he was panicked over her equipment. “Sharps container. For the needle?”

  He put up both hands to ward her off. “No—no needles. No shots. Look, you should just go. Okay? I’m fine. I’ll sleep it off.”

  She studied him. His vitals would probably line up with her dehydration diagnosis—and she did have anti-nausea suppositories, but somehow thought that might be a tough sell with this young American driver. She’d threaten that if he refused the IV.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “It started the day before yesterday. Yesterday I couldn’t even leave my hotel room, so I tried to get our F1 doc, but he’s out of town. I thought it was better today.”

  “Allergies to food or medication?”

  He shook his head.

  “Chronic medical conditions?”

  “No.”

  “Had shellfish?” she asked.

  He made a face and shook his head.

  “Spent time in a pool?” She glanced up while attaching the cuff to take his blood pressure. His green eyes were intent on her, and a wave of heat swept through her. She looked away, pulling off the Velcro on the cuff.

  “On the low side. Expected,” she mumbled. “Fluids should help.”

  “Yeah. I had a flight canceled—stayed over at a hotel in Heathrow. I got in late and went for a swim. You think it was the pool?”

  “Impossible to know. Probably a virus, possibly food poisoning. Pool contamination could fit the timeline. We’ll just do supportive care.”

  “What does that mean?” He eyed the intravenous fluid bag lying next to him on the bed, his face a study in fascination and disgust.

  “Fluids, rest. Over-the-counter medications for diarrhea, and we can consider anti-nausea medications if things don’t improve shortly.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Have you been able to keep anything down?” she asked.

  “I gave up on that the day before yesterday.”

  “You can’t ever give up on fluids,” she scolded. “That’s why you passed out. You’re dehydrated—at least that’s what your skin and vitals are telling me. You might have an electrolyte imbalance by now, and those can be dangerous.”

  “Maybe you should pour some Supernova into that bag,” he said, nodding at the large plastic fluid-filled sack lying on the bed. “It has electrolytes, and it’s got to be better to take it that way than … ”

  Brynn raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t they your sponsor?”

  “Oh crap,” he muttered. “You didn’t hear that.”

  She laughed. “You hate the energy drink that sponsors you?”

  He nodded, glumly. “Don’t we have some doctor/patient confi
dentiality thing here?”

  “I think you have me confused with a priest.”

  “Nah, I’ve watched enough television to know you can’t reveal my secrets.”

  “Medical information, maybe,” she retorted with a grin. “Not other stuff.”

  “Please?” he said, his expression turning serious. “I shouldn’t have said it, even as a joke.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” Brynn readied her equipment. “I’m anti-energy drink. That much caffeine and sugar and God knows what isn’t good for anyone—and kids shouldn’t drink the stuff at all.”

  He groaned. “Don’t say that. That’s sacrilege around here … uh, what is that?” he asked, warily. “Maybe now would be a good time to tell you I’m not a fan of needles.”

  “You need to be rehydrated right away.” She gave him a reassuring smile and tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s get this off, shall we?”

  “Whatever the beautiful lady doctor says.” He grinned and the breath caught in her throat. He pulled off his tie and pitched it toward a chair, then unbuttoned his shirt, never dropping eye contact. Ill he might be, but he was he was still a world-class player apparently. “Uh, you are a medical doctor, right? Not a doctor of philosophy or economics or something?”

  “Medical doctor,” she replied. Her lips pressed together to hide a smile, then she busied herself with her supplies.

  He sat forward and shrugged off his button-down, white cotton dress shirt.

  In one swift motion he pulled off his undershirt, revealing a perfectly ridged abdomen, sculpted shoulders, and defined arms. His body could’ve been used as instructional material in her human anatomy and physiology classes to study musculature. Lithe and hard, lean—not weightlifter build, but more like the body of a triathlete or swimmer. Those damn green eyes and that lock of hair that kept falling forward drew her attention back to his high cheekbones, the dark scruff. Her fingers itched to learn the coarse texture of the stubbly hair overlaying his jaw.

  She dragged her eyes from his and reached for his arm; the veins were well defined despite the dehydration.

  Her gloved fingertips stroked his forearm, pressing the ropy veins just under the surface. “Beautiful,” she muttered.

  He laughed.

  “Never had someone lust after my veins before.”

  She glanced up to see him rake a hand through his hair. His words were teasing, his stare at the plastic packaged IV kit anything but.

  “You’ll do great. Just look away.”

  Her awareness of this man, here in his bedroom, was eroding her professionalism. She scrubbed at the skin on his forearm, near his wrist, found the vein, tapped it one final time with a gloved finger, and then she gently inserted the needle.

  He didn’t flinch, but his breathing quickened and he rotated his head farther away as she went through the process of withdrawing the needle from the catheter, attaching the plastic port, making sure the fluid flowed before taping it up. She perched the bag on the headboard and studied the site for swelling.

  “All good. Don’t move around too much, okay? We’ll dump this into you—and see where we go from here. I brought an anti-nausea drug—”

  “I have to drive tomorrow. No drugs.”

  “Tomorrow? I thought the race was Sunday.” She bit her lip. He might not be up for racing tomorrow.

  He made a face at the tubing in his arm, then shifted his direct green-eyed gaze to her, stirring up a heat flare. She shifted her position on the edge of the bed. “It is. I have practice tomorrow, then qualifiers Saturday for the race Sunday.”

  “Ah.”

