She frowned. Still rapid. Dehydration would increase the pulse rate—the body’s attempt to get the blood where it needed to go—but his was definitely elevated. And it shouldn’t be, not after nearly a bag of fluid and with his blood pressure normalized.
Brynn sat back, assessing him.
He stared up at the ceiling, his expression pained.
Maybe there was more going on here than a virus. She palpated the glands in his neck and throat, and he made a strangled sound.
“That hurts?”
“No,” he muttered.
Her hands tracked down his solid chest to the rigid warmth of his abdomen, compressing until she felt the outline of his liver, her brain automatically pulling up and discarding reasons for his elevated pulse.
“We may have to take you to a hospital. Your heart rate is up and—”
“I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine, I just … I just need you to stop touching me,” he ground out.
Her hands froze at the waistband of his pants, midway into a compression of the area north of his groin, over his appendix.
In her peripheral vision, his gray suit pants tented up over his erection.
Stunned, she raised wide eyes to his hot grass-green ones. The skin over his cheekbones were flushed and taut, his jawline tight as if his teeth were clenched behind it.
“Oh boy,” she said, blankly.
Her body throbbed to life, sending a rush of dizzying heat through her body. Her hands still pressed into the flesh at his waist.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. Her hands, unresponsive to her brain’s command to cease and desist, lay atop his pelvis.
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down on top of him, giving her unresisting body no opportunity to pull away.
His hand went behind her head as he pulled her mouth to his.
Her lips met his, tentatively. He gently coaxed them apart with the tip of his tongue. She opened and his tongue thrust in, insistent. Desperate. She gripped his head with her hands—hanging on was more like it. His not-quite goatee burned the delicate skin of her cheeks and chin, but she didn’t care. His hand slipped down to her bottom, hiking up her dress, grinding her against his straining cock.
She moaned into his mouth, trembling with desire. She was desperate for him. One of his big, warm hands slid inside her panties, relentlessly gripping her ass. Then they were sliding inward, across her quivering abdomen, under her dress until his finger teased her slick seam and then thrust into her. She couldn’t hold back her gasps of pleasure as she writhed in his hand, his fingers pushing into her, circling her clit...his tongue exploring her mouth, his hand cupping her, and those long fingers pressing, insistent, coaxing.
Oh God.
And then she was coming—sobbing out her pleasure into the corded tendons of his neck, bucking and twisting into that hand, that expert hand.
Reality, shame, and horror returned in an instant.
She lay stiffly, frozen in his arms, Belamar’s warning echoing in her head.
He’s not discreet.
Chapter 5
Maddux Bates had been called many things. Man-whore. Racing diva. Thrill-seeker. But he didn’t fuck around with other men’s women. Especially not men as powerful as Carl Belamar. And yet here he was, harder than a brick, with Belamar’s woman atop him. An incredibly responsive woman who had detonated in his hand after five minutes of fairly tame foreplay.
He sure as hell didn’t need this complicating his season.
He sat up, dizzy, slightly nauseous from arousal or illness or that damn thing in his arm but a million times better than he had been an hour before.
She slid off him and out of the bed without word, disappearing into the bathroom. The door shut with a click.
By some miracle the almost empty IV bag was still resting atop the headboard, wedged between the wall and the suede material. He moved his arm experimentally. God, he’d be glad to be rid of this thing.
Moments later she came out of the bathroom. She couldn’t even look at him. He should say something. Something to diffuse the tension. Something Maddux-like. Anything. Instead, all he could do was stare at her, tongue-tied as she dug around in her bag to fish out some gauze pads and tape. She deftly removed the catheter from his arm, bandaging the spot with a folded square and two strips of white tape. Then she retrieved her stethoscope from where it had been knocked to the floor.
“Do you feel alright?” she asked, dully, reaching for his opposite arm to attach the blood pressure cuff.
“Yeah, hey, uh, that was—”
She held up a hand, her expression pleading. “Don’t.”
The cuff tightened on his arm, the cold metal rested on his inner elbow, and after listening intently for a minute, she removed the instrument.
“Normal, but I could give you another bag.” The light flush on her checks from her orgasm heated into a dull red.
“I’m fine,” he said.
She nodded. “I left two pills on the table if the nausea continues to the point that you can’t keep anything down. I wouldn’t think they’d have any effect on your driving; there’s no warning about operating heavy machinery and the like. It should clear your system by tomorrow.”
Her gaze lingered somewhere to the left of his head. She still wouldn’t make eye contact.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Really, much better.”
Except for my cock, which is unused to being thwarted.
“In case that changes, I’ll leave you my cell number on the table,” she was saying.
He’d flush that the minute she left so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it in a moment of weakness. It was better to stay away from this one.
“Got it, listen, I … this,” he gestured between them. “You’re … that was … hot.” He glanced down at himself ruefully. Despite her now chilly professionalism, he was still erect. “And ordinarily I’d totally be up for more but—”
“That should never have happened,” she said. The flush that had fascinated him so much after she came began to creep over the skin of her neck. The pink hue deepened, her cheeks now mottled with hectic color.
