by Nancy Radke
"Hello," he said smiling brightly. "Stormy. How about a ride?"
The redhead looked back at him, her eyes suspicious, puzzled. She looked disoriented and he decided she didn't recognize him now that his hair was cropped so short it was almost non-existent. "From the plane. Kyle Torrin."
"Oh," she said, her eyes widening in astonishment. "Oh. You?"
"Hair cut." He laughed. "Makes all the difference. I understand you're Jerry's sister."
"Yes," she said. "Yes. Uh...yes!" She stood up, swayed slightly, then winced, as if the movement pained her. She shuffled the few feet towards him and he realized the last "yes" meant she would ride with him. He quickly opened the passenger side door and helped her in, then hurried around to the other side.
He jumped in. Slammed the door. Waited until she was securely belted, then turned on the windshield wipers. Turned them off. Rental cars! The gearshift was never in the same place. Especially if he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. He focused on grabbing the correct lever, put it into gear and drove away.
"Can you prove it?" he asked once he was on the road.
"Prove what?"
"That you're Jerry's sister."
In answer she fished out her Idaho driver's license and handed it to him. He glanced down, saw her name. Victoria Tempest Drake. The photo was not as bad as most ID shots, identifying her easily. So maybe he hadn’t struck out after all.
"Thanks." He handed it back. "I had to ask. Reporters can be very devious. So, we meet again."
"I didn't recognize you. On the plane, I mean." Her voice sounded weak...hoarse. Croaky.
"I understand. I try to travel as inconspicuously as possible. I usually wear my hair a normal length...then right before a match I cut it short so it stays out of my face." He glanced over at her, noticing again how pale her face appeared. "You look exhausted."
"I think...I got too...hot. I wondered if I could make it...back to the bus stop."
"Heat exhaustion can be dangerous."
"I know. I've never had it before. I feel like all the moisture has been pulled out of me."
He could fix that. "Here." He slowed down, reached through the gap in the bucket seats, brought forth a quart bottle of spring water, and handed it to her. "I always carry some with me. With all the exercise I get, I drink gallons every day."
She removed the cap and drank—long gulps—barely taking time to breathe. He watched her, marveling at the smooth line of exposed neck. He was getting to play Galahad after all, rescuing the maiden. He was glad he had spotted her. And he’d get a chance to find out what had been so important that she had to come all the way out to his gym to talk to him. Riding the busses, no less.
"Ah, yes. I needed that. I neglected to drink enough water before I came out today."
She downed it all. He reached back, felt around, realized that there were only two empties left.
"Want another one? I could stop for more."
"What I need is aspirin. My head is splitting." She tilted it back on the neck rest. "And I feel nauseated."
He reached over and touched her forehead. It was moist with perspiration. He knew with heat stroke that the skin became hot and dry, so she was not at that stage yet.
As an eligible bachelor, Kyle had had women try all sorts of tricks to get near him, but Jerry's sister was for real. "You're probably in full stage heat exhaustion. You need to cool down. Where's your hotel?"
"On the road to Boulder City. It's out quite a ways."
"Too far. Mine's close; we can go there...at least long enough to get you some more to drink. You can lie down a bit. I've got aspirins there...and it's air-conditioned."
He turned up the air-conditioning in the car. He considered it unhealthy, but in Las Vegas it was a necessity. Especially now.
"Well—"
"You wanted to see me about something?"
"Yes."
"We can talk there...after you're feeling better."
"Then, yes. Please. I've never felt so awful."
CHAPTER SEVEN
A stop light turned red just ahead of them, so Kyle pulled up to it, stopped, then reached over and clicked Stormy’s seat so that it reclined back.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." He reached behind the seat, moved his gym bag closer, unzipped it and pulled out his towel. "This is not clean any more, but it's wet; put it across your forehead, if you don't mind."
“Anything.” She put it across her eyes.
The light changed, he went to shift gears, hit the windshield wiper stick and they started thumping away.
The noise startled her and she yanked the towel down.
“What? Oh.”
“Sorry. Rental car. I’m not used to it yet. I drive a stick-shift at home, and keep grabbing the wiper lever.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He was trying to make a good impression.
She laughed. “I do the same thing. I thought it was only me.”
Seeing she didn’t mind, he laughed with her. “No. I think it happens to all of us. Strange car, but we still want to drive like we do in our regular one.”
She folded the towel, unfolded it, folded it up again.
"You shouldn't have been out walking in the sun," he said.
"I know that...now. I didn't realize what I was doing to myself. Where are you staying?"
He pointed to the hotel they were approaching. It took up what would be a normal nine square blocks of city space. "Right there. I didn't want to have to drive too far to the gym every day so I got the closest one at this end of town. And it’s right across from where the fight will be held."
“Very convenient.”
He drove up, gave the attendant his keys, then hurried her inside. He was in luck. No one noticed him this time. Sometimes fans made it almost impossible to go anywhere.
She was walking wobbly, and he took her arm and guided her through the maze of slot machines to the elevator. She had on a pink top today, filling it out quite nicely, and if anyone looked their way, they would have seen Stormy and not him.