  “You don’t know much about F1, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re here with Belamar, right?”

  “That’s right.” Brynn stood and began gathering up her supplies, putting the needle she’d used to start the IV into the miniature Sharps container.

  “He’s your—”

  Brynn froze. She could feel his eyes on her and she raised hers. Her heart clenched at the expression of disgust on his face.

  Her shoulders went back. She’d be damned if she’d let this hotshot driver make her feel ashamed.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” she said, zipping the bag closed.

  “Oh, yeah?” his reply came softly. “That was quick.”

  “What was?”

  “His last girlfriend was a little more,” he seemed to weigh his words, “age appropriate.”

  She sucked in an audible breath. Belamar had said nothing about a previous relationship.

  “Ellen?” he said.

  “Who?” Brynn said. Spotting an empty gauze wrapper on the sheet, she reached for it.

  Maddux’s large hand covered hers, tightening when she tried to withdraw it. “You don’t know Ellen Carstairs?”

  “Should I?”

  “Well, considering that he’s been with her for about twenty years ... ”

  “Oh, yeah, Ellen Carstairs.” She’d read about her online. His chief financial officer, or was she vice-president of human relations? “She’s his employee, not his—” Brynn halted as Maddux’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  Why hadn’t Belamar told her?

  “I’m not interested in his past.” Brynn yanked her hand away. “And he’s not interested in mine.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “You should mind your own business.”

  Maddux patted the bed.

  She shook her head, her eyes moving from the bag to his arm. She should’ve used a larger bore needle in the antecubital space, damn it. Now she had to stand here monitoring him for close to an hour—at a minimum.

  “I know Belamar. Most people just think he’s another F1 enthusiast, but I happen to know he’s been pursuing a dream of his own team—and now that he’s trotting you out there—”

  “No one is trotting me anywhere, Neanderthal. I’m not a horse.”

  She reached across him to dial up the flow, and Maddux used his good arm to pull her down onto the edge of the bed.

  “Hey,” she protested.

  “It all begs the question, why dump his girlfriend of twenty years for you? Is this a money thing?”

  He sat up straighter in the bed. “Wait a minute. Are you part of the whole F1 bid he’s rumored to be making? Are we finally going to have an American F1 team?” He was practically radiating excitement.

  She held up both hands. “Belamar doesn’t share that kind of information with me. I’m just his,” she forced the word out, “companion. There’s no conspiracy here.”

  Brynn sure as hell hadn’t known he had a girlfriend of twenty years. She’d encountered the woman’s name on Wikipedia during her research and Google images had plenty of pictures of them together, but according to everything she’d seen, the woman was an employee—a high-ranking employee but an employee nonetheless. She’d even heard Carl talking to her on the phone in the hotel room. There was nothing loverly, that was for sure. But maybe it wasn’t all business either. She hadn’t thought much of it.

  Damn Belamar for thrusting her into this scene without enough information.

  “I have to make a call.” Brynn gave her patient one last look and escaped his scrutiny, moving through the bedroom into the attached sitting room.

  She pushed the numbers to their room on the desk phone. No answer. She considered sending a text.

  Fifteen minutes later she checked on Maddux. He was asleep. Good. Back at the desk she started writing up a list of instructions for him, only to be interrupted by a text from Carl.

  In room. Where are you?

  She pulled the phone to her and dialed.

  “Belamar.”

  “It’s Brynn. I’m with Maddux Bates.”

  “Jesus, Brynn. I said discreet.” His tone was clipped, something that might come across as angry in a less contained person. “I can’t think of a worse person for you to hook up with.”

  “What? No, it’s nothing like that. He’s ill. Passed out in my elevator on the way back
from the party. Most likely a virus, but given your,” she lowered her voice to near a whisper, “situation—”

  “Which is fine.”

  “Which is not fine. And if this is something contagious and virulent like a norovirus, I’m not going to expose you.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Carl, I’m not going to risk delaying your treatment further,” she whispered into the mouthpiece. “You promised we’d start on Monday after everyone leaves to give you a few days before we travel to Italy. Get me another room.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Then I’ll get it myself,” she hissed.

  “We can’t have people thinking—”

  “Tell them I’m at a medical conference. Tell them I had to go home for a family emergency. I don’t care what you tell them. I’m not going to see you for at least forty-eight hours, until I’m sure I don’t have whatever it is he has.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “I’ll find a medical conference and book you. I’ll have a key sent up. Stay out of sight.” He hesitated. “Watch out for Maddux. He’s no fool.” The phone went dead in her hand before she could ask about Ellen Carstairs.

  She turned to find the half-naked driver leaning against the doorway, holding his IV bag too low, the tubing kinked and blood backing into the line.

  How much had he heard?

  “Maddux.” She grabbed the IV bag from him and held it up until it flowed again, giving him a push in the direction of the room. “I need to get your vitals again.”

  “He jealous?” he asked, settling back into the bed, leaning up against the pillows as Brynn dug through her bag for her gear.

  “No.”

  She put the cuff on his arm, trying not to notice the lean muscles, the washboard abs covered with a sprinkling of hair. She hadn’t been this distracted by a patient since medical school. Maybe because lately, most of her patients were geriatric.

  She put the stethoscope in her ear. His blood pressure was slightly better, still at the low end of the normal range, but that was often normal for someone as fit as he was. She placed the bell of the stethoscope next to his sternum and listened to his heart, calculating the rate automatically with her watch.