She did look at him then. For a split second. Then her eyes darted away, but the expression on her face registered somewhere on the Richter scale between disgust and horror. Something that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with regret clenched the muscles in his stomach.
He’d long suspected if any American F1 enthusiast would make a bid for a team, it would be Belamar. And if Belamar succeeded, Maddux would be knocking at that door as soon as his Supernova contract expired. The man was powerful in racing and business and had an ominous reputation for getting what he wanted no matter the cost. He was one enemy Maddux didn’t need.
She stood and began stuffing her supplies into the bag.
“Take care of yourself,” she said, slinging the bag out over her shoulder, not waiting for his response.
“Ok,” he said, gruffly as she hustled through the suite.
“Brynn? Dr. Douglas?” he called out, swinging one leg over the side of the bed.
She poked her head through the door, her expression closed, her skin leeched of color.
“Thanks.”
She waved a hand and disappeared. Seconds later the door clicked.
He flopped back on the bed.
What the hell was that?
Chapter 6
Four days later, Brynn knelt for the umpteenth time in front of the toilet in her room at the Brussels Four Seasons, retching. Not that there was anything in her stomach to expel after the last two and a half days of illness. The anti-nausea drugs hadn’t helped at all.
Tears flooded her eyes and she lay on the cold tile floor, her head pillowed on a folded towel. It was scary being this sick in a country where she didn’t know the language and had no friends or family—no one to call on other than room service. Her body was exhausted, her psyche bleak.
She hadn’t had the energy to do much more
than lie in bed, listlessly flipping channels filled with programs in languages she didn’t understand. She wasn’t so ill that she couldn’t watch the race yesterday. It was impossible to follow what was said, but she could read Maddux’s face at the end when the cameras caught up to him, surrounded by his team, high fiving and grinning after a fifth place finish. At least his skin color was good.
From what she’d been able to pick up from the coverage, some team called Pantech-Windsor was on top this year. Their two drivers had placed one and two, someone from Mercedes had been third. At least she’d assumed as much from the podium ceremony where grinning men in coveralls flecked with sponsor logos sprayed champagne at one another.
She slowly rose to her feet, hanging onto the counter. Brynn rinsed her mouth and gargled with the warm elixir of cola room service had brought up yesterday and stared longingly at the shower.
Maybe a bath? Horizontal was bound to be better than vertical two days into this virus. She’d need to keep the soda down today or make a trip to the hospital—she was becoming dangerously dehydrated, just like Maddux. She turned on the spigot and climbed in, ignoring the wave of dizziness.
She needed to get it together—her patient needed his treatment started … well, weeks ago. Every day they delayed piled on the guilt. She could practically feel the myeloma cells multiplying in Belamar’s bone marrow. God, if only she had a time machine, she’d reset it for the moment Belamar walked into her office.
Her impulsiveness had gotten her into trouble many times in her life. Hell, it had gotten her here. Then things went from bad to worse with that driver. What in the hell had she been thinking?
Trapped by her illness, she was overcome with regret and dread. Her employer had all but said stay away from Maddux, and then what had she done? Thrown herself on top of him.
She could only hope and pray that he kept his mouth shut.
She cringed at the memory as she toweled herself off, then wrapped up in the white hotel bathrobe and sat on the toilet as a wave of dizziness swept through her.
The heat of the bath, the lack of food, the inability to keep anything down was taking an inevitable toll. She’d promised to start an IV on herself this afternoon if she couldn’t keep anything down in the morning. She made her way into the bedroom and stared at her medical supplies. Drawing blood on herself was one thing. Starting an intravenous drip would be much more difficult. She backed away from the bag and was on the verge of climbing into the bed when there was a rap on the door.
Belamar had left her alone once she’d become ill, thank God.
Probably housekeeping again. She’d just have to turn them away; she needed rest and they didn’t need the exposure either. If this was a norovirus as she suspected, it was incredibly contagious and she’d be cleaning the surfaces of the room with the hospital strength germicide before anyone entered.
She smiled to herself. So much for the glamour of traveling the world. So far she’d spent most of it trapped in a hotel room, horribly ill. Another rap, louder this time. With a sigh, she peered through the peephole.
Maddux.
“Yes?” she called.
“Open the door, Brynn.”
What the hell did he want?
“No.”
“I brought you some stuff.”
She watched through the peephole and he backed up, raising a paper sack.
“I’m good.”
“Look, I’m not going away, so either open the door or I’ll get housekeeping to let me in. They’re two doors down and smiling at me.”
Damn it.
Pulse thundering in her ears, she pulled open the door.
He grinned at her, that lock of hair falling across his forehead.
Alert and healthy, he was spectacular. Sex appeal oozed from him, this most-hated American driver. He was good-looking, tall, and lean—very lean—standing there in his faded jeans and t-shirt. Sick as she was, lust surged though her, and she had a visceral flashback of coming in his hand, lying on top of his body.
She ducked her head and stepped back.