Once inside, she leaned against the wall. She looked like all the fight had been knocked out of her. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake by not taking her to the emergency room.
Fifth floor. The doors opened and she swayed as she moved, so he took her arm again and helped her down the hallway and into his suite: a sitting room and two bedrooms, one for him and one which was going to be for Arne, until he decided to stay elsewhere. It was done in the Vegas-type flamboyant style that made everything seem much grandeur than an ordinary room.
"In here." He led her into the second room, noting that the maid had already turned up the air-conditioning and pulled the curtains against the sun. He held Stormy's arm as she sat on the bed, then took off her shoes and helped her swing her legs the rest of the way up and onto the bedspread. She was trembling, her breathing shallow, and he stared down at her, worried anew. Should he get medical help?
He'd see how things went. Hurrying into the bathroom, he threw a couple of washcloths into the sink, soaked them in cold water, at the same time filling a glass with water. He wrung out the cloths and carried everything in to her.
"Here. Water. Cloths." He handed them to her, ran back for the aspirin. "Aspirin." He removed the lid and handed her two, then slipped his arm under her shoulders and lifted her up enough to drink.
She downed the water and the pills, and he helped her lay back, then put the cloths over her forehead.
"Should I send for a doctor?" he asked, concerned.
"Oh, no. I don't think I'll need one."
"Are you sure?"
"No. But wait a little. This feels so much better...being cooler. Could I have some more to drink?"
"No problem." He refilled the glass and handed it back to her, holding her up to drink again. She downed it thirstily.
He found he liked holding her, liked helping her. She didn’t fight him, just accepted his help as natural. Which it was, for him.
&n
bsp; She was going to sunburn, he decided. Her face was beginning to flush a deep rose, but it didn't detract from the loveliness of her features. Her eyebrows arched delicately on each side of a slender nose that ended abruptly with a slight upward tilt.
She had her eyes closed, but he remembered them being a deep chocolate brown. He was amazed at the length of her lashes. No artificiality that he could see. Whatever make-up she might have started the day with was completely demolished by now. A determined looking mouth...he thought of her walking the distance from the bus stop to the gym and back again in the Las Vegas heat. Even the asphalt melted during this time of year.
Kyle glanced down at her shoes. Thin soles, which meant little protection. Her feet were swollen, red. He returned to the bathroom for more towels, which he got cold and wet, then used to wrap her feet and replace the cloths on her forehead.
"That's wonderful," she murmured.
He left her, went into the sitting room and opened up the small refrigerator that was there, found the bottle he was looking for and hurried back.
"Here's a sport's drink,” he said. “You probably need to get these electrolytes in you. I've been told that they help."
"Do they?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
She sat up by herself this time and drank it, then lay back again. "This isn't helping," she said.
"It isn't?"
"No. I mean it's not helping me talk to you. It's so urgent."
“Well, if it's urgent, I suppose you must."
"It's about Jerry."
"Yes."
"He's— You can't fight him." She stopped as Kyle stared at her in amazement. "That's not what I wanted to say. You see...I overheard the doctor—Jerry's doctor—talking to him. A few days ago. He told Jerry...if he fought, it would kill him. Soft spots."
She looked anxiously at him, as if wondering if he understood. "You know...soft spots are places on the brain that's been injured—"
"I know what soft spots are."
"He told Jerry he has them. You just can't...can't fight him. If you refuse to fight, they'll have to stop the bout, won’t they? Will you? Please?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kyle stared down at Stormy and noticed her hands, twisting the wash cloth. She had pulled it off her forehead and was wringing away at it. This must have been what was worrying her on the plane.
"Why come to me?" he asked. "I'm not the one to stop the fight. If Jerry's not well, why isn't he stopping it?"
"I don't know. I don't understand. I've told him...I've begged him. He still insists on going through with it. But I know what the doctor said."
She sounded confused, bewildered, as if unable to comprehend what was happening. It did sound unreasonable...but there had to be an explanation. Kyle figured that logic—however twisted—always propelled events.
He sat down on the side of the bed. "Are you sure you heard right?"
"Yes. After Jerry left, the doctor called back and I talked to him, for just a little while. But I'm sure."
"Did he verify it?"
"No. He cited, uh...you know...patient privilege ...doctor-patient confidence. But he said he wouldn't be accountable for anything that happened in the ring if Jerry went through with the fight."
"What about your father? He wouldn't let the fight continue if—"
"My father believes Jerry. He wants to believe Jerry. He never was good enough to qualify to fight for a championship himself."
Kyle rubbed his hand across his face, the pressure helping him focus on the problem and not on Stormy's big brown eyes. "Have you tried the ring doctor?"
"I don't know who he is."
"I do. It will be one of three. One will be chosen to do it, while the other two are back-ups. I'll give you their names. Find out who is doing the match. If you're right about this, then he'll stop the fight."
"But what if he tells Jerry and he still want to fight?"
"The doctor could stop it over his protests."
"Really?"
"The doctors have the final word."
"Do they look for soft spots?"
"Of course."
"Then I'll go to them."
She tried to sit up; then grabbed her head with a moan. He pushed her back down, gently but firmly."Lie still. You're not going anywhere until you're better."
Tears flowed from her eyes and she wiped futilely at them, then sniffed, trying to fight them back.
"Oh, no," she wailed. "I can't stand blubbering women."
Kyle laughed softly, feeling his heart melt. In spite of the storm clouds in her name, she was an exceedingly feminine woman, distressed by the very weakness that enhanced her. His mother reacted the same way whenever she started to cry, and he understood now why his father's resolve would disappear as soon as she broke into tears.
Stormy's distress made him want to put things right for her—but she was asking the impossible of him.
"You aren't blubbering. Part of it is heat exhaustion. It’s upset you emotionally, so you aren’t yourself.”
“It just feels so impossible,” Stormy sobbed. “Everyone I talk to, acts like they’re listening, but they aren’t. You would think I was ten years old and just being a pest. I feel so helpless. I don’t want to have to try to stop this match, but I know I must. I don’t want to lose my brother.”
“Like I said, he has to stop the fight. Not me.”
“I understand. I think. Thank you for helping me.”
“No problem.”
"What I really need...."
"Yes?"
"...is cold water on the top of my head. It still feels like it's boiling."
“I’ll tell you what. Why don't you go into the bathroom and take a cool shower? Cold water will cool you down, especially on the top of your head. Stand in there and see if it helps. Wash the heat out of you."
"Are you sure...it'll be all right?"
“Of course.”
She tried to sit up and he had to help her off the bed and to a standing position. She stood still, seemingly disoriented. She looked so fragile, so lost, it took all of Kyle's discipline not to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Instead he led her into his bathroom, turned on the shower, headed resolutely for the door—and then stopped, finding it hard to leave.
"Can you manage?" he asked.
She wiped away the last of the tears. "Yes. Thanks."
He left, carrying her image with him as he passed on into the main suite; found himself too unsettled to sit down, so picked up the phone and dialed room service.
He was so glad he had recognized her at the bus stop. She could easily be in the hospital by now with a serious case of heat stroke. That was where she was headed.
Stormy looked around at the bathroom. It was huge—her entire hotel unit would almost fit inside. Gold fixtures—fancier than any she had seen in homes—were outshone only by several rows of decorative bulbs that encompassed the large mirror. The walls were beautifully tiled near the tub and wallpapered elsewhere with a reflective silver and gold foil. Fluffy white towels overflowed several racks and a large white throw rug graced the floor. The only marks of Kyle's presence were some men's toilet articles placed on glass shelves near the granite sink and a large blue bathrobe hung behind the door.
Feeling a trifle overwhelmed by all the glitter, she concentrated on yanking off her shirt, shorts and undergarments, then stepped into the stream. It hit her—cold—and she gasped, then dropped her head so that the water poured down on top, drawing the heat out of her body. It felt good, but she was still tired and sat down under the flow, letting her mind wander as she savored the coolness.
Kyle had told her his name on the plane, but she had not been really listening, caught up in her own problems. Or had he told her? She didn’t remember him saying ‘Kyle.’ If he had, wouldn’t she have looked more closely at him?
Why hadn't she recognized him, even with longer hair? The plane trip would have been the perfect time to tell him about Jerry...much better than no
w. She couldn't recall much of what she had just said to him.
What was she going to do? The ring doctors were her last hope. At least Kyle was going to give her their names. One more group to see.
She wasn't going to give up. She couldn't.
She had been impressed by how tenderly The Killer had given her liquids and put the damp towels on her overheated head. Perhaps he wasn't such an ogre after all.
"You all right in there?"
She opened her eyes and peeked past the curtain to see that he had cracked open the door slightly. He hadn't come in.
"Yes. It just feels so good." She thought briefly to herself that those weren't quite the right words to use. "I hate to leave."
"Take as long as you want. I've ordered supper."
"I'll be right out."
"Take your time. It’ll be awhile before it gets here." He closed the doors.
She did feel better. With the heat gone, her brain functioned again, although she still felt as exhausted as if she had just finished a marathon swim.
She sat for about five more minutes, savoring the cool water, until the feeling of nausea left. She stood up, grabbed the soap and did a quick cleansing, and a rinse. By now she was really cool.
Reaching up she turned off the water, dried herself, and stepped out. Reluctant to put her dirty clothes back on, she pulled the large bathrobe off its hook and shrugged herself into it; then stopped upon seeing her image in the mirror—flushed face, wet hair, man's robe.
Umm...no!
Stormy removed the robe, got back into her own sticky clothes, and finished towel-drying her hair. She needed her purse, but it was in the main room, so she finger-combed her hair, then left, sans make-up. She paused long enough in the bedroom to straighten the rumpled bed cover. Two double beds stood in the room, making her wonder who else stayed there.
Not her business. She opened the door into the main sitting room and stepped through.
Kyle stood at the outer door next to a serving cart laden with covered dishes. Seeing her he nodded a greeting and finished tipping a hotel employee. The man left and Kyle pushed the cart further into the room, over by a table that stood near the window.
"Come eat." He started pulling off the lids and looking inside.