His grin faded as he strode into the room, getting a look at her. She pushed back her damp hair self-consciously, willing her pulse back to normal. At least she smelled better than she had earlier.
“You look terrible,” he said, still staring.
“Thanks,” she said.
Brynn closed the door and leaned against it. She’d had her share of relationships and sexual experiences, but when this guy was around, her brain seized, her hormones fired, and she was overcome with lust. Lust for a racecar-driving, Texas playboy was ludicrous. All her life she’d been attracted to smart men, capable men. Not overgrown teenage boys who toyed with life and death on a racetrack. She’d never wanted the bad boy, the player. Nearing thirty was not the time to start down that road. She was already enmeshed in one ridiculous relationship.
Dizziness that had nothing to do with attraction overcame her and white spots danced in front of her eyes.
She backed up to the door, bent her knees, and slid down. She was surprised she’d remained standing as long as she had—adrenaline probably countered the effects of dehydration.
He was staring at her openmouthed.
“Jesus, Brynn.”
She raised her head and let out breathless laugh at the almost comical expression of dismay etched into his features.
“Whatever you had was pretty contagious.”
“I figured you might be sick, but you’re still in the worst of it, aren’t you?”
“What’s in the bag?” She lay all the way down, knees up, head turned to watch as he knelt next to her and started unloading dried fruit, Gatorade, Coke, water, crackers, and a few bars of good Belgian chocolate onto the floor in front of them.
She looked longingly at the items. If only she could—that chocolate bar would be the first thing she’d eat.
He pushed the Gatorade and crackers toward her and unwrapped the candy bar and took a bite.
Her mouth watered and her pulse pounded as his straight, white teeth clamped down on the solid dark chocolate. Her food envy combined with hypovolemia, not lust.
“How’d you track me down?” She pushed up on her elbow and took a tiny sip of the fruit punch.
“Belamar.”
It registered mid-swallow and she gasped, choking and spraying red fruit punch down the front of herself. She mopped it up with the robe sleeve as she wheezed.
He laughed. “You’re not like any doctor I ever met,” he said, shaking his head.
“What did you—how did—the conference … ” Oh God, this was not good.
“Yeah, well.” He took a swig of the Supernova, then made a face and set it aside. Reaching for the Coke, he twisted off the top. “When you weren’t at any of the parties or races, I figured something was up. I mean, after what happened, how could you not be sick? So I talked to Belamar. He gave me some bullshit story. I told him I knew it was bullshit and here I am.”
“Carl sent you here?” There was no making sense of that, befuddled state or no.
Maddux gave her a reassuring smile, no doubt responding to the panic on her face. “Relax. He knew you’d helped me out. Guess he thought I could return the favor. Told me he’s not good with sick people.” He shook his head. “I said I’d check up on you since I’d already had it.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Why? He doesn’t suspect anything.”
She refused to acknowledge that, taking another small bite of cracker and willing her churning stomach to relax.
“I’m more surprised you cared.”
At that he looked affronted. “Of course I care. I made you sick.”
“I made myself sick,” she muttered, feeling the heat rise in her face.
“Whatever, it was a mistake.”
“You have no idea,” she said.
“I don’t get involved with people who are already involved.”
“And you think I do?” she said, hotly.
�
�Well—”
“Listen.” She put the cap on the drink. “That was—I don’t know what that was, but it was something I deeply regret. And if you could just forget about it, I would appreciate it. I’m not the kind of person who cheats. And I,” her breath caught in her throat at the lie, “I’m really trying to make it work with Carl.”
He shrugged. “What kind of man puts his sick girlfriend in a separate hotel room? A real prince,” he said, drily.
“I insisted he stay away. It’s probably a norovirus and—”
“Whatever.” He raised a hand. “You can insist all you want. He should be here.”
“Well—”
He got to his feet. “I know Belamar. He’s … ” He eyed her. “I’m not sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into with him. He’s not a nice man.”
“He’s different, privately,” she lied. She had no illusions about Carl Belamar. In the short time they had traveled together she’d seen his so-called high standards result in one unlucky hotel employee getting fired. He’d probably be more challenging than any of her previous patients put together. As long as they maintained civility and his treatment went as prescribed, all would be well.
She surged to her feet and the room swayed. She instinctively put out a hand, but Maddux was already there, leading her the six steps to the bed, helping her into it. He stood for a moment staring down at her, while she stared back.
“This sucks,” she admitted.
“What can I do?”
“I probably need an IV at this point. I’ve lost a lot of fluid. I’m having orthostatic hypotension, … postural … never mind. I keep trying the soda and juice, but I’m not able to keep it down.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “What can I do?” he repeated.
“Start an IV.”
“No. I don’t think—that’s not something I can do.”
“It’s easy. I can help you, but I can’t manage it myself and—”
He scooted a few inches further away, his hands up. “Whoa. No. I can take you to a hospital, but I hate needles. Hate ’em.”
“Please?”
He glanced uneasily at her black duffel on the floor, then back to her. “What if I mess it up?”
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